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BESSIE AND HER FRIENDS
* * * * * *
_BOOKS BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS._
I. THE BESSIE BOOKS.
6 vols. In a box. $7.50.
II. THE FLOWERETS.
A SERIES OF STORIES ON THE COMMANDMENTS.
6 vols. In a box. $3.60.
III. LITTLE SUNBEAMS.
6 vols. In a box. $6.00.
IV. KITTY AND LULU BOOKS.
6 vols. In a box. $6.00.
V. MISS ASHTON'S GIRLS.
6 vols. In a neat box. $7.50.
VI. HAPS AND MISHAPS.
6 vols. $7.50.
_BY JULIA A. MATHEWS._
I. DARE TO DO RIGHT SERIES.
5 vols. In a box. $5.50.
II. DRAYTON HALL STORIES.
Illustrative of the Beatitudes. 6 vols. In a box. $4.50.
III. THE GOLDEN LADDER SERIES.
Stories illustrative of the Lord's Prayer. 6 vols. $3.00.
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
_New York_.
* * * * * *
[Illustration: Bessie's Friends. FRONTIS.]
[Illustration: Decoration]
BESSIE AND HER FRIENDS.
by
JOANNA H. MATHEWS,
Author of "Bessie at the Seaside," "Bessie in the City," &c.
"_Speak not evil one of another._"
"_Bear ye one another's burdens._"
New York:
Robert Carter & Brothers,
530 Broadway.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
Robert Carter and Brothers,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
To
_MY SISTER BELLA_,
WHOSE LOVING CONSIDERATION
_Has lightened the "burden" of many an otherwise weary hour_.
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
_I. Jennie's Home_ 7
_II. The Police-Sergeant's Story_ 30
_III. Little Pitchers_ 48
_IV. Papa's Story_ 64
_V. Light through the Clouds_ 95
_VI. Uncle Ruthven_ 117
_VII. An Unexpected Visitor_ 143
_VIII. Franky_ 167
_IX. Bear ye One Another's Burdens_ 181
_X. Two Surprises_ 200
_XI. Blind Willie_ 224
_XII. Maggie's Book_ 241
_XIII. Disappointment_ 269
_XIV. Aunt Patty_ 294
_XV. Willie's Visit_ 314
_XVI. Willie's Recovery_ 336
[Illustration: Beginning of book]
_BESSIE AND HER FRIENDS_.
I.
_JENNIE'S HOME._
"Morher," said little Jennie Richards, "isn't it 'most time for farher
to be home?"
"Almost time, Jennie," answered Mrs. Richards, looking up from the face
of the baby upon her lap to the clock upon the mantel-piece. A very
pale, tiny face it was; so tiny that Sergeant Richards used to say he
had to look twice to be sure there was any face there; and that of the
mother which bent above it was almost as pale,--sick, anxious, and
worn; but it brightened, as she answered Jennie. "It is five minutes
before six; he will be here very soon now."
Away ran Jennie to the corner, where stood a cane-seated rocking-chair,
and after a good deal of pushing and pulling, succeeded in drawing it
up in front of the stove; then to a closet, from which she brought a
pair of carpet slippers, which were placed before the chair.
"I wish I was big enough to reach farher's coat and put it over his
chair, like you used to, morher."
"That will come by and by, Jennie."
"But long before I am so big, you'll be quite well, morher."
"I hope so, dear, if God pleases. It's a long, long while to sit here
helpless, able to do nothing but tend poor baby, and see my dear little
daughter at the work her mother ought to do."
"Oh, morher, just as if I did not like to work! I don't like 'e reason
why I have to do it, but it's right nice to work for you and farher.
And I wouldn't like to be lazy, so I hope I will always have plenty to
do."
"Dear child," said Mrs. Richards, with a sigh, "you're like enough to
see that wish granted."
"'At's good," said Jennie, cheerfully, taking her mother's words in
quite a different spirit from that in which they were spoken; "it's so
nice to be busy."
And indeed it would appear that this small maiden--small even for her
six years--did think so; for as she talked she was trotting about the
room, busying herself with arranging half a dozen trifles, which her
quick eye spied out, and which, according to her way of thinking,
were not just in proper order. First, the hearth, on which no spot
or speck was to be seen, must be brushed up anew; next, the corner
of the table-cloth was to be twitched into place, and a knife laid
more exactly into straight line; then a ball, belonging to one of the
younger children, was picked up and put in the toy-basket, with the
reminder to little Tommy that father was coming, and the room must be
kept in good order. One would have thought it was already as neat as
hands could make it. Plain enough it was, certainly, but thoroughly
comfortable. The carpet, though somewhat worn, and pieced in more than
one place, was well swept and tidy, and the stove and the kettle which
sang merrily upon its top were polished till they shone. The table in
the centre of the room was ready set for tea, and, though it held no
silver or cut glass, the most dainty lady or gentleman in the land need
not have hesitated to take a meal from its white cloth and spotless
delf ware. The only pieces of furniture which looked as if they had
ever cost much were a large mahogany table with carved feet, which
stood between the windows, and a bookcase of the same wood at the side
of the fireplace; but both of these were old-fashioned, and although
they might be worth much to their owners, would have brought little if
offered for sale. Not a speck of dust, however, was to be seen upon
them or the rest of the furniture, which was of stained pine; while at
the side of Mrs. Richards' arm-chair stood the baby's wicker cradle,
covered with a gay patchwork spread. And that tiny quilt was the pride
and delight of Jennie's heart; for had she not put it all together
with her own small fingers? after which, good Mrs. Granby, who lived
up-stairs, had quilted and lined it for her.
