“Willie is poor,—isn’t he?”
“Yes. What makes you ask?”
“I thought he must be, because his clothes look so thin, and patched.
Don’t you think he would like a Christmas present, mother?”
“Yes, my darling. Have you any thing to give him?”
“I thought, mother, perhaps you would let me give him my five-dollar
gold-piece. I think that would be better than any playthings. May I give
it?”
“Yes, my child, if you are really willing. But are you quite sure that
you would not regret it afterwards?”
“Yes, mother.” And Lizzie ran lightly to the little box where she kept
her treasure, quickly brought it forth, and placed it in Willie’s hand.
“That is your Christmas present,” said she, gayly.
Willie looked surprised.
“Do you mean it for me?” he asked, in a half-bewildered tone.
“Yes, if you like it.”
“I thank you very much for your kindness,” said Willie, earnestly, “and I
will always remember it.”
There was something in the boy’s earnest tone which Lizzie felt was an
ample recompense for the little sacrifice she had made. Mr. Dinsmoor
fulfilled his promise, and walked with Willie as far as the street in
which he lived, when, feeling sure that he could no longer mistake his
way, he left him.
Mr. Dinsmoor, whom we have introduced to our readers, was a prosperous
merchant, and counted his wealth by hundreds of thousands. Fortunately,
his disposition was liberal; and he made the poor sharers with him in the
gifts which Fortune had so liberally showered upon him.
Notwithstanding the good use which he made of his wealth, he was fated
to experience reverses,—resulting, not from his own mismanagement, but
from a general commercial panic, which all at once involved in ruin many
whose fortunes were large, and whose credit was long established. In a
word, Mr. Dinsmoor failed.
* * * * *
Eleven years had rolled by since the Christmas night on which our story
opens. Lizzie had not belied the promise of her girlhood, but had
developed into a radiantly beautiful girl. Already her hand had been
sought in marriage; but, as yet, she had seen no one on whom she could
look with that affection without which marriage would be a mockery.
Charlie and Harry, too,—eleven years had changed them not a little.
The boys of four and six had become fine, manly youths of fifteen and
seventeen. The eldest had entered college. Harry, however, who was by no
means studious, had entered his father’s counting-room.
That was a sorrowful night on which Mr. Dinsmoor made known to his
afflicted wife the bankruptcy which was inevitable. Still sadder, if
possible, was the sale which it enforced of the house which they had so
long occupied, the furniture which had become endeared to them by memory
and association, and the harsh interruption which loss of fortune put to
all their treasured schemes.
“My poor boy,” said Mrs. Dinsmoor, sorrowfully, as she placed her hand
caressingly on the brown locks of Charlie, the eldest of the two boys,
“it will be a hard sacrifice for you to leave the studies to which you
are so much attached, and enter a store, as you will be obliged to do.”
“Ah! I had not thought of that,” murmured Charlie. “It will, indeed, be a
sacrifice; but, mother, I would not care for that, if you could only be
spared the trials to which you will be exposed from poverty.”
“Thank you for your consideration, my child; but do not fear that I
shall not accommodate myself to it. It is a heavy trial; but we must try
to think that it will ultimately eventuate in our good.”
At the auction of Mr. Dinsmoor’s house and furniture, the whole property,
without exception, was knocked off to a young man, who seemed apparently
of twenty-two or three years of age. He was able to secure it at a price
much beneath its real value; for times were hard, and money scarce, so
that he had but few competitors. Mr. Dinsmoor did not hear his name, and
the pressure of sad thoughts prevented his making the inquiry.
Possession was to be given in one week. Meanwhile, Mr. Dinsmoor sought
out a small house in an obscure part of the town, which, in point of
elegance and convenience, formed a complete contrast to the one he had
formerly occupied. He felt, however, that it would be all his scanty
salary as clerk—for he had secured a situation in that capacity—would
enable him to afford.
Lizzie looked, with a rueful face, at the piano, as a dear friend from
whom she must henceforth be separated, it being quite too costly a
piece of furniture to be retained in their reduced circumstances. Her
proficiency in music, for which she had great taste, made her regret it
doubly, since she might with it have added to the resources of the family
by giving music lessons.
On the last evening in which they were to remain in the old house, their
sad thoughts were broken in upon by a ring at the bell.
“Can they not even leave us to enjoy the last evening in quiet?” said
Charles, half petulantly.
Immediately afterwards, there entered a young man, in whom Mr. Dinsmoor
recognized the purchaser of the house.
“I need not bid you welcome,” said he, smiling faintly, “since you have a
better right here now than myself. Had I been told, three months since,
that this would be, I would not have believed it; but we cannot always
foresee. I shall be prepared to leave to-morrow.”
“I shall be better satisfied if you will remain,” said the young man,
bowing.
“What do you mean?”
“Simply, that as this house and furniture are now mine, to do with as I
like, I choose to restore you the latter, and offer you the use of the
former, rent free, as long as you choose to occupy it.”
“Who, then, are you,” asked Mr. Dinsmoor, in increasing surprise, “who
can be so kind to utter strangers, with no claim upon you?”
“You are mistaken. You have a claim upon me. Shall I tell you what it
is? Eleven years ago to-morrow,—for to-morrow is Christmas Day,—a poor
boy, who had known none of the luxuries, and but few of the comforts,
of life, stood in this street. His mind was ill at ease; for he had
lost his way: but, as he walked on, he beheld a blaze of light issuing
from a window,—from _your_ window,—and, aroused by curiosity, he looked
in. Around a Christmas-tree, brilliant with light, a happy group were
assembled. As he stood gazing in, he heard the front door open; and a
gentleman came out, and kindly invited him to enter. He did so; and the
words of kindness and the Christmas gift with which he departed have
not yet left his remembrance. Seven years passed, and the boy’s fortune
changed. An uncle, long supposed to be dead, found him out, and, when he
actually died, left him the heir of a large amount of wealth. Need I say
that I am that boy, and that my name is Willie Grant?”
The reader’s imagination can easily supply the rest. Provided with
capital by his young friend, Mr. Dinsmoor again embarked in business;
and, this time, nothing occurred to check his prosperity. Charlie did
_not_ leave college, nor did Lizzie lose her piano. She gained a husband,
however, and had no reason to regret the train of events which issued
from her CHRISTMAS GIFT.