Chapter 11

"Thank you for telling us your name," said Jim, coolly; "it is just what we wanted to know."

But it is time I let out my little prisoner, poor little Edith, (that was her real name.)

"Is she gone a great _way_ off? Can't she get me _ever_?" said the frightened child, peeping round the room as if she expected to see her jump out of the closet, or spring from under the bed. "Will you keep hold of my hand all the time when it comes night? Can't they get me _then_?"

"No, no, my darling--never, never. Come here and sit on my knee. Now, tell me, how came you to live with Bridget?"

"I was going to school," said Edith, "and I stopped to look at some pretty pictures in a shop window, when this Bridget came up to me and said, 'Which of them do you like best, dear?'--and I said, 'The little boy asleep on the dog's neck;' and she said, 'If you will come round the corner with me, I will give you one just like it;' and I said, 'No; I shall be late at school, and my mamma wouldn't like it;' and then she said it wouldn't take but a minute, and she led me into an alley, and when she got there she threw her shawl over my head, and ran with me; and when she took the shawl off, I was in a house with some Irish people, and Bridget said, 'I've got her!--she will do nicely, sure, to play the tambourine. Won't the pretty face of her bring the shillings?'

"And then I cried, and begged them to take me back to mamma; and Bridget held up a great stick, and said, 'Do you see that?' and then she took off the clothes I had on, and put on these, and brought the tambourine, and told me how to play it; and when my fingers trembled so that I couldn't, she shook me, and pulled my hair, and said I should have nothing to eat till I learned to do it; and I begged and begged her to take me home. I told her mamma would cry all night, and papa, too, and little Henry,--but she hurt me with the stick so (pulling up her sleeve, and showing me the blue spots on her arms); and then I was afraid she would kill me, and so I tried to learn, because I thought if I minded her, perhaps she would let me see mamma;--but she never did; and I slept in the cellar with her nights, and in the day time, before light, she takes me out into the country to play. See, my feet are very sore"--(and she pulled off the heavy, coarse shoes and showed me the blisters on them.)

"Won't _you_ take me to see my mamma, _quick_?" said Edith, putting her little arms round my neck, as if she were afraid I would feel hurt because she wanted to leave me so soon.

"Just as fast as old Dobbin can carry you, my darling," said I, "if you will only tell me where to find her."

Little Edith began to cry.

"Perhaps she is dead," said she, sobbing.

"Oh, I hope not," said I, (the thought of restoring the little one had been so delightful to me); "cheer up, my darling,--now tell me where to find your father. What does he do for a living, Edith?"

"He has a shop," said Edith, "and knives, and forks, and scissors, and iron things in it."

"Oh, I know; he is what we call a hardware merchant."

"Yes," said Edith, "that's it."

"Well, where's the shop?"

"In the city," said Edith, "in ---- street. My papa's name is ---- Grosvenor, Esquire."

"Well, we'll find him, Jim and I. Here's the horse and wagon, my little musician, so jump in."

Jim whipped up, and away we jolted into town, little Edith clinging tightly to my arm, for fear of Bridget.

Two hours and we were in ---- street. I went into a confectioner's with little Edith, while Jim drove to her father's store.

Edith grew very impatient--a bright red spot came upon her cheek--and she walked often to the window and looked out.

In about half an hour I saw Jim coming back up the street, and at his side a fine looking, tall man, of thirty.

"There's Jim," said I to Edith--

"And papa! and papa!--oh, _it is_ papa--my own papa"--and she rushed to the door with the speed of an antelope.

How can I describe to you that meeting, when I couldn't see it for my tears? but I heard kisses and sobs, thick and fast, and the words, "Dear papa," and "My blessed, lost Edith."

Well, nothing would do, but Jim and I must go home and see mamma, too, who had never been outside of the door since her poor little girl was taken away.

We drove to the house--Edith, and I and Jim, staying below stairs, while Mr. G---- went to prepare his wife for the joyful news.

Presently we heard a heavy fall upon the floor. The joy was too intense. Edith's mother had fainted! She opened her eyes--it was not a dream! There was her little lost darling before her! She held her at arm's length--she clasped her to her breast--she kissed my hands--then she ran weeping to her husband--then back to Edith, till the pantomime became too painful.

"Je-ru-sa-lem!" said Jim.

THE BROKER'S WINDOW BY GASLIGHT.

Last evening I was walking in Broadway. The shop windows were brilliant with gas, and bright silks, and satins, and jewels were all spread out in the windows in the most tempting manner; all was gayety, bustle, hurry, drive, and confusion; omnibuses, carts, carriages, drays, military, music; people flocking to concerts, shows, and theatres; people flocking _in_ town, and people flocking _out_; fashions in _one_ window--coffins in the _next_; beggars and millionaires, ministers and play-actors, chimney-sweeps and ex-presidents, all in a heap.

I sauntered along dreamily, looking at them all, and wondering where all those myriads of people ate, and drank, and slept; how they had all laughed and wept; how soon they would all die off, one by one, without being missed, while strangers, just as busy, would fill their places, and die in turn, to give place to others.

Over my head the stars shone on, just as brightly as they did ages ago, when Bethlehem's babe was born--just as they will ages hence, when nobody will know that you or I ever thrilled with joy, or sighed with sorrow, beneath them.

But I am not going to preach to you;--the panorama made me _think_; that's all. Well, I sauntered along, and presently came in sight of a broker's window, (ask your papa what a broker is,) in a basement, quite down upon the pavement. The window seat was covered with black velvet, and on it lay little glittering heaps of money, in gold and silver;--some quarters--some half-dollars--some dollars--some five dollar and some ten dollar pieces.