On the other side of the mother, sat, in a low chair, a boy about nine
years old. His hands were folded helplessly together, and his pale face
wore a sad, patient, waiting look, as if something were coming upon
him which he knew he must bear without a struggle. One looking closer
into his eyes might notice a dull film overspreading them, for Willie
Richards was nearly blind, would be quite blind in a few weeks, the
doctors said.
Between Jennie and the baby came three little boys, sturdy, healthy
children, always clamoring for bread and butter, and frequent calls
for bread and butter were becoming a serious matter in the policeman's
household; for provisions were high, and it was not as easy to feed
eight mouths as it had been to feed four. This year, too, there had
been severe sickness in the family, bringing great expenses with
it, and how the wants of the coming winter were to be provided for,
Sergeant Richards could hardly tell.
With the early spring had come scarlet fever. The younger children had
gone through it lightly, Jennie escaping altogether; but poor Willie
had been nigh to death, and the terrible disease had left its mark in
the blindness which was creeping upon him. Then, watching her boy at
night, Mrs. Richards had taken cold which had settled in her limbs, and
all through the summer months she had lain helpless, unable even to
lift her hand. And what a faithful little nurse Jennie had been to her!
Then two months ago the baby sister was born, whose coming Jennie had
hailed with such delight, but whose short life had so far been all pain
and suffering.
The mother was better now, able to sit all day in the cushioned chair,
where the strong arms of her husband would place her in the morning.
But there she remained a prisoner, unable to move a step or even to
stand, though she could so far use her hands as to tend her baby. But
Mrs. Richards had not felt quite discouraged until to-day. Now a fresh
trouble had come, and she felt as if it were the last drop in the cup
already too full.
The children knew nothing of this, however, and if mother's face was
sadder than usual, they thought it was the old racking pain in her
bones. The three little boys were at the window, their chubby faces
pressed against the glass, peering out into the darkness for the first
glimpse of father. His duty had kept him from home all day, and wife
and children were more than usually impatient for his coming.
It was a small, two-story, wooden house, standing back from the street,
with a courtyard in front, in the corner of which grew an old butternut
tree. It bore but few nuts in these latter days, to be sure, but it
gave a fine shade in the summer, and the young occupants of the house
took great pride and comfort in it. The branches were almost bare now,
however, and the wind, which now and then came sighing up the street,
would strip off some of the leaves which still remained, and scatter
them over the porch or fling them against the window.
"You couldn't do wi'out me very well; could you, morher?" said Jennie,
as she straightened the corner of the rug, "even if good Mrs. Granby
does come and do all the washing and hard work."
"Indeed, I could not," answered Mrs. Richards. "My Jennie has been
hands and feet to her mother for the last six months."
"And now she's eyes to Willie," said the blind boy.
"And eyes to Willie," repeated his mother, tenderly laying her hand on
his head.
"And tongue to Tommy," added Willie, with a smile.
Jennie laughed merrily; but as she was about to answer, the click of
the gate was heard, and with shouts of "He's coming!" from Charlie,
"Poppy, poppy!" from the younger boy, and a confused jargon from Tommy,
which no one but Jennie could understand, the whole three tumbled down
from the window and rushed to the door. A moment later it opened, and a
tall, straight figure in a policeman's uniform appeared.
"Halloa, you chaps!" said a cheery voice. "Suppose two or three dozen
of you get out of the way and let me shut the door; it won't do to keep
a draught on mother."
He contrived to close the door, but as for getting farther with three
pair of fat arms clasping his legs, that was quite impossible. The
father laughed, threw his cap upon a chair, and catching up first one
and then another of his captors, tossed them by turns in the air, gave
each a hearty kiss, and set him on his feet again.
"There, gentlemen, now let me get to mother, if you please. Well, Mary,
how has it gone to-day? Poorly, eh?" as he saw that in spite of the
smile which welcomed him, her cheek was paler and her eye sadder than
they had been when he left her in the morning.
"The pain is no worse, dear,--rather better maybe," she answered; but
her lip quivered as she spoke.
"Then that monstrous baby of yours has been worrying you. I am just
going to sell her to the first man who will give sixpence for her."
"No, no, no!" rose from a chorus of young voices, with, "She didn't
worry scarcely any to-day, farher," from Jennie, as she lifted her face
for his kiss.
Willie's turn came next, as rising from his chair with his hand
outstretched, he made a step forward and reached his father's side.
One eye was quite dark, but through the thick mist which was over the
other, he could faintly distinguish the tall, square figure, though,
except for the voice and the sounds of welcome, he could not have told
if it were his father or a stranger standing there.
Then began the grand amusement of the evening. Mr. Richards pulled down
the covering of the cradle, turned over the pillow, looked under the
table, peeped into the sugar-bowl, pepper-pot, and stove, and at last
pretended to be much astonished to discover the baby upon its mother's
lap, after which the hunt was carried on in search of a place big
enough to kiss. This performance was gone through with every night, but
never lost its relish, being always considered a capital joke, and was
received with shouts of laughter and great clapping of hands.
"Father," said Jennie, when Mr. Richards was seated in the
rocking-chair, with a boy on each knee, "we have a great surprise for
your supper to-night."
