 Chapter 1 of THE LAMP-LITER Good God to think upon a child that has no childish days, no careless play, no frolics wild, no words of prayer and praise. Landon It was growing dark in the city. Out in the open country it would be light for half an hour or more, but within the close streets where my story leads me, it was already dusk. Upon the wooden doorstep of a low-roofed, dark and unwholesome looking house, sat a little girl who was gazing up the street with much earnestness. The house door which was open behind her was close to the sidewalk, and the step on which she sat was so low that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a chilly evening in November and a light fall of snow which had made everything look bright and clean in the pleasant open squares near which the fine houses of the city were built. It had only served to render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless than ever. Four, mixed with the mud and filth which abound in those neighborhoods, where the poor are crowded together, the beautiful snow had lost all its purity. A great many people were passing to and fro, bent on their various errands of duty or of pleasure, but no one noticed the little girl, for there was no one in the world who cared for her. She was scantily clad in garments of the poorest description. Her hair was long and very thick, uncombed and unbecoming, if anything could be said to be unbecoming to a set of features which, to a casual observer, had not a single attraction, being thin and sharp while her complexion was sallow and her whole appearance unhealthy. She had, to be sure, fine dark eyes, but so unnaturally large did they seem, in contrast to her thin puny face, that they only increased the peculiarity of it without enhancing its beauty. Had anyone felt any interest in her, which nobody did, had she had a mother, which alas she had not, those friendly and partial eyes would perhaps have found something in her to praise. As it was, however, the poor little thing was told a dozen times a day that she was the worst-looking child in the world, and what was more, the worst behaved. No one loved her, and she loved no one. No one treated her kindly. No one tried to make her happy, or cared whether she were so. She was but eight years old, and all alone in the world. There was one thing, and one only, which she found pleasure in. She loved to watch for the coming of the old man who lit the street lamp in front of the house where she lived. To see the bright torch he carried flicker in the wind, and then, when he ran up his ladder, lit the lamp so quickly and easily, and made the whole place seem cheerful. One gleam of joy was shed on a little desolate heart, to which gladness was a stranger. And though he had never seemed to see, and certainly had never spoken to her, she almost felt, as she watched for the old lamp later, as if he were a friend. Gertie exclaimed a harsh voice within, Have you been for the milk? The child made no answer, but gliding off the doorstep ran quickly round the corner of the house and hid a little out of sight. What's become of that child? said the woman, from whom the voice proceeded, and who now showed herself at the door. A boy was passing, and had seen Gertie run, a boy who had caught the tone of the whole neighbourhood, and looked upon her as a sort of imp, or spear of evil. Gertie left aloud, pointed to the corner which concealed her, and walking off with his head over his shoulder, to see what would happen next, exclaimed to himself as he went. She'll catch it, Nan Grant'll fix her. In a moment more, Gertie was dragged from her hiding place, and with one blow for her ugliness, and another for her impudence, for she was making up faces at Nan Grant with all her might. She was dispatched down a neighbouring alley with a kettle for the milk. She ran fast, for she feared the lamp-lighter would come and go in her absence, and was rejoiced on her return to catch sight of him as she drew near the house, just going up his ladder. She stationed herself at the foot of it, and was so engaged in watching the bright flame that she did not observe when the man began to descend, and as she was directly in his way, he hit against her as he sprang to the ground, and she fell upon the pavement. Hello, my little one, exclaimed he, how's this, as he stooped to lift her up. She was upon her feet in an instant, for she was used to hard knocks, and did not much mind a few bruises. But the milk, it was all spilt. Well, now I declare, said the man, that's too bad, what'll mammy say? And for the first time, looking full in Gertie's face, here he interrupted himself with, my, what an odd-faced child, looks like a witch. Then seeing that she looked apprehensively at the spilt milk, and gave a sudden glance up at the house, he added kindly, she won't be hard on such a might of a thing as you are, will she? Cheer up, my ducky, never mind if she does scold you a little. I'll bring you something tomorrow, that I think you'll like, maybe, you're such a lonesome sort of a looking thing. And mind, if the old woman makes a row, tell her I did it. But didn't I hurt you? What was you doing with my ladder? I was seeing you like the lamp, said Gertie, and I ain't hurt a bit, but I wish I hadn't spilt the milk. At this moment, Nan Grant came to the door, saw what had happened, and commenced pulling the child into the house, amidst blows, threats, and profane and brutal language. The lamplighter tried to appease her, but she shut the door in his face. Gertie was scolded, beaten, deprived of the crust, which she usually got for her supper, and shot up in her dark attic for the night. Poor little child! Her mother had died in Nan Grant's house, five years before, and she had been tolerated there since. Not so much because when Ben Grant went to see, he bade his wife be sure and keep the child until his return. For he had been gone so long that no one thought he would ever come back. But because Nan had reasons of her own for doing so, and though she considered Gertie a dead weight upon her hands, she did not care to excite inquiries by trying to dispose of her elsewhere. When Gertie first found herself locked up for the night in the dark garret, Gertie hated and feared the dark. She stood for a minute, perfectly still. Then suddenly began to stamp and scream, tried to beat the door open, and shouted, I hate you, Nan Grant! Old Nan Grant, I hate you! But nobody came near her, and after a while she grew more quiet, went and threw herself down on her miserable bed, covered her face with her little, thin hands, and sobbed and cried as if her heart would break. She wept until she was utterly exhausted, and then gradually, with only now and then a low sob and catching of the breath, she grew quite still. By and by she took away her hands from her face, clasped them together in a convulsive manner, and looked up at a little glazed window by the side of the bed. It was but three panes of glass, unevenly stuck together, and was the only chance of light the room had. There was no moon, but as Gertie looked up, she saw through the window shining down upon her one bright star. She thought she had never seen anything half so beautiful. She had often bit out of doors when the sky was full of stars, and had not noticed them much. But this one, all alone, so large, so bright, and yet so soft and pleasant-looking, seemed to speak to her. It seemed to say, Gertie, Gertie, poor little Gertie. She thought it seemed like a kind face, such as she had a long ago seen or dreamt about. Suddenly it flashed through her mind. Who lit it? Somebody lit it. Some good person I know. Oh, how could he get up so high? And Gertie fell asleep, wondering who lit the star. Poor little, untaught, benighted soul, who shall enlighten thee? Thou art God's child, little one. Christ died for thee. Will he not send man or angel to light up the darkness within? To kindle a light that shall never go out, the light that shall shine through all eternity. End of chapter 1 Chapter 2 of The Lamplighter This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget Gage. The Lamplighter by Maria Susanna Cummins. Chapter 2 Who shall assway thy griefs, thou tempest-tost, and speak of comfort, comfortless to thee? Emily Taylor Gertie awoke the next morning, not as children wake who are roused by each other's merry voices, or by a parent's kiss, who have kind hands to help them dress, and know that a nice breakfast awaits them. But she heard harsh voices below, new from the sound, that the men who lived at Nan Grant's, her son, and two or three boarders, had come into breakfast, and that her only chance of obtaining any share of the meal was to be on the spot when they had finished, to take that portion of what remained which Nan might chance to throw or shove towards her. So she crept downstairs, waited a little out of sight, until she smelt the smoke of the men's pipes as they passed through the passage. And when they had all gone noisily out, she slid into the room, looking about her with a glance made up of fear and defiance. She met but a rough greeting from Nan, who told her she had better drop that ugly, sour look, eat some breakfast if she wanted it, but take care and keep out of her way, and not come near the fire, plaguing round where she was at work, or she'd get another dressing, worse than she had last night. Gertie had not looked for any other treatment, so there was no disappointment to bear. But glad enough of the miserable food left for her on the table, swallowed it eagerly, waiting no second bidding to keep herself out of the way, took her little old hood, threw on a ragged shawl, which had belonged to her mother, and which had longed been the child's best protection from the cold. And though her hands and feet were chilled by the sharp air of the morning, ran out of the house. Back of the yard where Nan Grant lived was a large wood and cull yard, and beyond that a wharf, and the thick muddy water of a dock. Gertie might have found playmates enough in the neighborhood of this place. She sometimes did mingle with the troops of boys and girls, equally ragged with herself, who played about in the yard. But not often. There was a league against her among the children of the place. Poor, ragged, and miserably cared for, as most of them were. They all knew that Gertie was still more neglected and abused. They had often seen her beaten, and daily heard her called an ugly, wicked child, told that she belonged to nobody, but to the kindness in anyone's house. Children as they were, they felt their advantage, and squirmed the little outcast. Perhaps this would not have been the case if Gertie had ever mangled freely with them, and tried to be on friendly terms. But while her mother lived there with her, though it was but a short time, she did her best to keep her little girl away from the rude herd. Perhaps that habit of avoidance, but still more, a something in the child's nature, kept her from joining in their rough sports after her mother's death had left her to do as she liked. As it was, she seldom had any intercourse with them. Nor did they venture to abuse her, otherwise than in words. Forcingly, they dared not cope with her. Spirited, sudden, and violent, she had made herself feared, as well as disliked. Once a band of them had united in a plan to tease and vex her. But Nan Grant, coming up at the moment when one of the girls was throwing the shoes, which she had pulled from Gertie's feet to the dock, had given the girl a sound whipping and put them all to flight. Gertie had not had a pair of shoes since, but Nan Grant for once had done her good service and the children now left her in peace. It was a sunshiny, though a cold day, when Gertie ran away from the house to seek shelter in the woodyard. There was an immense pile of timber in one corner of the yard, almost out of sight of any of the houses. Of different lengths and unevenly placed, the planks formed, on one