the burning stairs, was the next moment lost to sight. Two minutes
later, her voice was heard at the window. In her arms she held the
senseless Aleck, and when Henry and the old cook stood beneath, she
called to them to catch him in their arms. It was done; Aleck was safe.
And then letting herself from the window by her hands, she fell upon
the ground beside him scarcely a moment before the flames burst upward
through the floor. Aleck was quite unhurt, but his aunt was badly
burned on one hand and arm. She insisted, however, upon sitting up
and watching him, as he was feverish and ill from fright. Late in the
night Henry awoke, and, opening his eyes, saw his aunt kneeling by the
side of the bed, and heard her thanking God that he had given her this
child's life, beseeching him, oh, so earnestly, that it might be the
means of turning his young heart towards her, that there might be some
one in the world to love her. Will you wonder if after this Henry felt
as if he could never be patient or forbearing enough with this poor
unhappy lady?"
"But what made her so unhappy, papa, and why were the boys so afraid of
her?" asked Maggie.
"Well, dear, I must say that it was her violent temper, and her wish to
control every one about her, which made her so much feared not only by
the boys, but by all who lived with her. But perhaps when I tell you a
little more, you will think with me that there was much excuse for her.
"She was the only daughter and youngest child in a large family of
boys. Her mother died when she was a very little baby, so that she was
left to grow up without that tenderest and wisest of all care. Her
father and brothers loved her dearly; but I am afraid they indulged and
spoiled her too much. She had a warm, generous, loving heart, but she
was very passionate, and would sometimes give way to the most violent
fits of temper. The poor child had no one to tell her how foolish and
sinful this was, or to warn her that she was laying up trouble for
herself and her friends, for her father would never suffer her to be
contradicted or corrected."
"Papa," said Bessie, as her father paused for a moment, "do you mean
the story of this passionate child for a lesson to me?"
"No, darling," said her father; "for I think my Bessie is learning,
with God's help, to control her quick temper so well that we may hope
it will not give her much trouble when she is older. It is not for
you more than for your brothers and sister. But I have a reason for
wishing you all to see that it was more the misfortune than the fault
of the little Henrietta that she grew up with an ungoverned will and
violent temper. Whatever she wanted was given without any thought for
the rights or wishes of others; so it was not strange if she soon came
to consider that her will was law and that she must have her own way in
all things. Perhaps those who had the care of her did not know the harm
they were doing; but certain it is, that this poor child was suffered
to grow up into a most self-willed woman."
"I am very sorry for her," said Bessie, "'cause she did not have such
wise people as mine to tell her what was yight."
"Yes, she was much to be pitied. But you must not think that this
little girl was always naughty; it was not so by any means. And in
spite of the faults which were never checked, she was generally very
bright, engaging, and sweet. As she grew older, she became more
reasonable, and as every one around her lived only for her pleasure,
and she had all she desired, it was not difficult for her to keep her
temper under control. It is easy to be good when one is happy.
"This picture, which shows you how very lovely she was, was taken
for her father about the time of her marriage, and was said to be
an excellent likeness. Soon after this, she went to Europe with her
husband and father. There she passed several delightful months,
travelling from place to place, with these two whom she loved so dearly.
"But now trouble, such as she had never dreamed of, came to this poor
girl. They were in Switzerland, and one bright, sunny day, when no one
thought of a storm, her husband and father went out in a small boat on
the Lake of Geneva. There sometimes arises over this lake a terrible
north-east wind, which comes up very suddenly and blows with great
violence, causing the waves to rise to a height which would be thought
almost impossible by one who had not seen it. For some reason Henrietta
had not gone with the two gentlemen, but when she knew it was time for
them to be coming in, she went down to the shore to meet them. She soon
saw the boat skimming along, and could almost distinguish the faces
of the two dear ones for whom she was watching, when this terrible
wind came sweeping down over the water. She saw them as they struggled
against it, trying with all their strength to reach the shore; but in
vain. Wave after wave rolled into the little boat, and before many
minutes it sank. Henrietta stood upon the shore, and as she stretched
out her helpless hands toward them, saw her husband and father drown.
Do you wonder that the sight drove her frantic? That those who stood
beside her could scarcely prevent her from throwing herself into those
waters which covered all she loved best? Then came a long and terrible
illness, during which that dark hair changed to snowy white."
"Papa," said Bessie, whose tender little heart could not bear to hear
of trouble or distress which she could not comfort,--"papa, I don't
like this story; it is too mournful."