If Jennie did not resemble her father in size, she certainly did in
feature. In both there were the same clear, honest gray eyes, the same
crisp, short curls, the same ruddy cheeks and full red lips, the same
look of kindly good-nature, with something of a spirit of fun and
mischief sparkling through it.
"You have; have you?" he answered. "Well, I suppose you know it takes
a deal to surprise a member of police. We see too many queer folks and
queer doings to be easy surprised. If you were to tell me you were
going to turn a bad, lazy girl, I might be surprised, but I don't know
as much short of that would do it."
Jennie shook her head with a very knowing look at her mother, and just
then the door opened again and a head was put within.
"Oh, you're home, be you, Sergeant Richards?" said the owner of the
head. "All right; your supper will be ready in a jiffy. Come along,
Jennie."
With this the head disappeared, and Jennie, obeying orders, followed.
In five minutes they both returned, the head this time bringing the
rest of the person with it, carrying a tray. Jennie held in her hands
a covered dish, which she set upon the edge of the table with an air
of great triumph. She was not tall enough to put it in the proper spot
before her father's place; but she would by no means suffer him to help
her, although he offered to do so. No, it must wait till Mrs. Granby
had emptied the tray, and could take it from her hands.
What the policeman's family would have done at this time without Mrs.
Granby would be hard to tell. Although a neighbor, she had been almost
a stranger to them till the time of Willie's illness, when she had come
in to assist in the nursing. From that day she had been a kind and
faithful friend. She was a seamstress, and went out to work by the day;
but night and morning she came in to see Mrs. Richards and do what she
could to help her, until one evening she had asked Mr. Richards if she
might have a talk with him. The policeman said, "Certainly," though he
was rather surprised, for Mrs. Granby generally talked without waiting
for permission.
"I guess things ain't going just right with you; be they, Sergeant
Richards?" she began.
Richards shook his head sadly. "I suppose if it wasn't right, it
wouldn't be, Mrs. Granby; but it's hard to think it with Mary lying
there, bound hand and foot, my boy growing blind, and the poor little
baby more dead than alive; with me away the best part of the day, and
nobody but that green Irish girl to do a hand's turn for them all,
unless yourself or some other kind body looks in. Jennie's a wonderful
smart child, to be sure; but there's another sore cross, to see her
working her young life out, when she ought to be thinking of nothing
but her play. And then, how we're going to make both ends meet this
year, I don't know."
"So I thought," answered Mrs. Granby; "and it's the same with me about
the ends meetin'. Now just supposin' we helped one another along a bit.
You see they've raised my rent on me, and I can't afford it no way;
besides that, my eyes is givin' out,--won't stand sewin' all day like
they used to; so I'm not goin' out by the day no more, but just goin'
to take in a bit of work and do it as I can. That Biddy of yours ain't
no good,--a dirty thing that's as like as not to sweep with the wrong
end of the broom, and to carry the baby with its head down and heels
up. She just worries your wife's life out; and every time she goes
lumberin' over the floor, Mary is ready to screech with the jar. Now
you just send her packin', give me the little room up-stairs rent free
for this winter, and the use of your fire for my bits of meals, and
I'll do all she does and more too,--washin', scrubbin', cookin', and
nussin'. You won't have no wages to pay, and though they mayn't come
to much, every little tells; and Mary and the babies will be a sight
more comfortable, and you, too, maybe, if I oughtn't to say it. You're
just right, too, about Jennie. It goes to my heart to see her begin to
put her hand to everything; she's more willin' than she's able. Pity
everybody wasn't the same; it would make another sort of a world, I
guess. What do you say to it? Will it do?"
Do! The policeman thought so indeed, and was only too thankful. But it
was a one-sided kind of a bargain, he said, all on their side, and Mrs.
Granby must take some pay for her services.
This she refused; she was not going to give them all her time, only
part of it, and the room rent free was pay enough. But at last she
consented to take her meals with them, though somehow she contrived to
add more to the rather slender table than she took from it. Now she
had a chicken or tender steak for Mrs. Richards, "it was so cheap she
couldn't help buying it, and she had a fancy for a bit herself," but it
was always a very small bit that satisfied her; now a few cakes for the
children, now a pound of extra nice tea or coffee. "Sergeant Richards
needed something good and hot when he came in from duty, and he never
took nothin' stronger, so he ought to have it."
From the time that she came to them, Mrs. Richards began to improve;
there was no longer any need to worry over her disorderly house,
neglected children, or the loss of comfort to her husband. The baby
ceased its endless wailing, and with Jennie to keep things trim after
they had once been put in order, the whole household put on its old
air of cosy neatness. Truly she had proved "a friend in need," this
cheerful, bustling, kind-hearted little woman.
"Now you may uncover the dish, farher," said Jennie, as having brought
a little stand and placed it at her mother's side, she led Willie to
the table.
Mr. Richards did so. "Broiled ham and eggs!" he exclaimed. "Why, the
breath is 'most taken out of me! I know where the ham came from well
enough, for I bought it myself, but I'd like to know who has been
buying fresh eggs at eight cents apiece."
"No, Sergeant Richards, you needn't look at me that way," said Mrs.
Granby, holding up the tea-pot in one hand; "I ain't been doin' no
such expenses. I brought them home, to be sure; but they was a present,
not to me neither, but to your wife here. Here's another of 'em for
her, boiled to a turn too. Fried eggs ain't good for sick folks.