side, a series of irregular steps, by means of which it was easy to climb up. Near the top was a little sheltered recess, overhung by some long planks, and forming a miniature shed, protected by the wood on all sides but one, and from that looking out upon the water. This was Gertie's haven of rest, her sanctum, and the only place from which she never was driven away. Here, through the long summer days, the little lonesome girl sat, brooding over her griefs, her wrongs and her ugliness, sometimes weeping for hours. Now and then, when the course of her life had been smooth for a few days. That is, when she had been so fortunate as to offend no one, and had escaped whipping, or being shot up in the dark, she would get a little more cheerful and enjoy watching the sailors belonging to a schooner hard by. As they labored on board their vessel, or occasionally rode to and fro in a little boat. The warm sunshine was so pleasant, and the men's voices at their work so lively that the poor little thing would for a time forget her woes. But summer had gone, the schooner and the sailors, who had been such pleasant company, had gone too. The weather was now cold, and for a few days a had been so stormy that Gertie had been obliged to stay in the house. Now, however, she made the best of her way to her little hiding place, and reached the spot before her, dried up the boards, so that they felt warm to her bare feet, and was still shining so bright and pleasant that Gertie forgotten and grant, forgot how cold she had been, and how much she dreaded the long winter. Her thoughts rambled about some time, but at last settled down upon the kind look and voice of the old lamp-lighter. And then, for the first time since the promise was made, it came into her mind that he had engaged to bring her something she could not believe he would remember it. But still, he might. He seemed to be so good-natured and sorry for her fall. What could he mean to bring? Would it be something to eat? Oh, if it were only some shoes. But he wouldn't think of that. Perhaps he did not notice, but she had some. At any rate, Gertie resolved to go for her milk in season to be back before it was time to light the lamp so that nothing should prevent her seeing him. The day seemed unusually long, but darkness came at last. And with it came True, or rather Truman, Flint, for that was the lamp-lighter's name. Gertie was on the spot, though she took good care to elude Nan Grant's observation. True was late about his work that night and in a great hurry. He had only time to speak a few words in his rough way to Gertie, but they were words coming straight from as good and honest a heart as ever throbbed. He put his great, smutty hand in her head in the kindest way, told her how sorry he was she got hurt, and said, it was a plaguey shame that she should have been whipped, too, and all for a spill of milk. That was a misfortune and no crime. But here, added he, diving into one of his huge pockets, here's the critter I promised you. Take good care on it. Don't abuse it. And I'm guessing, if it's like the mother that I've got at home, won't be a little you'll be liking it, good-bye, my little gal. And he shouldered his letter and went off, leaving in Gertie's hands a little gray and white kitten. Gertie was so taken by surprise on finding in her arms a live kitten, something so different from what she had anticipated, that she stood for a minute irresolute what to do with it. There were a great many cats of all sizes and colors, inhabitants of the neighboring houses and yard, frightened looking creatures, which, like Gertie herself, crept or scampered about and often hid themselves among the wooden coal, seeming to feel, as she did, great doubts about their having a right to be anywhere. Gertie had often felt a sympathy for them, but never thought of trying to catch one, carry at home, and tame it, for she knew that food and shelter were most grudgingly accorded to herself and would not certainly be extended to her pets. Her first thought, therefore, was to throw the kitten down but while she was hesitating the little animal pleaded for itself in a way she could not resist. Frightened by its long imprisonment and journey in true flint's pocket it crept from Gertie's arms up to her neck, clung their tight and with its low, feeble cries seemed to ask her to take care of it. Its eloquence prevailed over all fear of Nan Grant's anger. She hugged Pussy to her bosom and made a childish resolve to love it, feed it, and above all keep it out of Nan sight. How much she came in time to love that kitten, no words can tell. Her little fierce, untamed, impetuous nature had hitherto only expressed itself in angry passion, soul in obstinacy, and even hatred. But there were in her soul fountains of warm affection yet unsteered, a depth of tenderness never yet called out, and a warmth and devotion of nature that wanted only an object to expend themselves upon. So she poured out such a wealth of love on the little creature that clung to her for its support as only such a desolate little heart has to spare. She loved the kitten all the more for the care she was obliged to take of it and the trouble and anxiety it gave her. She kept it as much as possible out among the boards in her own favorite haunt. She found an old hat in which she placed her own hood to make a bed for Pussy. She gave her own scanty meals. She braved for it what she would not have done for herself. For she almost every day abstracted from the kettle when she was returning with the milk for Nan Grant, enough for Pussy's supper, running the risk of being discovered and punished. The only risk or harm the poor ignorant child knew or thought of, in connection with the theft and deception, for her ideas of abstract right and wrong were utterly undeveloped. She would then hide it in her bosom and run with it into the little garret room where she slept and, taking care to keep the door shut, usually eluded Nan's eyes and ears. Once or twice, when she had been off her guard, her little playful pet had escaped from her and scampered through the door to the door. She would then hide it in her bosom and run with it into the little garret room where she slept and escaped from her and scampered through the lower room and passage. Once Nan drove it out with a broom but in that thickly peopled region, as we have said, cats and kittens were not so uncommon as to excite inquiry. It may seem strange that Gertie had leisure to spend all her time at play. Most children living among the poorer class of people learn to be useful even while they are very young. We have seen in our streets about the yards and doors of houses bending under the weight of a large bundle of sticks, a basket of shavings or, more frequently yet, a stout baby nearly all the care of which devolves upon them. We have often pitied such little drudges and thought their law a hard one. But after all it was not the worst thing in the world. They were far better often Gertie who had nothing to do at all and had never known the satisfaction of their children. Nan Grant had no babies and, being a very active woman with but a poor opinion of children's services at the best, she never tried to find employment for Gertie. Much better satisfied if she would only keep out of her sight so that, except her daily errand for the milk, Gertie was always idle, a fruitful source of unhappiness and discontent if she had suffered from no other. Nan was a scotch woman and her good became worse and worse as she grew older. She had seen life's roughest side, had always been a hard-working woman and had the reputation of being very smart and a driver. Her husband was a carpenter by trade but she made his home so uncomfortable that for years he had followed the sea. She took in washing and had a few borders by means of which she earned what might have been an ample support for herself had it not been for her son an early, disorderly young man spoiled in early life by his mother's uneven temper and management and who, though a skillful workman when he chose to be industrious always squandered his own and a large part of his mother's earnings. Nan, as we have said had reasons of her own for keeping Gertie though they were not so strong as to prevent her often having half a mind to rid herself of the encumbrance. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 The Lamp-Liter Mercy and love have met the on thy road thou wretched outcast Wordsworth When Gertie had had her kitten about a month she took a violent cold from being out in the damp and rain and Nan, fearing she should have trouble with her if she became seriously ill bade her stay in the house and keep in the warm room where she was living and in the warm room and in the warm room in the house and keep in the warm room where she was at work. Gertie's cough was fearful and it would have been a great comfort to sit by the stove all day and keep warm had it not been for her anxiety about the kitten lest it should get lost or starve before she was well enough to be out taking care of it or worst of all come running into the house in search of her. The whole day passed away however and nothing was seen of Pussy. Towards night the men were heard running into supper just as they entered the door of the room where Nan and Gertie were and where the course meal was prepared one of them stumbled over the kitten which had come in with them unperceived Cracky, what's this there? said the man whom they all were accustomed to called Jemmy. A cat, I vow. Why Nan, I thought you kinda hated cats. Well, taint none of mine, drive it out said Nan. They were back and making a circuit round his legs spring forward into the arms of Gertie who was anxiously watching its fate. Who's kitten's that, Gertie? said Nan. Mine, said Gertie, bravely. Well, how long have you kept cats? I should like to know, said Nan. Speak, how came you by this? The men were all looking on. Gertie was afraid of the men. They sometimes teased and were always a source of alarm to her. She could not think of acknowledging when she was indebted for the gift of the kitten. She knew it would only make matters worse. For Nan had never forgiven true flints, rough exposition against her cruelty in beating the child for spilling the milk. And Gertie could not summon presence of mind to think of any other source to which she could ascribe the kitten's presence. Or she would not have hesitated to tell a falsehood. For her very limited education had not taught her a love or habit of truth where a lie would better serve her turn and save her from punishment. She was silent and burst into tears. Come, said Jemmy, give us some supper, Nan, and let the gal alone till utter words. Nan complied, ominously muttering, however. The supper was just finished when an organ grinder struck up a tune outside the door. The men stepped out to join the crowd, consisting chiefly of the inmates of the house, who were watching the motions of a monkey trying to climb to the music. Gertie ran to the window to look out. Delighted with the gambles of the creature, she gazed intently until the man and monkey moved off, so intently that she did not miss the kitten, which in the meantime crept down from her arms and springing upon the table began to devour the remnants of the repast. The organ grinder was not out of sight when Gertie's eyes fell upon the figure of the old lamp-lighter coming up the street. She thought she would stay and watch him light his lamp when she was startled by a sharp and angry exclamation from Nan and turned just in time to see her snatch her darling kitten from the table. Gertie sprang forward to the rescue, jumped into a chair, and caught Nan by the arm. But she firmly pushed her back with one hand, while with the other she threw the can half across the room. Gertie heard a sudden splash and a piercing cry. Nan had flung the poor creature into a vessel of steaming hot water which stood ready for some household