"I have almost done with this part of it, dear," said her father, "and
I tell it to you that you may know how much need this poor woman had
that others should be kind and patient with her, and how much excuse
there was for her when all this sorrow and trouble made her irritable
and impatient.
"Her brother came for her and took her home, but not one of her friends
could make her happy or contented; for this poor lady did not know
where to turn for the best of all comfort, and she had no strength of
her own to lean upon. So the faults of temper and disposition, which
had been passed over when she was young and happy, now grew worse
and worse, making her so irritable and cross, so self-willed and
determined, that it was almost impossible to live with her. Then for
years she was a great sufferer, and besides all this, other troubles
came upon her,--the loss of a great part of her fortune through one
whom she had trusted, and various other trials. So by degrees she drove
one after another of her friends from her, until she seemed to stand
quite alone in the world, and to be, as she said, 'without any one to
care for her.'"
"Did not Aleck love her after the fire?" asked Bessie.
"I think he was very grateful to her, dear, but I am afraid he never
became very fond of her. He was a gentle, timid little fellow, and
though his aunt was never harsh to him, it used to frighten him to see
her severity with other people."
"I'd have loved her, even if she was cross," said Maggie, looking
again at the picture. "I'd have been so good to her that she couldn't
be unkind to me, and if she had scolded me a little, I wouldn't have
minded, because I'd have been so sorry for her."
"Oh, Midget," said Harry, "you would have been frightened out of your
wits at her first cross word."
"No, I wouldn't, Harry; and I would try to be patient, even if she
scolded me like--like Aunt Patty."
"And what if she was Aunt Patty?" said Fred.
"But then she wasn't, you know."
"But she was," said papa, smiling.
Maggie and Bessie opened their eyes very wide at this astonishing news.
"You said her name was Henrietta, papa," said Maggie.
"Aunt Patty's name is also Henrietta," replied Mr. Bradford, "and when
she was young, she was generally called so."
"And Henry was this Henry, our own papa," said Fred, laying his hand
on his father's shoulder. "And Aleck was Uncle Alexander, who died so
long ago, before any of us were born. I guessed it at the beginning."
"Well, now," said Mr. Bradford, "if Aunt Patty comes to us by and by,
and is not always as gentle as she might be, will my little children
remember how much she has had to try her, and how much there is in her
which is really good and unselfish?"
The boys promised readily enough, and Bessie said doubtfully that
she would try, but when papa turned to Maggie, she looked as shy and
frightened as if Aunt Patty herself had asked the question.
"What is my rosebud afraid of?" said Mr. Bradford.
"Papa," said Maggie, "I'm so sorry for that pretty lady, but I can't
be sorry for Aunt Patty,--and oh, papa, I--I--do wish--Aunt Patty
wasn't"--and poor Maggie broke down in a desperate fit of crying.
Mr. Bradford feared that his story had been almost in vain so far as
his little girls were concerned, and indeed it was so. They could
not make the pretty lady in the picture, the poor young wife whose
husband and father had been drowned before her very eyes, or the brave,
generous woman who had saved little Aleck, one and the same with the
dreaded Aunt Patty. The mischief which words had done words could not
so easily undo.
[Illustration: decoration, end of chap. 4]
[Illustration: Title decoration, chap. 5]
V.
_LIGHT THROUGH THE CLOUDS._
Christmas with all its pleasures had come and gone, enjoyed perhaps
as much by the policeman's children as it was by the little Bradfords
in their wealthier home. For though the former had not the means of
the latter with which to make merry, they had contented spirits and
grateful hearts, and these go far to make people happy. Their tall
Christmas-tree and beautiful greens were not more splendid in the eyes
of Maggie and Bessie than were the scanty wreath and two foot high
cedar branch, which a good-natured market-woman had given Mrs. Granby,
were in those of little Jennie Richards. To be sure, the apology for a
tree was not dressed with glittering balls, rich bonbons, or rows of
tapers; its branches bore no expensive toys, rare books, or lovely
pictures; but the owner and the little ones for whose delight she
dressed it, were quite satisfied, and only pitied those who had no tree
at all. Had not good Mrs. Granby made the most extraordinary flowers
of red flannel and gilt paper,--flowers whose likeness never grew in
gardens or greenhouses of any known land; had she not baked sugar
cakes which were intended to represent men and women, pigs, horses,
and cows? Were not the branches looped with gay ribbons? Did they not
bear rosy-cheeked apples, an orange for each child, some cheap but much
prized toys, and, better than all, several useful and greatly needed
articles, which had been the gift of Mrs. Bradford? What did it matter
if one could scarcely tell the pigs from the men?