'Twasn't my doin' that you got some with your ham neither; I wanted to
keep 'em for her eatin', but she said you was so fond of 'em, and she
coaxed me into it. She does set such a heap by you, she thinks nothin'
ain't too good for you. Not that I blame her. I often says there ain't
a better husband and father to be found than Sergeant Richards, look
the city through; and you do deserve the best, that's a fact, if it
was gold and diamonds; not that you wouldn't have a better use for
them than to eat 'em; diamonds fetches a heap, they tell me, but never
havin' had none of my own, I can't rightly tell of my own showin'.
Come, eat while it's hot. I'll see to your wife. No, thank you, none
for me. I couldn't eat a mouthful if you was to pay me for it. Don't
give the little ones none, 'taint good for 'em goin' to bed. Jennie
might have a bit, she's been stirrin' round so all day, and Willie,
too, dear boy." Mrs. Granby's voice always took a tenderer tone when
she spoke of Willie. "Well, I'll just tell you how I come by them eggs.
This afternoon I took home some work to an old lady, a new customer
Mrs. Howard recommended me to. When I was let in, there she stood in
the hall, talkin' to a woman what had been sellin' fresh eggs to her.
There they was, two or three dozen of 'em, piled up, lookin' so fresh
and white and nice, enough to make your mouth water when you looked
at 'em and thought what a deal of nourishment was in 'em. So when the
lady was through with the woman, says I, 'If you'll excuse the liberty,
ma'am, in your house and your presence, I'd just like to take a couple
of eggs from this woman before she goes.'
"'Certainly,' says the lady, but the woman says, 'I can't spare no
more, there's only a dozen left, and I've promised them to another
lady;' and off she goes. Well, me and the old lady settles about the
work, and she tells me she'll have more in a month's time, and then she
says, 'You was disappointed about the eggs?'
"'Yes, ma'am,' says I.
"So, thinkin', I s'pose, 'twasn't for a poor seamstress like me to be
so extravagant, she says, 'Eggs are high this season,--eight cents
apiece.'
"I didn't want to be settin' myself up, but I wasn't goin' to have her
take no false notions about me, so I says, 'Yes, ma'am, but when a
body's sick, and ain't no appetite to eat only what one forces one's
self to, I don't think it no sin to spend a bit for a nice nourishin'
mouthful.'
"And she says, very gentle, 'Are you sick?'
"'Not I, ma'am,' says I, 'but a friend of mine. Bad with the rheumatics
these six months, and she's a mite of an ailin' baby, and don't fancy
nothin' to eat unless it's somethin' delicate and fancy, so I just
took a notion I'd get a couple of them eggs for her.'
"And she says, 'I see you have a basket there, just let me give you
half a dozen of these for your friend.' I never thought of such a
thing, and I was took all aback, and I said would she please take it
out of the work. I couldn't think of takin' it in the way of charity,
and she says, 'If I were ill, and you had any little dainty you thought
I might like, would you think it charity to offer it to me?'
"'No, ma'am,' says I; 'but then there's a difference.'
"'I see none in that way,' she said; 'we are all God's children. To
one he gives more than to another, but he means that we shall help
each other as we find opportunity, and I wish you to take this little
gift for your friend as readily as you would offer it to me if I were
in like need.' Now wasn't that pretty? A real lady, every inch of her.
And with her own hands she laid half a dozen eggs in the basket. She
was askin' some more questions about my sick friend, when somebody
pulls the door-bell as furious, and when it was opened, there was a
servant-gal lookin' as scared as anything, and she tells the old lady
her little granddaughter was lost, and couldn't be found nowhere, and
was she here, and did they know anything about her? Well, they didn't
know nothin', and the old lady said she'd be round right away, and
she herself looked scared ready to drop, and I see she hadn't no more
thought for me nor my belongin's, nor couldn't be expected to, so I
just takes my leave. And when I come home and shows Mary the eggs,
nothin' would do but you must have a couple cooked with your ham for
supper."
All the time Mrs. Granby had been telling her story, she was pouring
out tea, waiting on Mrs. Richards, spreading bread and butter for the
children, and now having talked herself out of breath, she paused. At
the last part of the story, the police-sergeant laid down his knife and
fork, and looked up at her.
"What is your lady's name?" he asked.
"Mrs. Stanton," answered Mrs. Granby.
"And who is the child that was lost?"
"I don't know, only a granddaughter; I don't know if it's the same
name. Why, have you seen the child?"
"I can't tell if it's the same," answered Richards, "but I've got a
story for you to-night. I have been thinking all the afternoon I had a
treat for Jennie."
"Is it a duty story, farher?" asked his little daughter.
"Yes, it is a duty story."
"Oh, that's good!"
Whenever her father had a story to tell of anything which had happened
to him during his daily duties, Jennie always called it a "duty story,"
and she was very eager for such anecdotes.
[Illustration: decoration, end of chap. 1]
[Illustration: Title decoration, chap. 2]
II.
_THE POLICE-SERGEANT'S STORY._
Tea was over, the dishes neatly washed and put away by Mrs. Granby and
Jennie, the three little boys snugly tucked in their cribs up-stairs,
the baby lying quiet in its cradle, and Mrs. Granby seated at the
corner of the table with her sewing. Jennie sat upon her father's knee,
and Willie in his usual seat at his mother's side, and the policeman
began his story.