purpose. The little animal struggled and writhed an instant, then died in torture. All the fury of Gertie's nature was roused. Without hesitation she lifted a stick of wood which lay near her and flung it at Nan with all her strength. It was well aimed and struck the woman on the head. The blood started from the wound the blow had given, but Nan hardly felt the blow, and was delighted against the child. She sprang upon her, caught her by the shoulder, and opening the house door thrust her out upon the sidewalk. You'll never darken my doors again your impove wickedness," said she as she rushed into the house leaving the child alone in the cold dark night. When Gertie was angry or grieved she always cried aloud not sobbing as many children do but uttering a succession of piercing shrieks until she sometimes quite exhausted her strength. When she found herself in the street she commenced screaming not from fear at being turned away from her only home and left all alone at nightfall to wander about the city and perhaps freeze before morning for it was very cold. She did not think of herself for a moment. Horror and grief at the dreadful fate of the only thing she loved in the world entirely filled her little soul. So she crouched down her face hid in her hands unconscious of the noise she was making and unaware of the triumph of the girl who had once thrown away her shoes and who was watching her from the house door opposite. Suddenly she found herself lifted up and placed on one of the rounds of Truman Flynn's ladder which still leaned against the lamppost. True held her firmly just high enough on the ladder to bring her face opposite his recognized her as his old acquaintance in the same kind way he had used on the former occasion what was the matter but Gertie could only gasp and say oh my kitten my kitten what the kitten I gave you well have you lost it don't cry there don't cry oh no not lost oh poor kitty and Gertie began to cry louder than ever and coughed at the same time so dreadfully that True was quite frightened for the child making every effort to soothe her and having partially succeeded he told her she would catch her death of cold and she must go into the house oh she won't let me in said Gertie and I wouldn't go if she would who won't let you in your mother no Nan Grant who's Nan Grant she's a horrid wicked woman that drowned my kitten in bylin water but where's your mother I hint got none who do you belong to you poor little thing nobody and I've no business anywhere but who do you live with and who takes care of you oh I lived with Nan Grant but I hate her I threw a stick of wood at her head and I wished I'd killed her hush hush you mustn't say that I'll go and speak to her True moved towards the door trying to draw Gertie in with him but she resisted so forcibly that he left her outside and walking directly into the room where Nan was binding up her head with an old handkerchief told her she had better call her little girl in for she would freeze to death out there she's no child of mine said Nan she's the worst little creature that ever lived it's a wonder I've kept her so long and now I hope I'll never lay eyes on her again and what's more I don't mean to she ought to be hung for breaking my head I believe she's got an ill spirit in her if ever anybody did have in this world but what I'll become of her said True it's a fearful cold night how'd you feel Marm if she were found tomorrow morning I'll frizz up just on your doorstep how'd I feel that's your business is it supposing you take care on her yourself you make a mighty deal of fuss about the brat carry her home and try how you're like her you've been here talking to me about her once before and I tell you I won't bear a word more let other folks see to her I say I've had more in my share and as to her freezing or dying anyhow I'll risk her them children that comes into the world anybody knows how don't go out of it in a hurry she's the city's property let them look out for her and you'd better go long and not meddle with what don't concern you True did not wait to hear more he was not used to women every woman was the most formidable thing to him in the world Nan's flashing eyes and menacing attitude were sufficient warning of the coming tempest and he wisely hastened away before it should burst upon his head Gertie had ceased crying when he came out and looked up into his face with the greatest interest well said he she says you shan't come back oh I'm so glad said Gertie but where'll you go to I don't know perhaps I'll go with you and see you light the lamps but where'll you sleep tonight I don't know where I haven't got any house I guess I'll sleep out where I can see the stars I don't like dark places but it'll be cold won't it my goodness you'll freeze to death child well well I'll become of me then the Lord only knows True looked at Gertie in perfect wonder and distress and was astonished at her simplicity he could not leave her there such a cold night but he hardly knew what he could do with her if he took her home for he lived alone and was poor but another violent coughing spell decided him at once to share with her his shelter fire and food for one night at least so he took her by the hand saying come with me and Gertie ran along confidently by his side never asking with her True had about a dozen more lamps to light before they reached the end of the street when his round of duty was finished Gertie watched him light each one with as keen an interest as if that were the only object for which she was in his company and it was only after they had reached the corner of the street and walked on for some distance without stopping that she inquired where they were going going home said True am I going to your home said Gertie said True and here it is he opened a little gate close to the sidewalk it led into a small and very narrow yard which stretched along the whole length of a decent two storied house True lived in the back part of the house so they went through the yard passed by several windows and the main entrance and keeping on to a small door in the rear opened it and went in Gertie was by this time trembling with the cold her little bare feet were quite blue so far on the pavements there was a stove in the room into which they had entered but no fire in it it was a large room and looked as if it might be pretty comfortable though it was very untidy True made as much haste as he could to dispose of his ladder, torch etc. in an adjoining shed and then bringing in a handful of wood he lit a fire in the stove in a few minutes there was a bright blaze and the chilly atmosphere grew warm drawing an old wooden saddle up to the fire he threw his shaggy great-co over it and lifting little Gertie up he placed her gently upon the comfortable seat he then went to work to get supper for True was an old bachelor and accustomed to do everything for himself he made tea then mixing a great mug full for Gertie with plenty of sugar and all his sense worth of milk he produced from a little cupboard a loaf of bread cut her a huge slice of milk as much as she could for he judged well when he concluded from her looks that she had not always been well fed and so much satisfaction did he feel in her evident enjoyment of the best meal she had ever had that he forgot to partake of it himself but sat watching her with a tenderness which proved that the unerring instinct of childhood had not been wanting in Gertie when she felt as she watched True about his work so long before he ever spoke to her that he was a friend of everybody even to the most forborn little girl in the world Truman Flint was born and brought up in New Hampshire but when fifteen years old being left an orphan he had made his way to Boston where he supported himself for many years by whatever employment he could obtain having been at different times a newspaper carrier a cab driver a porter a woodcutter indeed a jacket all trades and so honest capable and good-tempered had he always shown himself that he everywhere won a good name and had sometimes continued for years in the same employ previous to his entering upon the service in which we find him he had been for some time a porter in a large store owned by a wealthy and generous merchant being one day engaged in removing some heavy casks he had the misfortune to be severely injured by one of them falling upon his chest for a long time no hope was entertained of his recovering from the effects of the accident and when he at last began to mend his health returned so gradually that it was a year before he was able to be at work again this sickness swallowed up the savings of years but his late employer never allowed him to want for any comforts provided an excellent physician and saw that he was well taken care of true however had never been the same man since he rose up from his sick bed ten years older in constitution and his strength so much enfeebled that he was only fit for some comparatively late employment it was then that his kind friend and former master obtained for him the situation he now held as lamp later in addition to which he frequently earned considerable sums by sawing wood, shoveling snow etc he was now between fifty and sixty years old a stoutly built man with features cut in one of nature's rough molds but expressive of much good nature he was naturally silent and reserved lived much by himself was known to but few people in the city and had only one crony the sexton of a neighboring church a very old man and one usually considered very cross-grained and uncompanionable but we left Gertie finishing her supper and now when we return to her she is stretched upon the wide settle sound asleep covered up with a warm blanket and her head resting upon a pillow true sits beside her her little thin hand lies in his great palm occasionally he draws the blanket closer round her she breathes hard suddenly she gives a nervous start then speaks quickly her dreams are evidently troubled true listens intently to her words as she exclaims eagerly oh don't drown my kitty and then again in a voice of fear catch me she'll catch me once more and now her tones are touchingly plaintive and earnest dear dear good old man let me stay with you do let me stay great tears are in Truman Flint's eyes and rolling down the furrows of his rough cheeks he lays his great head on the pillow and draws Gertie's little face close to his at the same time smoothing her long uncombed hair with his hand he too is thinking aloud he say catch you no she shan't stay with me so you shall I promise you poor little birdie all alone in this big world and so am I please God we'll bide together End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of The Lamplighter This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Bridget Gage The Lamplighter by Maria Susanna Cummins Chapter 4 In Age In Infancy From Others Aid Is All Our Hope To Teach Us To Be Kind That Nature's First Last Lesson To Mankind Young Little Gertie had found a friend and a protector and it was well she had for suffering and neglect had well nigh cut short her sad existence and ended all her sorrows The morning after True took her home she woke in a high fever and a symptom of severe illness she looked around and found she was alone in the room but there was a good fire and preparation for some breakfast for a moment or two she was puzzled to know where she was and what had happened to her for the room seemed quite strange now that she first saw it by daylight a look of happiness passed over her little sick face when she recalled the events of the previous night and thought of kind old True and the new home she had found with him she got up and went to the window to look out though her head was strangely giddy and she tottered so that she could hardly walk the ground was covered with snow and it was still stormy without it seemed as if the snow dazzled Gertie's eyes for she suddenly found herself quite blinded her head