Perhaps you may like to know how Mrs. Bradford became interested in the
policeman's family.
One morning, a day or two before Christmas, Maggie and Bessie were
playing baby-house in their own little room, when they heard a knock
at mamma's door. Maggie ran to open it. There stood a woman who looked
rather poor, but neat and respectable. Maggie was a little startled
by the unexpected sight of a strange face, and stood holding the door
without speaking.
"Your ma sent me up here," said the woman. "She is busy below, and she
told me to come up and wait for her here."
So Maggie allowed the stranger to pass her, and she took a chair which
stood near the door. Maggie saw that she looked very cold, but had not
the courage to ask her to come nearer the fire. After a moment, the
woman smiled pleasantly. Maggie did not return the smile, though she
looked as if she had half a mind to do so; but she did not like to see
the woman looking so uncomfortable, and pushing a chair close to the
fire, she said, "There."
The woman did not move; perhaps she, too, felt a little shy in a
strange place. Maggie was rather vexed that she did not understand her
without more words, but summing up all her courage, she said,--
"I think if you took this seat by the fire, you'd be warmer." The woman
thanked her, and took the chair, looking quite pleased.
"Are you the little lady who was lost a couple of months ago?" she
asked.
"No," said Maggie, at once interested, "that was our Bessie; but we
found her again."
"Oh, yes, I know that. I heard all about her from Policeman Richards,
who looked after her when she was up to the station."
"Bessie, Bessie!" called Maggie, "here's a woman that knows your
station policeman. Come and look at her."
At this, Bessie came running from the inner room.
"Well," said the woman, laughing heartily, "it is nice to be looked at
for the sake of one's friends when one is not much to look at for one's
self."
"I think you're pretty much to look at," said Bessie. "I think you have
a nice, pleasant face. How is my policeman?"
"He's well," said the stranger. "And so you call him your policeman; do
you? Well, I shall just tell him that; I've a notion it will tickle him
a bit."
"He's one of my policemen," said Bessie. "I have three,--one who helps
us over the crossing; the one who found me when I came lost; and the
one who was so good to me in his station-house."
"And that is my friend, Sergeant Richards. Well, he's a mighty nice
fellow."
"Yes, he is," said Bessie, "and I'd like to see him again. Are you his
wife, ma'am?"
"Bless you, no!" said the woman; "I am nothing but Mrs. Granby, who
lives in his house. Your grandmother, Mrs. Stanton, sent me to your
ma, who, she said, had work to give me. His poor wife, she can scarce
creep about the room, let alone walking this far. Not but that she's
better than she was a spell back, and she'd be spryer yet, I think,
but for the trouble that's weighin' on her all the time, and hinders
her getting well."
"Does she have a great deal of trouble?" asked Maggie, who by this time
felt quite sociable.
"Doesn't she though!" answered Mrs. Granby. "Trouble enough; and she's
awful bad herself with the rheumatics, and a sickly baby, and a blind
boy, and debts to pay, and that scandal of a doctor, and no way of
laying up much; for the children must be fed and warmed, bless their
hearts! and a police-sergeant's pay ain't no great; yes, yes, honey,
lots of trouble and no help for it as I see. Not that I tell them so; I
just try to keep up their hearts."
"Why don't they tell Jesus about their troubles, and ask him to help
them?" asked Bessie, gently.
"So they do," answered Mrs. Granby; "but he hasn't seen best to send
them help yet. I suppose he'll just take his own time and his own way
to do it; at least, that's what Sergeant Richards says. He'll trust
the Lord, and wait on him, he says; but it's sore waiting sometimes.
Maybe all this trouble is sent to try his faith, and I can say it don't
fail him, so far as I can see. But, honey, I guess you sometimes pray
yourself; so to-night, when you go to bed, do you say a bit of a prayer
for your friend, Sergeant Richards. I believe a heap in the prayers of
the young and innocent; and you just ask the Lord to help him out of
this trouble. Maybe he'll hear you; anyway, it won't do no harm; prayer
never hurt nobody."
