We must carry the reader back some nine or ten years. In front of a
pleasant country residence, a child of three years sat on the grass,
plucking the flowers that grew at her feet, and then tossing them
from her. Ever and anon she would utter a cry of childish delight, as
a gaudily-painted butterfly flew past her, and would stretch out her
little hands to arrest its flight; but the wanderer of the air found no
difficulty in eluding the tiny hands of the child.
At length, as if weary of her pastime, she rose from her grassy seat, and
tottled towards the open gate, out of which she passed, and strayed along
the path by the roadside, pausing where fancy prompted. Her disappearance
had not been noted by those in the house, partly because their attention
was occupied by a tall, swarthy woman, with fierce black eyes, who was
at that moment asking, or rather demanding, alms of the mistress of the
house.
“We are not in the habit,” said the latter, “of giving money; but
whatever food you may require will be cheerfully given.”
“I don’t want any food,” said the woman, abruptly. “You talk as if
victuals was the only thing one could need. I have had something to eat
already. I want money, I tell you.”
“Then why don’t you work for it?” asked the lady, somewhat offended at
the boldness of her speech.
“Because I don’t see why I should work my life out while others are
living in plenty. There are plenty of fine ladies who wouldn’t lift their
fingers if it was to save a life. Am I not as good as they? Why, then,
should they fare any better than I?”
“That I do not pretend to say. I only know that he is most happy who
strives to content himself with that station in which the Almighty has
placed him.”
“Oh! it is all very well for those to talk of being contented who have
every thing to make them so. Very praiseworthy it is, to be sure!” said
the woman, laughing scornfully.
The violence of her language increased to such an extent, that Mrs.
Gregory—for it was she—found it necessary to order her to leave the
house. She did so, but not without many imprecations. As she strode along
with hasty steps, she espied by the roadside a little girl, holding in
her hand a flower that she had just plucked.
“Isn’t it _pitty_?” said the child, holding it up.
A thought struck the woman, and she arrested her steps.
“Where do you live, little girl?” she asked, softening her voice as much
as practicable, so as not to alarm the child.
“I live there,” said the little girl, pointing to the house the woman had
just quitted.
“Yes, yes,” muttered the latter to herself; “you’re the child of that
proud lady that refused me what I asked. Perhaps she may repent it.”
“Would you like to go with me?” she asked, turning once more to the
child. “I will show you where there are flowers a great deal prettier.”
“Yes,” said the unsuspecting child, gaining her feet, and placing her
hand in the woman’s.
Was there no magic in the soft touch of that little hand that could turn
away that bad woman from her wicked purpose?
Alas! when the heart becomes familiar with crime, all the gentler parts
of the nature become hard and callous.
“Would you like to have me take you in my arms, and then we should get
there quicker?” said the woman, who knew it would not do to accommodate
herself to the child’s slow pace.
The latter made no resistance; and, with the little girl in her arms,
the woman walked swiftly along. She soon turned aside from the street,
for fear of attracting a degree of observation,—which, under present
circumstances, would be embarrassing to her,—and took her way, by a less
frequented road, to the city.
The child soon became restless, and wished to go home. The woman assured
her that she was carrying her there. Before long, the regular motion
of walking acted as a sedative upon the child, and she fell asleep. Her
bearer made the most of this opportunity, and walked with quickened steps
towards her haunt—for home she had none—in the great city, which she had
already entered. Some whom she met gazed with curious eyes at the woman
and her burden, and could not help noting the contrast between the two in
dress: but no one felt called upon to interfere; and so she reached her
destination.
The next day saw Helen—for this the woman discovered to be the child’s
name—stripped of her tasteful attire, and clothed in a ragged and dirty
dress, suited to the company into which she had fallen. At the same time,
her abundant curls were cut off close to her head, principally to render
more difficult the chance of recognition.
The woman found Helen of essential service in her line. Though disfigured
by her uncouth dress and the loss of her curls, her beauty was
sufficiently striking to draw many a coin from compassionate strangers,
which would not otherwise have been obtained. This little episode
completed, we resume the main thread of our narrative.