grew dizzy she staggered and fell Trueman came in a moment after and was very much frightened at seeing Gertie stretched upon the floor and found out the real state of the case for he had made up his mind during the night that she was a very sick child and was not surprised that she had fainted in endeavouring to walk he placed her in bed and soon succeeded in restoring her to consciousness but for three weeks from that time she never sat up except when True held her in his arms True was a rough and clumsy man about most things but not so in the care of his little charge he knew a good deal about sickness was something of a doctor and nurse in his simple way and though he had never had much to do with children his warm heart was a trusty guide and taught him all that was necessary for Gertie's comfort and far far more kindness than she had ever experienced before Gertie was very patient she would sometimes lie awake whole nights suffering from pain and extreme weariness at her long confinement to a sick bed without uttering a groan making any noise lest she might waken True who slept on the floor beside her when he could so far forget his anxiety about her as to sleep at all sometimes when she was in great pain True had carried her in his arms for hours but even then Gertie would try to appear relieved before she really was so and even faint sleep that he might put her back to bed again and take some rest himself her little heart was full of love and gratitude to her kind protector she spent much of her time in thinking what she could ever do for him when she got well and wondering whether she were capable of ever learning to do any good thing at all True was often obliged to leave her to attend to his work and during the first week of her sickness she was much alone though everything she could possibly want was put within her reach and many a caution given to her to keep still in bed until his return at last however she grew delirious and for some days had no knowledge how she was taken care of one day after a long and quiet sleep she woke quite restored to sense and consciousness and saw a woman sitting by her bedside sewing she sprang up in bed to look at the stranger who had not observed her open her eyes but who started the moment she heard her move and exclaimed oh, lie down my child, lie down at the same time laying her hand gently upon her to enforce the injunction I don't know you said Gertie, where's my Uncle True? for that was the name by which True had told her to call him he's gone out dear, he'll be home soon how do you feel? better? oh yes, much better have I been asleep long? some time, lie down now and I'll bring you some gruel it will be good for you does Uncle True know you are here? yes, I came in to sit with you while he was away came in? from where? from my room, I live in the other part of the house I think you're very good, said Gertie I like you I wonder why I did not see you when you came in you were too sick dear to notice but I think you'll soon be better now the woman prepared her gruel and after Gertie had taken it reseated herself at her work Gertie lay down in bed with her face towards her new friend and fixing her large eyes upon her watched her some time while she sat sewing at last the woman looked up and said well, what do you think I'm making? I don't know, said Gertie, what are you? the woman held up her work so that Gertie could see it was a dark calico frock for a child oh, what a nice gown, said Gertie who is it for? your little girl? no, said the woman I haven't got any little girl I've only got one child my boy, Willie Willie, that's a pretty name, said Gertie is he a good boy? good? he's the best boy in the world and the handsomest, answered the woman her pale, care-worn face lit up with all a mother's pride Gertie turned away and a look so unnaturally sad for a child came over her countenance that the woman, looking up thought she was getting tired and ought to be kept very quiet she told her so and bade her to shut up her eyes and go to sleep again Gertie obeyed the first injunction and seemed in a fair way to be fulfilled when the door opened gently and true came in oh, Miss Sullivan, said he you're still here I'm very much obliged to you for staying I hadn't calculated to be gone so long and how does the child seem to be, Marm? much better, Mr. Flint she's come to her reason and I think with care will do very well now oh, she's awake, she added seeing Gertie open her eyes her hair now cut short and neatly arranged felt of her pulse and nodded to his head satisfactorily Gertie caught his great hand between both of hers and held it tight he sat down on the side of the bed and glancing at Mrs. Sullivan's work, said I shouldn't be surprised if she needed her new clothes sooner than we thought for, Marm it's my opinion we'll have her up and about a four many days so I was thinking, said Mrs. Sullivan but don't be in too great a hurry she's had a very severe sickness and her recovery must be gradual did you see Miss Graham today? yes, I did see her poor thing the Lord blessed her sweet face she asked a sight of questions about little Gertie here and gave me this parcel of error-root, I think she called it she says it's excellent in sickness did you ever fix any, Miss Sullivan so that you can just show me how if you'll be so good for I declare I don't remember though she took a deal of pains to tell me oh yes, it's very easy I'll come in and prepare some by and by I don't think Gertie'll want any at present she's just had some gruel but father has come home and I must be seeing about our tea I'll come in again this evening, Mr. Flint thank you Marm, thank you, you're very kind during the few following days, Mrs. Sullivan came in and sat with Gertie several times she was a gentle, subdued sort of woman with a placid face that was very refreshing to a child that had long lived in fear and suffered a great deal of abuse she always brought her work with her which was usually some child's garment that she was making one evening, when Gertie had nearly recovered from her tedious fever she was sitting in Tru's lap by the stove fire carefully wrapped up in a blanket she had been talking to him about her new acquaintance and friend suddenly looking up in his face, she said Uncle Tru, do you know what little girl she's making a gown for for a little girl, said Tru that needs a gown and a good many other things for she hasn't got any clothes as I know one except a few old rags do you know any such little girl, Gertie? I guess I do said Gertie, with her head a little on one side and a very knowing look well where is she ain't she in your lap what, you? why do you think Mrs. Sullivan would spend her time making clothes for you well, said Gertie, hanging her head I shouldn't think she would but then you said well, what did I say something about new clothes for me so I did, said Tru, giving her a rough hug and they are for you two whole suits and shoes and stockings into the bargain Gertie opened her large eyes in amazement laughed and clapped her hands Tru left too, they both seemed very happy did she buy them, Uncle Tru? is she rich? said Gertie Miss Sullivan? no indeed, said Tru, Miss Graham bought them and is going to pay Miss Sullivan for making them who is Miss Graham? she's a lady too good for this world, that's Sarton I'll tell you about her sometime but I better not now, I guess it's time you were a bed and asleep one Sabbath, after Gertie was nearly well she was so much fatigued with sitting up all day that she went to bed before dark and for two or three hours slept very soundly on a waking she saw that Tru had company an old man much older, she thought than Tru was sitting on the opposite side of the stove smoking a pipe his dress, though of ancient fashion and homely in its materials was very neat and his hair, of which he had but little and that perfectly white growing in two long glocks just behind his ears was nicely combed up and tied on the top of his head which was elsewhere bald and shiny he had sharp features from his looks it must be easy for him to say sharp things indeed rather hard for him to say anything pleasant there was a sarcastic expression about the corners of his mouth and a disappointed look in his whole face which Gertie observed, though she could not have defined and from which she drew her conclusions with regard to his temper she rightly conjectured that he was Mrs. Olven's father Mr. Cooper and in the opinion she formed of him from her first observation she did not widely differ from most other people who knew the old church sexton but both his own face and public opinion somewhat wronged him it was true his was not a genial nature domestic trials and the unkindness and fickleness of fortune had caused him to look upon the dark side of life to dwell upon its sorrows and frown upon the bright hopes of the young and the gay who as he was wont to say with a mysterious shake of his head of the world the occupation too which had of late been his was not calculated to counteract a disposition to melancholy his duties in the church were mostly solitary and as he was much withdrawn in his old age from intercourse with the world at large he had become severe toward its follies and unforgiving towards its crimes there was much that was good and benevolent in him however and true Flint knew it and loved to draw it out with man's sincerity and honesty and many a sabbath evening had they sat by that same fireside and discussed all those questions of public policy, national institutions and individual rights which every American feels called upon to take under his a special consideration besides many matters of private feeling and interest without their friendly relations being once disturbed or endangered and this was the more remarkable and so much as Truman Flint the reverse of old Paul Cooper in disposition and temper being hopeful and sanguine always disposed to look upon the bright side of things and however discouraging they might seem ever avering that it was his opinion to what all come out right at last on the evening of which we are speaking they had been talking on several of their usual topics but when Gertie awoke she found herself the subject of conversation of course she soon became deeply interested where? said Mr. Cooper did you say you picked her up? Etnan Grant said true don't you remember her? she's the same woman whose son you were called up to witness against at the time the church windows were broken the night of four the fourth of July you can't have forgotten her at the trial Cooper for she blew you up with a vengeance and didn't spare his honor the judge either Weld was just such a rage she was in with this air child the first time I see her and the second time she'd just turned her doors ah yes I remember the she-bear I shouldn't suppose she'd be any too gentle to her own child much less as strangers but what are you going to do with the found bling-flint? do with her keep her to be sure and to take care on her Cooper laughed rather sarcastically well now I suppose neighbor you think it is rather freakish in me to be adopting a child at my time of life and perhaps it is but I'll explain to you just how it was Rita died that night I tell you're on if I hadn't brought her home with me and a good many times since what's more if I, with the help of your daughter hadn't took mighty good care of her well she took on so in her sleep the first night ever she came and cried out to me all as if she'd never had a friend before and I doubt me she never had that I made up my mind then she should stay at any rate and I'd take care on her and share my last crust with the wee thing the Lord's been very merciful to me Mr. Cooper very merciful he's raised me up friends in my deep distress I knew when I was a little shaver what a lonesome thing it was to be fatherless and motherless and when I see this little suffering human being I felt as if all friendless as she seemed