"It might have been about two o'clock when, as I was at my desk, making
out a report, Policeman Neal came in with a lost child in his arms, as
pretty a little thing as ever I saw, for all she did look as if she
had been having rather a hard time of it,--a gentleman's child and a
mother's darling, used to be well cared for, as was easy to be seen
by her nice white frock with blue ribbons, and her dainty shoes and
stockings. But I think her mother's heart would have ached if she had
seen her then. She had lost her hat, and the wind had tossed up her
curls, her cheeks were pale and streaked with tears, and her big brown
eyes had a pitiful look in them that would have softened a tiger, let
alone a man that had half a dozen little ones of his own at home; while
every now and then the great heavy sighs came struggling up, as if she
had almost cried her heart out.
"When Neal brought her in, she looked round as if she expected to see
some one, and so it seems she did; for he put her on thinking she'd
find some of her own folks waiting for her. And when she saw there was
no one there, such a disappointed look as came over her face, and her
lip shook, and she clasped both little hands over her throat, as if to
keep back the sobs from breaking out again. A many lost children I've
seen, but never one who touched me like her.
"Well, Neal told where he'd found her, and a good way she'd wandered
from her home, as we found afterwards, and how she said her name was
Brightfort, which was as near as he'd come to it; for she had a crooked
little tongue, though a sweet one. I looked in the directory, but no
name like that could I find. Then Neal was going to put her down and go
back to his beat, but she clung fast to him and began to cry again. You
see, she'd kind of made friends with him, and she didn't fancy being
left with strange faces again. So I just took her from him, and coaxed
her up a bit, and told her I'd show her the telegraph sending off a
message how she was there. I put her on the desk, close to me, while I
set the wires to work; and as sure as you live, what did I hear that
minute but her saying a bit of a prayer. She didn't mean any one to
hear but Him she was speaking to, but I caught every word; for you see
my head was bent over near to hers. And I'll never forget it, not if I
live to be a hundred, no, nor the way it made me feel. 'Dear Father in
heaven,' she said, 'please let my own home father come and find me very
soon, 'cause I'm so tired, and I want my own mamma; and don't let those
naughty boys hurt my Flossy, but let papa find him too.' I hadn't felt
so chirk as I might all day, and it just went to the soft place in my
heart; and it gave me a lesson, too, that I sha'n't forget in a hurry."
Mr. Richards stopped and cleared his throat, and his wife took up the
corner of her shawl and wiped her eyes.
"Bless her!" said Mrs. Granby, winking hers very hard.
"Ay, bless her, I say, too," continued the policeman. "It was as pretty
a bit of faith and trust as ever I saw; and after it she seemed some
comforted, and sat quiet, watching the working of the wires, as if she
was quite sure the One she'd looked to would bring her help. Well, I
carried her round and showed her all there was to see, which wasn't
much, and then I set her to talking, to see if I could find out where
she belonged. I saw she'd been confused and worried before Neal brought
her in, and I thought like enough she'd forgotten. So, after some
coaxing and letting her tell her story in her own way,--how her dog ran
away and she ran after him, and so got lost, she suddenly remembered
the name and number of the street where she lived. With that she broke
down again, and began to cry and sob out, she did want to go home so
much.
"I was just sending out to see if she was right, when up dashes a
carriage to the door, and out gets a gentleman on crutches. The moment
the little one set eyes on him, she screams out as joyful as you
please, 'Oh, it's my soldier, it's my soldier!'
"Talk of an April day! You never saw anything like the way the sunlight
broke through the clouds on her face. The moment he was inside the
door, she fairly flung herself out of my arms on to his neck; and it
was just the prettiest thing in the world to see her joy and love, and
how she kissed and hugged him. As for him, he dropped one crutch, and
held fast to her, as if for dear life. I knew who he was well enough,
for I had seen him before, and found out about him, being in the way
of duty. He's an English colonel that lives at the ---- Hotel; and they
tell wonderful stories about him,--how brave he is, and what a lot
of battles he's fought, and how, with just a handful of soldiers, he
defended a hospital full of sick men against a great force of them
murdering Sepoys, and brought every man of them safe off. All sorts of
fine things are told about him; and I'm bound they're true; for you can
tell by the look of him he's a hero of the right sort. I didn't think
the less of him, either, that I saw his eyes mighty shiny as he and
the baby held fast to each other. She wasn't his child, though, but
Mr. Bradford's up in ---- Street, whom I know all about; and if that
crooked little tongue of hers could have said 'R,' which it couldn't, I
might have taken her home at once. Well, she was all right then, and
he carried her off; but first she walked round and made her manners
to every man there as polite as you please, looking the daintiest
little lady that ever walked on two feet; and when I put her into the
carriage, didn't she thank me for letting her into the station, and
being kind to her, as if it was a favor I'd been doing, and not my
duty; and as if a man could help it that once looked at her. So she was
driven away, and I was sorry to lose sight of her, for I don't know as
I ever took so to a child that didn't belong to me."
"Is that all?" asked Jennie, as her father paused.
"That's all."
"How old was she, farher?"
"Five years old, she said, but she didn't look it. It seemed to me when
I first saw her as if she was about your size; but you're bigger than
she, though you don't make much show for your six years."
"How funny she can't say 'R' when she's five years old!" said Jennie.
"Yes, almost as funny as that my girl of six can't say 'th,'" laughed
the sergeant.
Jennie smiled, colored, and hung her head.
"And you thought maybe your lost child was Mrs. Stanton's
granddaughter; did you?" asked Mrs. Granby.