"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Bessie, as her mother just then entered the
room, "what do you think? This very nice woman lives with my station
policeman, who was so kind to me, and his name is Yichards, and he has
a lame baby and a sick wife and a blind boy, and no doctor to pay, and
the children must be fed, and a great deal of trouble, and she don't
get well because of it, and he does have trust in the Lord, but he
hasn't helped him yet--"
"And my Bessie's tongue has run away with her ideas," said mamma,
laughing. "What is all this about, little one?"
"About Bessie's policeman," said Maggie, almost as eager as her sister.
"Let this woman tell you. She knows him very well."
"I beg pardon, ma'am," said Mrs. Granby. "I don't know but it was
my tongue ran away with me, and I can't say it's not apt to do so;
but when your little daughter was lost, it was my friend, Sergeant
Richards, that saw to her when she was up to the station, and he's
talked a deal about her, for he was mighty taken with her."
"Bessie told me how kind he was to her," said Mrs. Bradford.
"Yes, ma'am; there isn't a living thing that he wouldn't be kind to,
and it does pass me to know what folks like him are so afflicted for.
However, it's the Lord's work, and I've no call to question his doings.
But the little ladies were just asking me about Sergeant Richards,
ma'am, and so I came to tell them what a peck of troubles he was in."
"What are they, if you are at liberty to speak of them?" asked Mrs.
Bradford. "Any one who has been kind to my children has a special claim
on me."
So Mrs. Granby told the story, not at all with the idea of asking aid
for her friends,--that she knew the good policeman and his wife would
not like,--but, as she afterwards told them, because she could not
help it. "The dear lady looked so sweet, and spoke so sweet, now and
then asking a question, not prying like, but as if she took a real
interest, not listening as if it were a duty or because she was ashamed
to interrupt. And she wasn't of the kind to tell you there was others
worse off than you, or that your troubles might be greater than they
were. If there's a thing that aggravates me, it's that," continued Mrs.
Granby. "I know I ought to be thankful, and so I mostly am, that I and
my friends ain't no worse off than we are, and I know it's no good
to be frettin' and worryin' about your trials, and settin' yourself
against the Lord's will; but I do say if I fall down and break my arm,
there ain't a grain of comfort in hearin' that my next-door neighbor
has broken both his. Quite contrary; I think mine pains worse for
thinkin' how his must hurt him. And now that I can't do the fine work
I used to, it don't make it no easier for me to get my livin' to have
it said, as a lady did to me this morning, that it would be far worse
if I was blind. So it would, I don't gainsay that, but it don't help my
seeing, to have it thrown up to me by people that has the full use of
their eyes. Mrs. Bradford aint none of that sort, though, not she; and
the children, bless their hearts, stood listenin' with all their ears,
and I'd scarce done when the little one broke out with,--
"'Oh, do help them! Mamma, couldn't you help them?'
"But I could see the mother was a bit backward about offerin' help,
thinkin', I s'pose, that you and Mary wasn't used to charity, and not
knowin' how you'd take it; so she puts it on the plea of its bein'
Christmas time."
And here Mrs. Granby paused, having at last talked herself out of
breath.
All this was true. Mrs. Bradford had felt rather delicate about
offering assistance to the policeman's family, not knowing but that it
might give offence. But when she had arranged with Mrs. Granby about
the work, she said,--
"Since your friends are so pressed just now, I suppose they have not
been able to make much preparation for Christmas."
"Precious little, ma'am," answered Mrs. Granby; "for Sergeant Richards
don't think it right to spend a penny he can help when he's owin'
others. But we couldn't let the children quite forget it was Christmas,
so I'm just goin' to make them a few cakes, and get up some small
trifles that will please them. I'd have done more, only this last
week, when I hadn't much work, I was fixin' up some of the children's
clothes, for Mrs. Richards, poor soul, can't set a stitch with her
cramped fingers, and there was a good deal of lettin' out and patchin'
to be done."
"And how are the children off for clothes?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
"Pretty tolerable, the boys, ma'am, for I've just made Willie a suit
out of an old uniform of his father's, and the little ones' clothes
get handed down from one to another, though they don't look too fine
neither. But Jennie, poor child, has taken a start to grow these last
few months, and I couldn't fix a thing for her she wore last winter. So
she's wearin' her summer calicoes yet, and even them are very short as
to the skirts, and squeezed as to the waists, which ain't good for a
growin' child."