she was more particularly the Lord's and as if I could not serve him more and ought not to serve him less than to share with her the blessings he has bestowed on me you look round neighbor as if you thought wasn't much to share with anyone and taint much there is here to be sure but it's a home yes a home and that's a great thing to her that never had one I've got my hands yet and a stout heart and a will in mind with God's help I'll be a father to that child and the time may come when she'll be God's embodied blessing to me Mr. Cooper shook his head doubtfully and muttered something about children even one's own not being apt to prove blessings but he had not power to shake Truman's high faith in the wisdom as well as righteousness of his own proceedings he had risen in the earnestness with which he had spoken and after pacing the room hastily and with excitement he returned to his seat and said besides neighbor Cooper if I had not made up my mind the night Gertie came here I wouldn't have sent her away after the next day for the Lord I think spoke to me by the mouth of one of his holy angels and bade me persevere in my resolution you've seen Miss Graham she goes to your church regular with the final gentleman her father I was at their house shoveling snow after the great storm three weeks since and she sent for me to come into the kitchen well may I bless her angel face poor thing if the world is dark to her she makes it light to other folks she cannot see heaven's sunshine outside but she's better off than most people for she's got it in her I do believe and when she smiles it lets the glory out and looks like God's rainbow in the clouds she's done me many a kindness since I got hurt so bad in her father's store now some five years gone and she sent for me that day to ask how I did and if there was anything I wanted that she could speak to the master about so I told her all about little Gertie and I tell you she and I both cried for I'd done she put some money into my hand to make some clothes for Gertie more than that she promised to help me if I got into trouble with the care of her and when I was going away she said I'm sure you've done quite right true the Lord will bless and reward your kindness to that poor child true was so excited and animated by his subject that he did not notice what the sexton had observed but did not choose to interrupt Gertie had risen from her bed and was standing beside true her eyes fixed upon his face breathless with the interest she felt in his words she touched his shoulder he looked round saw her and stretched out his arms she sprang into them buried her face in his bosom and bursting into a proxism of joyful tears gasped out the words shall I stay with you always yes just as long as I live said true you shall be my child End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Lamplighter This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Bridget Gage The Lamplighter by Maria Susanna Cummins Chapter 5 A light busy foot of stir and her small house whiffery the blithest bee that ever wrought in hive Mitford It was a stormy evening Gertie was standing at the window watching for true's return from his lamplighting she was neatly and comfortably dressed her hair smooth her face and hands clean she was now quite well better than for years before her sickness care and kindness had done wonders for her and though still a pale and rather slender-looking child with eyes and mouth disproportionately large to her other features the painful look of suffering she had been want to wear had given place to a happy though rather grave expression on the wide window sill in front of her sat a plump and venerable cat parent to Gertie's lost darling and for that reason very dear to her she was quietly stroking its back while the constant purring that the old veteran kept up proved her satisfaction at the arrangement suddenly a rumbling tumbling sound was heard in the wall the house was old and furnished with ample accommodations for rats who seemed from the noise to have availed themselves of this fact to give a ball such an excitement were they manifesting one would almost have thought a chimney was falling down brick by brick it did not alarm Gertie however she was used to old rat-inhabited walls and too much accustomed to hearing such sounds all around her when she slept in the Garret and Nan grants to be disturbed by them not so however with the ancient Grimelkin who pricked up her ears and gave every sign of a disposition to Russian to battle no war horse could have been more excited by the sound of the trumpet then was puss at the rushing of her foes through the ceiling lie still pussy said Gertie lie still I say don't you be running off after rats you must sit up straight and be good till you see Uncle True coming so as to hear what he'll say when he sees the room and me here Gertie turned and glanced around the room with an air of infinite satisfaction then clambering upon the wide old-fashioned windowsill where she could see up the yard and have a full view of the lamplighter the moment he entered the gate she took the cat in her arms gave a look of interest and pride at her shoes and stockings and then composed herself with a determined effort to be patient it would not do however she could not be patient it seemed to her that he never came so late before and she was just beginning to think he would never come at all when he turned into the gate it was nearly dark but Gertie could see that there was some person with him he did not look tall enough to be Mr. Cooper and did not step like him and concluded it must be he for whoever it was stopped at his door further up the yard and went in impatient as Gertie had been for true's arrival she did not run to meet him as usual but waited in a listening attitude until she heard him coming through the shed where he was in a habit of stopping to hang up his ladder in lantern and remove the soiled frock and overalls which he wore outside his clothes when about his work she then ran and hid behind the door she evidently had some great surprise in store for him and meant to enjoy it to the utmost the cat not being so full of the matter whatever it was was more mindful of her manners and went to meet him rubbing her head against his legs which was her customary welcome hello whiskers said true where's my little gale he shut the door behind him as he spoke thus disclosing Gertie to view she sprang forward with a bound laughed and looked first at her own clothes and then in true's face to see what he would think of her appearance well I declare said he lifting her up in his arms and carrying her nearer to the light little folks do look famous new gown, apron, shoes got them all on and who fixed your hair my you ain't none too handsome certain but you do look famous nice Mrs. Sullivan dressed me all up and brushed my hair and more too see what else she has done true followed Gertie's eyes as they wandered around the room he looked amazed enough to satisfy her anticipations great as they had been and no wonder he had been gone since morning and things had indeed undergone a transformation woman's hands had evidently been at work clearing up and setting to rights until Gertie came to live with true his home had never been subjected to female intrusion living wholly by himself and entertaining scarcely any visitors it had been his habit to make himself comfortable in his own way utterly regardless of appearances in his humble apartment sweeping day came but seldom and spring cleaning was unknown two large windows facing the yard were treated with great injustice the cheerful light they were capable of affording being half obscured by dirt and smoke the corners of the ceiling were festooned with cobwebs the high broad mantelpiece had accumulated a curious medley of things useful and useless while there was no end to the rubbish that had collected under the stove then the furniture some of which was very good was adjusted in the most inconvenient manner and in a way to turn the size of the room to the least possible advantage during Gertie's illness a bed made up on the floor for true's use and the various articles which had been required in her sick room had increased the clutter to such an extent that she almost needed a pilot to conduct him in safety through the apartment now Mrs. Sullivan was the soul of neatness her rooms were like waxburg her own dress was almost Quaker-like in its extreme simplicity and freedom from the least speck or stain no one could meet her old father or her young son even in their working dress without perceiving at once the evidence of a careful daughter and mother's handiwork it was to nurse Gertie in true's absence that she first entered a room so much the reverse of her own and it is not easy to appreciate the degree in which the virtue and charity of her doing so was enhanced unless one can realize how painful the contrast was to her and how excessively annoying she found it to spend sometimes a whole afternoon in a room which as she expressed herself afterwards at home it would have been a real pleasure to her to clear up and put to rights if it were only to see how it would look and whether anybody would recognize it Mrs. Sullivan was a little bit of a woman but had more capability and energy than could have been found in anyone among twenty others twice her size she really pitied those whose home was such a massive confusion she felt sure that they could not be happy and inwardly determined as soon as Gertie got well to exert herself in the cause of cleanliness and order which was in her eyes the cause of virtue and happiness so completely did she identify outward neatness and purity with inward peace she pondered in her own mind how she could broach the subject of her renovation in his affairs to true himself without wounding his feelings for she herself was so sensitive on a point of neatness that she imagined he must be somewhat the same and the little woman being as tender-hearted as she was tidy would not have mortified him for the world when a motive action was suggested to her by Gertie herself on the day previous to that on which the great cleaning operations took place Gertie was observed by Mrs. Olvin standing in the passage near her door and looking shyly but wistfully in come in Gertie said the kind little woman come in and see me here added she seeing how timid the child felt about intruding herself into a strange room you may sit up here by the table and see me iron this is your own little dress and then your things will be all done you'll be glad of some new clothes, shan't you? very glad, Marm, said Gertie am I to take them away and keep them all myself? yes indeed, said Mrs. Olvin I don't know where I'll put them all there ain't no place in our room at least no very nice place said Gertie glancing with admiration at the open drawer and which Mrs. Olvin was now placing the little dress adding it to a pile of neatly folded garments why, part of them you know you'll be wearing, said Mrs. Olvin and we must find some good place for the rest you've got good places for things, said Gertie looking round the room this is a very beautiful room, isn't it? why, it isn't very different from Mr. Flint's it's just about the same size and two front windows like his my cupboard is the best yours is only a three-cornered one but that's about all the difference oh, but then yours don't look one bit like ours you haven't got any bed here and all the chairs stand in a row and the table shines and the floor is so clean and the stove is new and the sun comes in so bright oh, I wish our room was like this I shouldn't think ours was more than half as big, either why Uncle Tru stumbled over the tongs this morning and he said there wasn't room there to swing a cat where were the tongs? said Mrs. Olvin about in the middle of the floor, Marm well, you see I don't keep things in the middle of the floor I think if your room were all cleaned up