"Well, I thought it might be. Two children in that way of life ain't
likely to be lost the same day in the same neighborhood; and we had
no notice of any other but my little friend. You don't know if Mrs.
Stanton has any relations of the name of Bradford?"
"No; she's 'most a stranger to me, and the scared girl didn't mention
no names, only said little Bessie was missin'."
"That's her then. Little Bradford's name was Bessie; so putting two and
two together, I think they're one and the same."
They talked a while longer of little Bessie and her pretty ways and her
friend, the colonel; and then Mrs. Granby carried Willie and Jennie off
to bed.
"Now, Mary," said Richards, going to his wife's side the moment the
children were out of hearing, "I know your poor heart has been aching
all day to know what the eye-doctor said; but the boy sticks so close
to you, and his ears are so quick, that I couldn't do more than whisper
'yes' when I came in, just to let you know it could be done. I was
bringing Willie home when I met Jarvis with a message that I was to
go up to the Chief on special business, so, as I hadn't a minute to
spare, I just had to hand the poor little man over to Jarvis, who
promised to see him safely in your care. Dr. Dawson says, Mary, that
he thinks Willie can be cured; but we must wait a while, and he thinks
it best that he should not be told until the time comes. The operation
cannot be performed till the boy is stronger; and it is best not to
attempt it till the blindness is total,--till both eyes are quite
dark. Meanwhile, he must be fed upon good nourishing food. If we can
do this, he thinks in three months, or perhaps four, the child may
be able to bear the operation. After that he says we must still be
very careful of him, and see that his strength does not run down; and
when the spring opens, we must send him away from town, up among the
mountains. And that's what your doctor says of you, too, Mary; that
you won't get well of this dreadful rheumatism till you have a change
of air; and that next summer I ought to send you where you will have
mountain air. Dr. Dawson's charge," Richards went on more slowly, "will
be a hundred dollars,--he says to rich folks it would be three hundred,
maybe more. But five thousand is easier come at by a good many people
than a hundred is by us. So now we know what the doctor can do, we must
make out what we can do. I'm free to say I think Willie stands a better
chance with Dr. Dawson than he does elsewhere; but I don't see how we
are to raise the money. I'd live on bread and water, or worse, lie on
the bare boards and work like a slave, to bring our boy's sight back;
but I can't see you suffer; and we have the rest of the flock to think
of as well as Willie. And I suppose it must bring a deal of expense on
us, both before and after the operation; at least, if we follow out the
doctor's directions, and he says if we don't, the money and trouble
will be worse than thrown away.
"The first thing I have to do is to see Dr. Schwitz, and find out how
much we owe him for attending you and the children, off and on, these
six months. I've asked him half a dozen times for his bill, but he
always said 'no hurry' and he 'could wait;' and since he was so kind,
and other things were so pressing, I've just let it go by."
When he had spoken of the doctor's hope of curing Willie, his wife's
pale face had brightened; but as he went on to say what it would cost,
her head drooped; and now as he spoke of the other doctor's bill, she
covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears and sobs.
"Why, Mary, what is it, dear?"
[Illustration: Bessie's Friends. p. 40]
"Oh, Tom! Tom!" she broke forth, "Dr. Schwitz sent his bill this
morning. A rough-looking man brought it, and he says the doctor must
have it the first of the year, and--and--" She could get no farther.
The poor woman! it was no wonder; she was sick and weak, and this
unlooked-for trouble had quite broken her down.
"Now, don't, Mary, don't be so cast down," said her husband. "We'll see
our way out of this yet. The Lord hasn't forsaken us."
"I don't know," she answered between her sobs, "it 'most seems like
it;" and taking up a book which lay upon the table, she drew from
between its leaves a folded paper and handed it to him. He was a
strong, sturdy man, this police-sergeant, used to terrible sights, and
not easily startled or surprised, as he had told his little daughter;
but when he opened the paper and looked at it, all the color left his
ruddy cheeks, and he sat gazing at it as if he were stunned. There was
a moment's silence; then the baby set up its pitiful little cry. Mrs.
Richards lifted it from the cradle.
"Oh, Tom," she said, "if it would please the Lord to take baby and me,
it would be far better for you. I've been only a burden to you these
six months past, and I'm likely to be no better for six months to come,
for they say I can't get well till the warm weather comes again. You'd
be better without us dear, and it's me that's brought this on you."
Then the policeman roused himself.
"That's the hardest word you've spoken to me these ten years we've
been married, Mary, woman," he said. "No, I thank the Lord again and
again that that trouble hasn't come to me yet. What would I do without
you, Mary, dear? How could I bear it to come home and not find you
here,--never again to see you smile when I come in; never to hear you
say, 'I'm so glad you've come, Tom;' never to get the kiss that puts
heart into me after a hard day's work? And the babies,--would you wish
them motherless? To be sure, you can't do for them what you once did,
but that will all come right yet; and there's the mother's eye to
overlook and see that things don't go too far wrong; here's the mother
voice and the mother smile for them to turn to. No, no; don't you think
you're laid aside for useless yet, dear. As for this wee dolly,"--and
the father laid his great hand tenderly on the tiny bundle in its
mother's arms,--"why, I think I've come to love her all the more for
that she's so feeble and such a care. And what would our Jennie do
without the little sister that she has such a pride in and lays so many
plans for? Why, it would break her heart to lose her. No, no, Mary, I
can bear all things short of that you've spoken of; and do you just
pray the Lord that he'll not take you at your word, and never hurt me
by saying a thing like that again."