"No," said Mrs. Bradford, smiling. "I have here a couple of merino
dresses of Maggie's, and a warm sack, which she has outgrown. They are
too good to give to any one who would not take care of them, and I laid
them aside until I should find some one to whom they would be of use.
Do you think Mrs. Richards would be hurt if I offered them to her? They
will at least save some stitches."
"Indeed, ma'am," said Mrs. Granby, her eyes dancing, "you needn't be
afraid; she'll be only too glad and thankful, and it was only this
mornin' she was frettin' about Jennie's dress. She ain't quite as
cheery as her husband, poor soul; 'taint to be expected she should be,
and she always had a pride in Jennie's looks, but there didn't seem no
way to get a new thing for one of the children this winter."
"And here is a cap of Franky's, and some little flannel shirts, which I
will roll up in the bundle," said Mrs. Bradford. "They may, also, be of
use."
Away rushed Maggie when she heard this to her own room, coming back
with a china dog and a small doll, which she thrust into Mrs. Granby's
hands, begging her to take them to Jennie, but to be sure not to give
them to her before Christmas morning.
"What shall we do for the blind boy?" asked Bessie. "We want to make
him happy."
"Perhaps he would like a book," said mamma.
"But he couldn't see to read it, mamma."
"Oh, I dare say some one would read it to him," said Mrs. Bradford.
"Does he not like that?" she asked of Mrs. Granby.
"Yes, ma'am. His mother reads to him mostly all the time when the
baby is quiet. It's about all she can do, and it's his greatest
pleasure, dear boy, to have her read out the books he and Jennie get at
Sunday-school every Sunday."
"Can he go to Sunday-school when he's blind?" asked Maggie.
"Why, yes, honey. Every Sunday mornin' there's a big boy that goes to
the same school stops for Willie and Jennie, and totes them with him;
and if their father or me can't go to church, he just totes them back
after service. And when Willie comes in with his libr'y book and his
'Child's Paper' and Scripture text, he's as rich as a king, and a heap
more contented, I guess."
While Mrs. Granby was talking, Mrs. Bradford was looking over a parcel
which contained some new books, and now she gave her one for blind
Willie's Christmas gift, saying she hoped things would be ordered so
that before another Christmas he would be able to see.
There is no need to tell Mrs. Granby's delight, or the thanks which she
poured out. If Mrs. Bradford had given her a most magnificent present
for herself, it would not have pleased her half so much as did these
trifles for the policeman's children.
That evening, after the little ones were all in bed, Mrs. Granby told
Mr. Richards and his wife of all that had happened at Mrs. Bradford's.
Mrs. Richards was by no means too proud to accept the lady's kindness;
so pleased was she to think that she should see Jennie warm and neat
once more that she had no room in her heart for anything but gratitude.
Mrs. Granby was just putting away the treasures she had been showing,
when there came a rap from the old-fashioned knocker on the front-door.
"Sit you still, Sergeant Richards," she said. "I'm on my feet, and I'll
just open the door." Which she did, and saw a tall gentleman standing
there, who asked if Mr. Richards was in. "He is, sir," she answered,
and then saying to herself, "I hope he's got special business for him
that he'll pay him well for," threw open the door of the sitting-room,
and asked the gentleman in.
But the police-sergeant had already done the "special business," for
which the gentleman came to make return. Mr. Richards knew him by
sight, though he had never spoken to him.
"Mr. Bradford, I believe, sir?" he said, coming forward.
"You know me then?" said the gentleman.
"Yes, sir," answered Richards, placing a chair for his visitor. "You
see I know many as don't know me. Can I be of any service to you, sir?"
"I came to have a talk with you, if you are at leisure," said Mr.
Bradford. "Perhaps you may think I am taking a liberty, but my wife
heard to-day, through your friend, that you were in some trouble
with a doctor who has attended your family, and that you have been
disappointed in obtaining the services of Mr. Ray, who has gone to
Europe. I am a lawyer, you know, and if you do not object to consider
me as a friend in his place, perhaps you will let me know what your
difficulties are, and I may be able to help you."
The policeman looked gratefully into the frank, noble face before him.
"Thank you, sir," he said; "you are very good, and this is not the
first time that I have heard of your kindness to those in trouble. It's
rather a long story, that of our difficulties, but if it won't tire
you, I'll be thankful to tell it."
He began far back, telling how they had done well, and been very
comfortable, having even a little laid by, until about a year since,
when Mrs. Richards' father and mother, who lived with them, had died
within a month of each other.