and places found for everything it would look almost as well as mine I wish it could be fixed up nice, said Gertie but what could be done with those beds? I've been thinking about that there's that little pantry or bathing room I think it must have been once when this house was new and rich people lived in it that's large enough to hold a small bedstead and a chair or two it would be quite a comfortable little chamber for you there's nothing in it but rubbish that might just as well be thrown away or if it were good for anything put in the shed oh, that'll be nice said Gertie then Uncle Tru can have his bed back again and I'll sleep on the floor in there no, said Mrs. Olvin it won't be necessary for you to sleep on the floor I've got a very good little cross-legged bedstead that my willie slept on when he lived at home and I will lend it to you if you'll try to take good care of it and put it into your room oh, I will, said Gertie but can I? added she hesitating do you think I can? I don't know how to do anything you never have been taught to do anything, my child but a girl eight years old can do a great many things if she is patient and tries hard to learn I could teach you to do a great deal that would be useful and that would help your Uncle Tru very much what could I do? oh, I wish I could do something for Uncle Tru, said Gertie but how could I ever begin? in the first place you must have things cleaned up for you if I thought Mr. Flint would like it I'd get Kate McCarty to come to you and ask you for help if I could if I could if I could if I could if I could if I could I'd get Kate McCarty to come in someday and help us and I think we could make a great improvement in his house oh, I know he'd like it said Gertie may I help? yes., you may do it you can but Kate'll be the best hand she strong and knows how to do cleaning well who's she? said Gertie Kate she's Mrs. McCarty's daughter in the next house Mr. Flint does them many a good turn saws wood usそ and so, they do most of his washing but they can't half-pay him all the kindness he's done that family. Kate's a clever girl. She'll be glad to come and work for him any day. I'll ask her." Will she come to-morrow?" Perhaps she will. Uncle True's going to be gone all day to-morrow, said Gertie. He's going to get in Mr. Eustace's coal. Wouldn't it be a good time?" Very, said Mrs. Sullivan. I'll try and get Kate to come to-morrow. Kate came. The room was thoroughly cleaned, and put in complete order. Gertie's new clothes were delivered over to her own keeping. She was neatly dressed in one suit, the other placed in a little chest which was found in the pantry, and which accommodated her small wardrobe very well. It was the result of all Mrs. Sullivan's, Kate's, and Gertie's combined labor, which called forth True's astonishment on his return from his work, and the pleasure he manifested made the day a memorable one in Gertie's life, one to be marked in her memory as long as she lived, as being the first in which she had known that happiness. Perhaps the highest earth affords, of feeling that she had been instrumental in giving joy to another. Not that Gertie's assistance had been of any great value, or that all could not have been done as well, or even better, if she had been where Nan Grant always put her, out of the way. But the child did not realize that, she had been one of the laborers. She had entered heart and soul into every part of the work, wherever she had been allowed to lend a helping hand. She had exerted her whole strength. She could say with truth, We did it, Mrs. Sullivan, Kate, and I. None but a loving heart, like Mrs. Sullivan's, would have understood and sympathized in the feeling which made Gertie so eager to help. But she did, and allotted to her many little services, which the child felt herself more blessed and being permitted to perform than she would have done at almost any gift or favor that could have been bestowed upon her. She led true about, to show him how judiciously and ingeniously Mrs. Sullivan had contrived to make the most of the room and the furniture. How, by moving the bed into a deep recess, which was just wide enough for it, she had reserved the whole square area, and made, as true declared, a parlor of it. It was some time before he could be made to believe that half his property had not been spirited away, so incomprehensible was it to him, that so much additional space and comfort could be acquired by a little system and order. But his astonishment and Gertie's delight reached their climax, when she introduced him into the former lumber-closet, now transformed into a really snug and comfortable bedroom. Well, I declare, well, I declare, was all the old man could seem to say. He sat down beside the stove, now polished, and made, as Gertie declared, new, just like Mrs. Sullivan's. Rubbed his hands together, for they were cold with being out in the frosty evening, and then spreading them in front of the fire took a general view of his reformed domicile, and of Gertie, who, according to Mrs. Sullivan's careful instructions, was preparing to set the table and toast the bread for supper. She was standing on a chair, taking down the cups and saucers from among the regular rows of dishes, shining in the three-cornered cupboard, having already deposited on the lower shelf, where she could reach it from the floor, a plate containing some smoothly cut slices of bread, which the thoughtful Mrs. Sullivan had prepared for her. True watched her motions for a minute or two, and then indulged in a short soliloquy. Mrs. Sullivan's a clever woman, certain, and they've made my old house here complete, and Gertie's getting to be like the apple of my eye, and I'm as happy a man as— CHAPTER VI Some screamed that they can silence, when they will, the storm of passion, and say, peace, be still. COUPER Here True was interrupted. Quick, noisy footsteps in the passage were followed by a sudden and unceremonious opening of the door. Here, Uncle True, said the newcomer, here's your package. You forgot all about it, I guess, and I forgot it, too, till Mother saw it on the table, where I'd laid it down. I was so taken up with just coming home, you know. Of course, of course, said True. Much obliged to you, Willie, for fetching it for me. It's pretty brittle stuff it's made of, and most like I should have smashed it, for I got it home. What is it? I've been wondering. Why, it's a little knick-knack I brought home for Gertie, here, that— Willie, Willie, called Mrs. Sullivan from the opposite room. Have you been to tea, dear? No, indeed, Mother, have you? Why, yes, but I'll get you some. No, no, said True. Stay and take tea with us, Willie. Take tea here, my boy. My little Gertie is making some famous toast, and I'll put the tea as steep and presently. So I will, said Willie. I should like to first rate. No matter about any supper for me, Mother, I'm going to have my tea here, with Uncle True. Come now, let's see what's in the bundle. But first I want to see little Gertie. Mother's been telling me about her. Where is she? Has she got well? She's been very sick, hasn't she? Oh, yes, she's nicely now, said True. Here, Gertie, look here. Why, where is she? There she is, hiding up behind the settle, said Willie, laughing. She ain't afraid of me, is she? Well, I didn't know as she was shy, said True. You silly little girl, added he, going towards her. Come out here and see Willie. This is Willie Sullivan. I don't want to see him, said Gertie. Don't want to see Willie, said True. Why, you don't even know what you're saying. Willie's the best boy that ever was. I expect you and he'll be great friends by and by. He won't like me, said Gertie. I know he won't. Why shan't I like you? said Willie, approaching the corner where Gertie had hit herself. Her face was covered with her hands, according to her usual fashion when anything distressed her. I guess I shall like you first straight, when I see you. He stooped down as he spoke, for he was much taller than Gertie, and taking her hands directly down from her face, and holding them tight in his own, he fixed his eyes full upon her. And, nodding pleasantly, said, How do you do, cousin Gertie? How do you do? I ain't your cousin, said Gertie. Yes you are, said Willie, decidedly. Uncle True is your uncle, and mine too. So were cousins, don't you see? And I want to get acquainted. Gertie could not resist Willie's good-natured words and manner. She suffered him to draw her out of the corner, and towards the lighter end of the room. As she came near the lamp, she tried to free her hands in order to cover her face up again. But Willie would not let her, and, attracting her attention to the unopened package, and exciting her curiosity as to what it might contain, he succeeded in diverting her thoughts from herself, so that in a few minutes she seemed quite at her ease. There, Uncle True says it's for you, said Willie, and I can't think what is. Can you? Feel, it's hard as can be. Gertie felt, and looked up wonderingly in True's face. Undo it, Willie, said True. Willie produced a knife, got the string, took off the paper, and disclosed one of those white plaster images, so familiar to everyone, representing the little Samuel in an attitude of devotion. Oh, how pretty, exclaimed Gertie, full of delight. Why didn't I think, said Willie, I might have known what was by the feeling. Why, did you ever see it before, said Gertie. Not the same one, but I've seen lots just like it. Have you, said Gertie, I never did. I think it's the beautifulest thing that ever was. Uncle True, did you say it was for me? Where did you get it? It was by an accident, I got it. A few minutes before I met you, Willie, I was stopping at the corner to light my lamp, when I saw one of those furren boys, with a sight of these sort of things, and some black ones too, all set up on a board, and he was walking with them at top of his head. I was just a wonder in how he kept them there, when he hit the board again my lamp post, and the first thing I knew, whack, they all went. He'd spilt them every one. Lucky enough for him, there was a great bank of soft snow close to the sidewalk, and the most of them fell into that, and wasn't hurt. Some few went on to the bricks and were smashed. Well, I kind of pitied the feller, for it was late, and I thought like enough he hadn't had much luck selling of them, to have so many left on his hands. On his head you mean, said Willie. Yes, Master Willie, or on the snow, said True. Anyway, you're a mind to have it. And I know what you did, Uncle True, just as well as if I'd seen you, said Willie. You set your ladder and lantern right down, and went to work helping him pick them all up. That's just what you'd be sure to do for anybody. I hope, if ever you get into trouble, some of the folks you've helped will be by to make return. This feller, Willie, didn't wait for me to get into trouble. He made return right off. When they were all set right, he bowed, and scraped, and touched his hat to me, as if I'd been the biggest gentleman in the land. Talking to he was all the time, though I couldn't make out a word of his lingo. And then he insisted on my taking one of the figures. I wasn't a going to, for I didn't want it. But I happened to think Little Gertie might like it. Oh, I shall like it, said Gertie. I shall like it better than... No, not better, but almost as well as my kin. Not quite as well, because that was alive. And this isn't. But almost. Oh, ain't he a cunning little boy. True, finding that Gertie was wholly taken up with the image, walked away, and began to get the tea, leaving the two children to entertain each other. You must take care and not break it, Gertie, said Willie. We had a Samuel once just like it in the shop, and I dropped it out of my hand onto the counter, and broke it into a million pieces. What did you call it? said Gertie. A Samuel. They're all Samuels. What are Samuels? said Gertie. Why, that's the name of the child