Trying to cheer his wife, the brave-hearted fellow had almost talked
himself into cheerfulness again; and Mrs. Richards looked up through
her tears. "And what are we to do, Tom?" she asked.
"I can't just rightly see my way clear yet," he answered, thoughtfully,
rubbing his forehead with his finger; "but one thing is certain, we've
got to look all our troubles straight in the face, and to see what we
can do. What we _can_ do for ourselves we _must_, then trust the Lord
for the rest. As I told you, that little soul that was brought up to
the station this afternoon gave me a lesson I don't mean to forget in
a hurry. There she was, the innocent thing, in the worst trouble I
suppose that could come to such a baby,--far from her home and friends,
feeling as if she'd lost all she had in the world,--all strange faces
about her, and in what was to her a terrible place, and not knowing how
she was to get out of it. Well, what does she do, the pretty creature,
but just catch herself up in the midst of her grieving and say that bit
of a prayer? and then she rested quiet and waited. It gave me a sharp
prick, I can tell you, and one that I needed. Says I to myself, 'Tom
Richards, you haven't half the faith or the courage of this baby.'
There had I been all day fretting myself and quarrelling with the
Lord's doings, because he had brought me into a place where I could not
see my way out. I had asked for help, too, or thought I had, and yet
there I was, faithless and unbelieving, not willing to wait his time
and way to bring it to me. But she, baby as she was, knew in whom she
had trusted, and could leave herself in his hands after she had once
done all she knew how. It's not the first teaching I've had from a
little child, Mary, and I don't expect it will be the last; but nothing
ever brought me up as straight as that did. Thinks I, the Lord forgive
me, and grant me such a share of trust and patience as is given to this
his little one; and then I took heart, and I don't think I've lost it
again, if I have had a hard blow I did not look for. I own I was a bit
stunned at first; but see you, Mary, I am sure this bill is not fair.
Dr. Schwitz has overcharged us for certain; and I don't believe it
will stand in law."
"But we can't afford to go to law, Tom, any more than to pay this sum.
Four hundred dollars!"
"I would not wonder if Mr. Ray would see me through this," said
Richards. "He's a good friend to me. I'll see him, anyhow. I never
thought Dr. Schwitz would serve me like this; it's just revenge."
"Have you offended him?" asked Mrs. Richards, in surprise.
"Yes," answered the policeman. "Yesterday I had to arrest a nephew of
his for robbing his employer. Schwitz came to me and begged I'd let
him off and pretend he was not to be found, saying he would make it
worthwhile to me. I took offence at his trying to bribe me, which was
but natural, you will allow, Mary, and spoke up pretty sharp. He swore
he'd make me pay for it if I touched the lad; but I never thought he
would go this far. And to think I have had the handling of so many
rogues, and didn't know one when I saw him!"
"And Willie?" said the poor mother.
"Ah! that's the worst," answered Richards. "I'm afraid we sha'n't be
able to have much done for Willie this next year; for even if Dr.
Dawson will wait for his pay, there's all the expense that's to come
before and after the operation; and I don't see how we are going to
manage it."
Long the good policeman and his wife sat and talked over their
troubles; and when kind Mrs. Granby came back, she was told of them,
and her advice asked; but three heads were no better than two in making
one dollar do the needful work of ten.
[Illustration: decoration, end of chap. 2]
[Illustration: Title decoration, chap. 3]
III.
_LITTLE PITCHERS._
Three young ladies sat talking over their work in the pleasant
bow-window of Mrs. Stanton's sitting-room, while at a short distance
from them two little curly heads bent over the great picture-book which
lay upon the table. The eyes in the curly heads were busy with the
pictures, the tongues in the curly heads were silent, save when now and
then one whispered, "Shall I turn over?" or "Is not that pretty?" but
the ears in the curly heads were wide open to all that was passing in
the bow-window; while the three young ladies, thinking that the curly
heads were heeding nothing but their own affairs, went on chattering as
if those attentive ears were miles away.
"Annie," said Miss Carrie Hall, "I am sorry to hear of the severe
affliction likely to befall your sister, Mrs. Bradford."
"What is that?" asked Annie Stanton, looking up surprised.
"I heard that Mrs. Lawrence, Mr. Bradford's Aunt Patty, was coming to
make her a visit."
"Ah, poor Margaret!" said Annie Stanton, but she laughed as she
spoke. "It is indeed a trial, but my sister receives it with becoming
submission."
"Why does Mrs. Bradford invite her when she always makes herself so
disagreeable?" asked Miss Ellis.
"She comes self-invited," replied Annie. "Margaret did not ask her."
"I should think not, considering the circumstances under which they
last parted," said Carrie Hall.
"Oh, Margaret has long since forgotten and forgiven all that," said
Annie, "and she and Mr. Bradford have several times endeavored to
bring about a reconciliation, inviting Aunt Patty to visit them, or
sending kind messages and other tokens of good-will. The old lady,
however, was not to be appeased, and for the last three or four years
has held no intercourse with my brother's family. Now she suddenly
writes, saying she intends to make them a visit."
"I should decline it if I were in the place of Mr. and Mrs. Bradford,"
said Carrie.
"I fear I should do the same," replied Annie, "but Margaret and Mr.
Bradford are more forgiving. I am quite sure though that they look
upon this visit as a duty to be endured, not a pleasure to be enjoyed,
especially as the children are now older, and she will be the more
likely to make trouble with them."
