Mr. Legare sat in his magnificent library, talking with Frank and
Lizzie, his only children. Where the large room was not lined with
book-cases filled from ceiling to floor with choice works, paintings by
the masters of art filled every space.
To a scholar and an artist that library would seem a fairy region where
taste and fancy, roaming hand in hand, could live forever. And Mr.
Legare had tastes which fed on the artistic beauty of his paintings,
and enjoyed the worth of his valuable books. He had tried to rear his
children to the same taste, to similar noble and improving studies.
But he had also, with his almost unlimited wealth, given them access
to all fashionable pleasures, and the consequence was that both son
and daughter found more pleasure in the outside world than in the
solid realities of their palace-like home. The opera and its circle of
fashion, theatrical spectacles, not the grand old plays of Shakespeare,
balls, routes, and club pastimes suited them far better than to gaze on
those noble works of art, or pore over the grand array of books which
filled the hundreds of shelves in the best private library in the great
city.
Mr. Legare was looking over his last acquisition, the rare old reviews,
beautifully bound, which had just been sent in from Mr. W----’s
book-bindery. The work was, as usual with that establishment, elegantly
done; but Mr. Legare was intently looking over the inside of the
works, while Frank and Lizzie were looking over a new collection of
fine English prints, which had just been received from London, and were
now spread out on the mosaic table-center.
Suddenly an exclamation of surprise and pleasure broke from the old
gentleman’s lips.
“Wonderful! It is a gem! and it illustrates the subject perfectly!” he
cried.
“What is it that pleases you so, papa?” asked the daughter.
“A pencil sketch on the blank leaf of this old review. It is an
illustrated idea of a dream of Martin Luther--angels poring over the
revealed word of God. It is perfection, and entirely fresh. It must be
the work of that wonderful girl down at W----’s bindery, for she alone
has had the care of this work since it left my hands, and the drawing
was not there when I took the pages to the bindery. It must be the work
of that wonderfully gifted girl. I’ll find out, and if it is, she must
and shall have a chance to study art. This sketch would do credit to a
Dore, or any other artist. Come and look at it, Frank.”
“Excuse me, father, I am looking over your new portfolio, and,
moreover, I am no believer in the wonderful talent of shop-girls. It is
very easy, when so many works are coming and going, to make copies of
sketches. That may be a copy from Dore, for all you know.”
“Even if copied, none but an artistic hand could do it so well,” said
the old gentleman, his eyes still lingering over the sketch.
At that moment a tall lady, of middle age, noble in appearance, and
dressed richly, but plainly, and in excellent taste, entered the room.
Both the young people arose with a glad cry:
“Aunt Louisa, when did you come? Oh, how glad we are to see you!”
And the old gentleman left his book and its new-found illustration, to
greet the visitor, who, it seemed, was a widowed sister of his late
wife, who, living in another city, visited him occasionally, and ever
found a welcome, a warm and heartfelt welcome, from himself and his
children.
The children, or rather young people--they were rather too old to be
called children--loved their Aunt Louisa very much, for she was all
tenderness to them, and though often sad, as if a secret sorrow lay
heavily on her heart, she was ever ready to join them in any festive
movement, any pleasure-giving excursion, and seemed to strive to be
doubly cheerful to add to their happiness on such occasions.
“I have but just arrived,” she said, “and even left my trunk at the
depot in my haste to see the dear ones here.”
“I will send George for it right away, dear aunt--give me the check,”
cried Frank.
“And then come here and look at these old works, Louisa, and a
wonderful little pencil sketch I have just discovered,” said the old
gentleman.
The lady handed her nephew the check for her baggage, and while he went
out to send the coachman after it, she went to the table where Mr.
Legare had been seated, examining the newly-bound works.
“What artist drew that?” she exclaimed, the moment her eyes fell on the
sketch which had so attracted his attention.
“I am not sure yet,” he answered. “But I believe it to be the
production of a poor girl, whom I found sewing in a bindery for
four dollars a week, and yet a complete mistress of five different
languages--perhaps more. I see her initials, ‘H. B.’, in one corner of
the sketch.”
“How old is this wonderful girl?” asked the lady, with an air of sudden
interest.
“She may be twenty or even one or two years older. Not under eighteen,
at any rate,” replied the old gentleman.
“Too old!” sighed the lady to herself, in a sad whisper.
What she meant we cannot know. Her brother-in-law did not hear her, or
only the sigh, if he did, and he continued:
“I got the girl promoted as a reader and collator, and now they give
her ten dollars a week for work on just such jobs as this--arranging
and preparing choice old works like these. W---- had quite a lot on
hand which he could do nothing with until the talent and education
of this girl came into notice almost by accident. She is a wonder.
Louisa--you are childless--I do wish you would adopt that girl. She is
lovely as a picture.”
Tears came into the hazel eyes of the lady as she said:
“I fear my heart would not go out to a stranger!”
“You could not help liking this girl. She is so modest and unobtrusive.
Her employer, and the foreman, under whom she has worked for over two
years, speak in the highest terms of her. She makes no associates, and
for a wonder no enemies, though she shuns all acquaintance.”
“We shall have to go and see this wonderful girl, Aunt Louisa,” said
Lizzie, rather petulantly. “Papa is quite carried away with her. He
could talk of nothing else when he came home to lunch on the day he
discovered her.”
“Perhaps we will go to see her some day!” said her Aunt Louisa, in
a kindly tone. “It is not often we find refinement and the proof of
education among those who toil for their daily bread. No matter how
gifted the toiler may be by nature, he or she has but little time to
improve the gifts of nature.”
“That is only too true!” said Mr. Legare. “And so much the more it
becomes the duty of us, who have been blessed with wealth, to use that
wealth in helping these rough jewels to see the light. Though I shall
leave my children enough for all proper needs and uses--enough for them
to hold their station in life and enjoy it--I intend to leave a good
bequest for the purpose of aiding the poor who desire an education in
literature and art. There are so many in this world who long to rise
and cannot, because they are weighed down by poverty’s cruel load.”
“You are right. A nobler use for surplus wealth could not be found,”
said the lady, warmly. “I am glad to hear you say this. When I see a
man pass away, leaving millions on millions, only to be increased by
souls as sordid as his own, I think that he who forgets God’s poor on
earth will himself be unknown in heaven. Good words go a great way, but
good works go ever so much farther.”
“There! Hear that music!” cried Lizzie; “it is the bell for lunch.
Frank will join us at table. Come, Aunt Louisa--come, papa, dear; I am
as hungry as a----I don’t know what.”