they're taken for. What do you suppose he's sitting on his knee for? Willie laughed. Why, don't you know? said he. No, said Gertie. What is he? He's praying, said Willie. Is that what he's got his eyes turned up for, too? Yes, of course. He looks up to heaven when he prays. Up to where? To heaven. Gertie looked up at the ceiling in the direction in which the eyes were turned, then at the figure. She seemed very much dissatisfied and puzzled. Why, Gertie, said Willie, I shouldn't think you knew what praying was. I don't, said Gertie. Tell me. Don't you ever pray? Pray to God? No, I don't. Who is God? Where is God? Willie looked inexpressibly shocked at Gertie's ignorance, and answered, reverently, God is in heaven, Gertie. I don't know where that is, said Gertie. I believe I don't know nothing about it. I shouldn't think you did, said Willie. I believe heaven is up in the sky, but my Sunday school teacher says heaven is anywhere goodness is, or some such thing, he said. Are the stars in heaven? said Gertie. They look so, don't they? said Willie. They're in the sky, where I always used to think heaven was. I should like to go to heaven, said Gertie. Perhaps if you're good, you will go sometime. Can't any but good folks go? No. Then I can't ever go, said Gertie, mournfully. Why not, said Willie? Ain't you good? Oh no, I'm very bad. What a queer child, said Willie. What makes you think yourself so very bad? Oh, I am, said Gertie, in a very sad tone. I'm the worst of all. I'm the worst child in the world. Who told you so? Everybody. Nan Grant says so, and she says everybody thinks so. I know it too, myself. Is Nan Grant the cross-old woman you used to live with? Yes, how did you know she was cross? Oh, my mother's been telling me about her. Well, I want to know if she didn't send you to school, or teach you anything. Gertie shook her head. Why, what lots you've got to learn, what did you use to do when you lived there? Nothing. Never did anything, and don't know anything. My gracious. Yes, I do know one thing, said Gertie. I know how to toast bread. Your mother taught me. She let me toast some by her fire. As she spoke, she thought of her own neglected toast, and turned towards a stove. But she was too late. The toast was made, the supper ready, and true was just putting it on the table. Oh, Uncle True, said G, I meant to get the tea. I know it, said True, but it's no matter. You can get it tomorrow. The tears came into Gertie's eyes. She looked very much disappointed, but said nothing. They all sat down to supper, willy put the Samuel in the middle of the table for a center ornament, and told so many funny stories, and said so many pleasant things, that Gertie left heartily, forgot that she did not make the toast herself, forgot her sadness, her shyness, even her ugliness and wickedness, and showed herself, for once, a merry child. After tea, she sat beside willy on the great settle, and in her peculiar way, and with many odd expressions and remarks, gave him a description of her life at Nan Grant's, winding up with a touching account of the death of her kitten. The two children seemed in a fair way to become as good friends as True could possibly wish. True himself sat on the opposite side of the stove, smoking his pipe, his elbows on his knees, his eyes bent on the children, and his ears drinking in all their conversation. He was no restraint upon them. So simple-hearted and sympathizing a being, so ready to be amused and pleased, so slow to blame or disapprove, could never be any check upon the gaiety or freedom of the youngest, most careless spirit. He laughed when they laughed, seemed soberly satisfied, and took long whiffs at his pipe, when they talked quietly and sedately, ceased smoking entirely, letting his pipe rest on his knee, and secretly wiping away a tear when Gertie recounted her childish griefs. He had heard the story before, and he cried then. He often heard it afterwards, but never without crying. After Gertie had closed her tale of sorrows, which was frequently interrupted by Willy's ejaculations of condolence or pity, she sat for a moment without speaking. Then, becoming excited, as her ungoverned and easily roused nature dwelt upon its wrongs, she burst forth in a very different tone from that in which she had been speaking, and commenced uttering the most bitter invectives against Nan Grant, making use of many a rough and coarse term, such as she had been accustomed to hear used by the ill-bred people with whom she had lived. The child's language expressed unmitigated hatred, and even a hope of future revenge. True looked worried and troubled at hearing her talk so angrily. Since he brought her home, he had never witnessed such a display of temper, and had fondly believed that she would always be as quiet and gentle as during her illness, and the few weeks subsequent to it. True's own disposition was so placid, amiable, and forgiving that he could not imagine that any one, and especially a little child, should long retain feelings of anger and bitterness. Gertie had shown herself so mild and patient since she had been with him, so submissive to his wishes, so anxious even to forestall them, that it had never occurred to him to dread any difficulty in the management of the child. Now, however, as he observed her flashing eyes, and noticed the doubling of her little fist, as she menaced Nan with her future wrath, he had an undefined, half-formed presentiment of coming trouble in the control of his little charge, a feeling almost of alarm, lest he had undertaken what he could never perform. For the moment she ceased, in his eyes, to be the pet in plaything he had hitherto considered her. He saw in her something which needed a check, and felt himself unfit to apply it. And no wonder, he was totally unfit to cope with a spirit like Gertie's. It was true he possessed over her one mighty influence, her strong affection for him, which he could not doubt. It was that which made her so submissive and patient in her sickness, so grateful for his care and kindness, so anxious to do something in return. It was that deep love for her first friend, which never wavering, and growing stronger to the last, proved in after years a noble motive for exertion, a worthy incentive to virtue. It was that love fortified and illumined by a higher light, which came in time to sanctify it, that gave her, while yet a mere girl, a woman's courage, a woman's strength of heart and self-denial. It was that which cheered the old man's latter years, and shed joy on his dying bed. But for the present it was not enough. The kindness she had received for the few weeks past had completely softened Gertie's heart toward her benefactors, but the effect of eight years mismanagement, ill-treatment, and want of all judicious discipline could not be done away in that short time. Her unruly nature could not be so suddenly quelled, her better capabilities called into action. The plant that for years has been growing distorted and dwelling in a barren spot, deprived of life and nourishment, withered in its leaves and blighted in its fruit, cannot at once recover from so cruel a blast. Transplanted to another soil, it must be directed in the right course. Nourished with care and warmed with heaven's light, Eric can recover from the shock occasioned by its early neglect, and find strength to expand its flowers and ripen its fruit. So with little Gertie, a new direction must be given to her ideas, new nourishment to her mind, new light to her soul, ere the higher purposes for which she was created could be accomplished in her. Something of this true felt, and it troubled him. He did not, however, attempt to check the child. He did not know what to do, and so did nothing. Willie tried once or twice to stop the current of her abusive language, but soon desisted, for she did not pay the least attention to him. He could not help smiling at her childish wrath, nor could he resist sympathizing with her in a degree, and almost wishing he could have a brush with Nan himself, and express his opinion of her character in one or two hard knocks. But he had been well brought up by his gentle mother, was conscious that Gertie was exhibiting a very hot temper, and began to understand what made everybody think her so bad. After Gertie had railed about Nan a little while, she stopped of her own accord, though an unpleasant look remained on her countenance. One of her old looks that it was a pity should return, but which always did when she got into a passion. It soon passed away, however, and when, a little later in the evening, Mrs. Sullivan appeared at the door. Gertie looked bright and happy, listened with evident delight, while true uttered warm expressions of thanks for the labour which had been undertaken in his behalf. And when Willie went away with his mother, set her good night, and asked him to come again so pleasantly, and her eyes looked so bright as she stood holding on to true's hand in the doorway, that Willie said, as soon as they were out of hearing. She's a queer little thing, ain't she, mother? But I kinda like her. With Gertie's experiences the reader is somewhat acquainted. A neglected orphan, she had received little of that care, and still less of that love which Willie had always enjoyed. Mrs. Sullivan's husband was an intelligent country clergyman, but as he died when Willie was a baby, leaving very little property for the support of his family, the widow went home to her father, taking her child with her. The old man needed his daughter, for death had made sad inroads in his household since she left it, and he was alone. From that time the three had lived together in humble comfort, for though poor industry and frugality secured them from want. Willie was his mother's pride, her hope, her constant thought. She spared herself no toil or care to provide for his physical comfort, his happiness, and his growth in knowledge and virtue. It would have been strange enough if she had not been proud of a boy whose uncommon beauty, winning disposition, and early evidences of a manly and noble nature, won him friends even among strangers. He had been a handsome child, but there was that observable in him, now that he had nearly reached his thirteenth year, far excelling the common boyish beauty, which consists merely in curly hair, dark eyes, and rosy cheeks. It was his broad, open forehead, the clearness and calmness of his full gray eye, the expressive mouth, so determined and yet so mild, the well-developed figure and ready complexion, proclaiming high health, which gave promise of power to the future man. No one could have been in the boy's company half an hour without loving and admiring him. He had a naturally warm-hearted affectionate disposition, which his mother's love and the world's smiles had festered, an unusual flow of animal spirits, tempered by a natural politeness toward his elders and superiors, a quick apprehension, a ready command of language, a sincere sympathy in others' pleasures and pains, in fine one of those genial natures that wins hearts one knows not how. He was fond of study, and until his twelfth year, his mother kept him constantly at school. The sons of poor parents have, in our large cities, almost every educational advantage that can be obtained by wealth, and willy, having an excellent capacity, and being constantly encouraged and exhorted by his mother to improve his opportunities to the utmost, had attained a degree of proficiency quite unusual at his age. When he was twelve years old, he had an excellent opportunity to enter into the service of an apothecary, who did an extensive business in the city, and wanted a boy to assist in his store. The wages that Mr. Bray offered were not great, but there was the hope of an increased salary, and at any rate, situated as willy was, it was not a chance to be overlooked. Fond as he was of his books, he had long been eager to be at work, helping to bear the burden of labor in the family. His