"I suppose they have quite forgotten her," said Carrie.
"Harry and Fred may remember her," answered Annie, "but the others were
too young to recollect her at this distance of time. Bessie was a
baby, Maggie scarcely three years old."
"Shall you ever forget the day we stopped at your sister's house on our
way home from school, and found Mrs. Lawrence and nurse having a battle
royal over Maggie?" asked the laughing Carrie.
"No, indeed! Nurse, with Maggie on one arm and Bessie on the other,
fairly dancing about the room in her efforts to save the former from
Aunt Patty's clutches, both terrified babies screaming at the top of
their voices, both old women scolding at the top of theirs; while Fred,
the monkey, young as he was, stood by, clapping his hands and setting
them at each other as if they had been two cats."
"And your sister," said Carrie, "coming home to be frightened half out
of her senses at finding such an uproar in her well-ordered nursery,
and poor little Maggie stretching out her arms to her with 'Patty vip
me, Patty vip me!'"
"And Margaret quite unable to quell the storm until Brother Henry came
in and with a few determined words separated the combatants by sending
nurse from the room," continued Annie, with increasing merriment. "Poor
mammy! She knew her master's word was not to be disputed, and dared not
disobey; but I think she has never quite forgiven him for that, and
still looks upon it as hard that when, as she said, she had a chance
'to speak her mind to Mrs. Lawrence,' she was not allowed to do it."
"But what caused the trouble?" asked Laura Ellis.
"Oh, some trifling mischief of Maggie's, for which auntie undertook to
punish her severely. Nurse interfered, and where the battle would have
stopped, had not Henry and Margaret arrived, it is difficult to tell."
"But surely she did not leave your brother's house in anger for such a
little thing as that!" said Laura.
"Indeed, she did; at least, she insisted that Maggie should be punished
and nurse dismissed. Dear old mammy, who nursed every one of us, from
Ruthven down to myself, and whom mother gave to Margaret as a treasure
past all price when Harry was born,--poor mammy, who considers herself
quite as much one of the family as any Stanton, Duncan, or Bradford
among us all,--to talk of dismissing her! But nothing less would
satisfy Aunt Patty; and Margaret gently claiming the right to correct
her own children and govern her own household as she saw fit, and Henry
firmly upholding his wife, Aunt Patty departed that very afternoon in a
tremendous passion, and has never entered the house since."
"Greatly to your sister's relief, I should think," said Laura. "Why,
what a very disagreeable inmate she must be, Annie! I am sure I pity
Mrs. Bradford and all her family, if they are to undergo another visit
from her now."
"Yes," said Annie. "Some sudden freak has taken her, and she has
written to say that she will be here next month. You may well pity
them. Such another exacting, meddling, ill-tempered old woman it would
be difficult to find. She has long since quarrelled with all her
relations; indeed, it was quite wonderful to every one how Margaret and
her husband bore with her as long as they did. I do not know how the
poor children will get on with her. She and Fred will clash before she
has been in the house a day, while the little ones will be frightened
out of their senses by one look of those cold, stern eyes. Do you
remember, Carrie, how, during that last unfortunate visit, Maggie used
to run and hide her head in her mother's dress the moment she heard
Aunt Patty's step?"
"Yes, indeed," said Carrie. "I suppose she will be here at Christmas
time too. Poor little things! She will destroy half their pleasure."
All this and much more to the same purpose fell upon those attentive
ears, filling the hearts of the little listeners with astonishment
and dismay. It was long since Maggie's hand had turned a leaf of the
scrap-book, long since she or Bessie had given a look or thought to the
pictures. There they both sat, motionless, gazing at one another, and
drinking in all the foolish talk of those thoughtless young ladies.
They meant no harm, these gay girls. Not one of them but would have
been shocked at the thought that she was poisoning the minds of the
dear little children whom they all loved towards the aged relative whom
they were bound to reverence and respect. They had not imagined that
Maggie and Bessie were attending to their conversation, and they were
only amusing themselves; it was but idle talk. Ah, idle talk, idle
words, of which each one of us must give account at the last great day!
So they sat and chatted away, not thinking of the mischief they
might be doing, until, at a question from Miss Carrie, Annie Stanton
dropped her voice as she answered. Still now and then a few words
would reach the little ones. "Shocking temper"--"Poor Margaret so
uncomfortable"--"Mr Bradford very much displeased"--"patience quite
worn out" until Bessie said,--
"Aunt Annie, if you don't mean us to know what you say, we do hear a
little."
Aunt Annie started and colored, then said, hastily "Oh, I had almost
forgotten you were there. Would you not like to go down-stairs, pets,
and ask old Dinah to bake a little cake for each of you? Run then, and
if you heard what we were saying, do not think of it. It is nothing for
you to trouble your small heads about. I am afraid we have been rather
imprudent," she continued uneasily when her little nieces had left the
room. "Margaret is so particular that her children shall hear nothing
like gossip or evil speaking, and I think we have been indulging in
both. If Maggie and Bessie have been listening to what we were saying,
they will not have a very pleasant impression of Mrs. Lawrence. Well,
there is no use in fretting about it now. What is said cannot be
unsaid; and they will soon find out for themselves what the old lady
is."
Yes, what is said cannot be unsaid. Each little word, as it is spoken,
goes forth on its errand of good or evil, and can never be recalled.