mother and grandfather assented to the plan, and he gladly accepted Mr. Bray's proposals. He was sadly missed at home, for as he slept at the store during the week, he rarely had much leisure to make even a passing visit to his mother, except on Saturday, when he came home at night, and past Sunday. So Saturday night was Mrs. Sullivan's happy night, and the Sabbath became a more blessed day than ever. When Willie reached his mother's room on the evening of which we have been speaking, he sat down with her and Mr. Cooper, and for an hour conversation was brisk with them. Willie never came home that he had not a great deal to relate concerning the occurrences of the week, many a little anecdote to tell, many a circumstance connected with the shop, the customers, his master the apothecary, and his master's family, with whom he took his meals. Mrs. Sullivan was interested in everything that interested Willie, and it was easy to see that the old grandfather was more entertained by the boy than he was willing to appear. For, though he sat with his eyes upon the floor, and did not seem to listen, he usually heard all that was said, as was often proved afterward by some accidental reference he would make to the subject. He seldom asked questions, and indeed it was not necessary, for Mrs. Sullivan asked enough for them both. He seldom made comments, but would occasionally utter an impatient or contemptuous expression regarding individuals, or the world in general, thereby evidencing that distrust of human nature, that want of confidence in men's honesty and virtue, which formed, as we have said, a marked trait in the old man's character. Willie's spirits would then receive a momentary check, for he loved and trusted everybody, and his grandfather's words, and the tone in which they were spoken, were a damper to his young soul. But with the elasticity of youth and a gay heart, they would soon rebound, and he would go on as before. Willie did not fear his grandfather, who had never been severe to him, never having indeed interfered at all with Mrs. Sullivan's management. But he sometimes felt chilled, though he hardly knew why, by his want of sympathy, with his own warm-heartedness. On the present occasion, the conversation having turned at last upon true Flint, and his adopted child, Mr. Cooper had been unusually bitter and satirical, and as he took his lamp to go to bed, wound up with remarking that he knew very well Gertie would never be anything but a trouble to Flint, who was a fool not to send her to the alms-house at once. There was a pause after the old man left the room. Then Willie exclaimed, Mother, what makes grandfather hate folks? Why, he don't, Willie. I don't mean exactly hate. I don't suppose he does that, quite. But he doesn't seem to think a great deal of anybody. Do you think he does? Oh, yes, he don't show it much, said Mrs. Sullivan, but he thinks a great deal of you, Willie, and he wouldn't have anything happen to me for the world. And he likes Mr. Flint, and— Oh, yes, I know that, of course. I don't mean that, but he doesn't think there's much goodness in folks, and he don't seem to think anybody's going to turn out well, and—you're thinking of what he said about little Gertie. Well, she ain't the only one. That's what made me speak of it now, but I've often noticed it before, particularly since I went away from home, and am only here once a week. Now, you know I think everything of Mr. Bray, and when I was telling to-night how much good he did, and how kind he was to old Mrs. Morris and her sick daughter, Grandfather looked just as if he didn't believe it, or didn't think much of it, somehow. Oh, well, Willie, said Mrs. Sullivan, you mustn't wonder much at that. Grandpa's had a good many disappointments. You know he thought everything of Uncle Richard, and there was no end to the trouble he had with him. And there was Aunt Sarah's husband. He seemed to be such a fine fellow when Sally married him. But he cheated Father dreadfully at last, so that he had to mortgages home in High Street, and finally give it up entirely. He's dead now, and I don't want to say anything against him. But he didn't prove what we expected, and it broke Sally's heart, I think. That was a dreadful trial to Father, for she was the youngest, and had always been his pet. And just after that, Mother was taken down with her death-stroke, and there was a quack doctor prescribed for her that Father always thought did her more hurt than good. Oh, take it all together, he's had a great deal to make him look on the dark side now. But you mustn't mind it, Willie, you must take care and turn out well yourself, my son, and then he'll be proud enough. He's as pleased as he can be when he hears you praised, and expects great things of you one of these days. Here the conversation ended, but not until the boy had added another to the many resolves already made, that if his health and strength were spared, he would prove to his grandfather that hopes were not always deceitful, and that fears were sometimes groundless. Oh, what a glorious thing it is for a youth when he has ever present with him a high, a noble, and unselfish motive. What an inson of it is to exertion, perseverance, and self-denial. What a force to urge him on to ever-increasing efforts. Fears that would otherwise appall, discouragements that would dishearten, labors that would weary, obstacles that would dismay, opposition that would crush, temptation that would overcome, all, all lie disarmed and powerless, when with a single-hearted and worthy aim he struggles for the victory. And so it is that those born in honor, wealth, and luxury seldom achieve greatness. They were not born for labor, and without labor, nothing that is worth having can be won. Why will they not make it their great and absorbing motive? A worthy one it certainly would be, to overcome the disadvantages of their position and make themselves great, learned, wise, and good, and spite of those riches, that honorable birth, that opportunity for luxurious sloth, which are, in reality, to the clear judging eye of wise men and angels, their deadliest snare. A motive Willie had long had. His grandfather was old, his mother weak, and both poor. He must be the staff of their old age. He must labor for their support and comfort. He must do more. They hoped great things of him. They must not be disappointed. He did not, however, while arming himself for future conflict with the world, forget the present, but sat down and learned his Sunday school lessons. After which, according to custom, he read aloud in the Bible. And then Mrs. Olivan, laying her hand on the head of her son, offered up a simple, heartfelt prayer for the boy. One of those mother's prayers, which the child listens to with reverence and love, and remembers in the far off years. One of those prayers, which keep men from temptation, and deliver them from evil. After Willie went home that evening, and Gertie was left alone with true, she sat on a low stool beside him for some time, without speaking. Her eyes were intently fixed upon the white image which lay in her lap. That her little mind was very busy, there could be no doubt. For thought was plainly written on her face. True was not often the first to speak, but finding Gertie unusually quiet, he lifted up her chin, looked inquiringly in her face, and then said, Well, Willie's a pretty clever sort of a boy, isn't he? Gertie answered, Yes, without, however, seeming to know what she was saying. You'd like him, don't you? said True. Very much, said Gertie, in the same absent way. It was not Willie she was thinking of. True waited for Gertie to begin talking about her new acquaintance, but she did not speak for a minute or two. Then looking up suddenly, she said, Uncle True, what say? What does Samuel pray to God for? True stared. Samuel? Pray? I guess I don't know exactly what you're saying. Why? said Gertie, holding up the image. Willie says this little boy's name is Samuel, and that he sits on his knee and puts his hand together so, and looks up, because he's praying to God that lives up in the sky. I don't know what he means. Way up in the sky, do you? True took the image and looked at it attentively. He moved uneasily upon his chair, scratched his head, and finally said, Well, I suppose he's about right. This ear child is praying, certain, though I didn't think on it a four. But I don't just know what he calls it a Samuel four. We'll ask him some time. Well, what does he pray for, Uncle True? Oh, he prays to make him good. It makes folks good to pray to God. Can God make folks good? Yes, God is very great. He can do anything. How can he hear? He hears everything and sees everything in the world. And does he live in the sky? Yes, said True, in heaven. Many more questions, Gertie asked. Many strange questions that True could not answer. Many questions that he wondered he had not often asked himself. True had a humble, loving heart, and a childlike faith. He had enjoyed but little religious instruction, but he earnestly endeavored to live up to the light he had. Perhaps in his faithful practice of the Christian virtues, and especially in his obedience to the great law of Christian charity, he more nearly approached to the spirit of his Divine Master, than many who, by daily reading and study, are far more familiar with Christian doctrines. But he had never inquired deeply into the sources of that belief, which it had never occurred to him to doubt. And he was not at all prepared for the questions suggested by the inquisitive, keen, and newly excited mind of little Gertie. He answered her as well as he could, however, and where he was at fault, hesitated not to refer her to Willie, who, he told her, went to Sunday School and knew a wonderful sight about such things. All the information that Gertie could gain amounted to the knowledge of these facts, that God was in heaven, that his power was great, and that people were made better by prayer. Her little eager brain was so intent upon the subject, however, that as it grew late, the thought even of sleeping in her new room could not efface it from her mind. After she had gone to bed, with the white image hugged close to her bosom, and true had taken away the lamp, she lay for a long time with her eyes wide open. Just at the foot of the bed was the window. Gertie could see out, as she had done before in her garra at Nann Grants. But the window being larger, she had a much more extended view. The sky was bright with stars, and the sight of them revived her old wonder and curiosity as to the author of such distant and brilliant lights. Now, however, as she gazed, there darted through her mind the thought. God let them! Oh, how great he must be! But a child might pray to him. She rose from her little bed, approached the window, and falling on her knees, and clasping her hands precisely in the attitude of the little Samuel, she gazed up to heaven. She spoke no word, but her eyes glistened with a dew of a tear that stood in each. Was not each tear a prayer? She breathed no petition, but she longed for God and virtue. Was not that very wish a prayer? Her little uplifted heart throbbed vehemently. Was not each throb a prayer? And did not God in heaven, without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground, hear and accept that first homage of a little untaught child? And did not call a blessing down? Many a petition did Gertie offer up in after years, and many a time of trouble did she come to God for help. In many an hour of bitter sorrow did she from the same source seek comfort, and when her strength and heart failed her, God became the strength of her heart. But never did she approach his throne with a pure offering, a more acceptable sacrifice, than when, in her first deep penitence, her first earnest faith, her first in kindled hope, she took the attitude, and her heart uttered, though her lips pronounced them that, the words of the prophet child, here I am, Lord.