I shouldn't have looked twice after _them_, but, crouched down upon the sidewalk, so close to the broker's window that his face almost touched it, was a little boy about ten years old. His ragged little cap was pushed carelessly back; his long, dark hair fell round his face, and his eyes were fixed upon that money with an intensity of gaze, that seemed to render him perfectly unconscious of the presence of any one about him.

I touched my companion's arm, and we stopped and looked at the boy some moments, and then passed on. But I couldn't go away, I wanted so much to know what that little boy was thinking about. So we went back again, and watched him a few minutes longer. He had not moved from his position. There he sat, with his little chin in his hand, building air castles.

"What are you thinking about, dear?" said I, touching him gently on the shoulder.

He started, and the bright color flushed to his very temples. I fancied that I had frightened him, or wounded his feelings. Perhaps he imagined that I thought he was trying to _steal_ that money. So I said quickly, "Don't be afraid of me; I only felt curious to know what your thoughts were. I love little children. Now tell me--you were wishing all that bright money was _yours_, were you not?"

"Yes," said he, veiling his great dark eyes with their long lashes.

"I thought so," said I; "and now, supposing you had it, what would you do with it, my darling?"

Now, very likely you think he told me of the kites, and tops, and balls, and horses, and marbles that he would buy with it.

No--he looked up earnestly in my face for a minute, as if he would read _my_ thoughts, and then he said, with his great eyes swimming in tears, "I would give it all to my mother."

I didn't care _whose_ boy he was--he was _mine_ then. So I just kissed him, and tried to keep from crying myself, while I asked him where he lived.

He told me in ---- Court; and then we took hold of his hands and went home with him.

Such a home!

A little low room, with one small window, and no furniture in it, except an old rickety bedstead, upon which lay a woman about thirty years old, wasting away in a consumption.

Her large eyes glittered like stars, and on each cheek burned a bright red fever-spot. An old shawl was thrown on the bed for a counterpane. She had neither sheets nor blankets, and the chill night air blew through the broken window-panes, making her cough so fearfully that I thought she must die _then_.

Little Angelo crept to my side, and pointing to the bed, said, "That's why I wanted the money."

Well, this was her story, which (in broken English) she told us (between her coughing spells): About a year before, she came over to this country from Italy with her husband. He was a very bad man, and as soon as he landed from the ship he ran off with all their money, and left his wife to take care of herself and little Angelo.

They wandered all about, and came near getting into some very bad places, (which was what her naughty husband _wished_ her to do, I suppose.) Sometimes they slept in old sheds, and behind barrels, or anywhere where they could find a shelter for the night out of harm's way. Poor Mrs. Cicchi was delicate, and could not bear such cruel exposure. She took a violent cold, and that brought on a quick consumption; and now there she lay, in that miserable room, in a strange country, _dying_!

Poor little Angelo! well might he look wistfully at the money in the broker's window.

Mrs. Cicchi told us that Angelo was a good boy, and would much rather work than beg, if he could get anything to do. She said his father made images in Italy, and that Angelo was always trying to do it too, whenever he got a bit of clay; and sometimes she thought he could get a living in that way when she was dead, if he had any friends; but, "poor boy!" she said, and turned her face to the pillow. "Poor boy! oh, how can his father forget him?"

We comforted her, and told her that Angelo should be taken care of, and then she wiped away her tears, and said she "could die happy"--and she did die a few days after; for cold, and hunger, and trouble had done more mischief, than the doctor who was sent to her could undo, with all his skill.

How poor Angelo clung to her dead body! How he kissed her hands and face, and sobbed, "My _poor, poor_ mother!" He grieved so much that we almost feared _he_ would die too.

By and by he listened to me. I told him that his mother was always near him, though he could not _see_ her; and that every time he thought a good thought, or put away an evil one, she sang a sweeter song. Angelo liked that! His great dark eyes glittered through his tears; he smiled and kissed my hand;--often he sits still and listens, as if he heard his mother's song.

Angelo is a _good_ boy. When he is out of school he works with an image maker. It is all play to _him_, he likes it so much. The old man stares to see him go on, but don't say anything. I know very well what he is thinking: he thinks that one of these days Congress will send Angelo an order for a statue for the Capitol!

I think so myself.

Dear little Angelo! his father will be very glad to own him by and by. Oh, I can tell you, _good luck_ is an _excellent "town crier," to find people with bad memories_!

BLACK CHLOE.

I wonder how you treat the servants in your mother's house? Do you order them round, as if they were so many dray-horses?--or do you speak pleasantly to them when you desire they should wait on you? I know there are a great many bad servants, but there are a great many good ones, too.

I am going to tell you about one.

Her name was Chloe Steele. She lived with a lady by the name of Mrs. Kumin. Fannie Kumin was fifteen years old when Chloe came to live with her mother. Chloe loved to do little services for Fannie, because she was so smiling and good natured. She never rang the bell, just to warn Chloe that she was her mistress; and when she called her for anything, always tried to remember everything she wanted, at once, that she need not make her take any extra steps, up and down stairs.

Chloe noticed this, and felt grateful for it, and was always very careful to regard all her little wishes. She tidied up her little bed-room very carefully, and always ran out in the garden and cut a little bouquet to place in the vase upon her toilette table, to make her room sweet and pleasant for her.

Fannie didn't require much waiting upon; she preferred being her own waiter, (like a sensible little girl.) It was very well she did so, because in a couple of years after Chloe went there to live, she was left an orphan, and when the estate was settled up, it was found that little Fannie had no money to live upon.

Chloe said, "don't be troubled, Miss Fannie; I am used to work. I'll find you a boarding place, and then I'll go out to service, and pay your bills. I can get high wages for a housekeeper's place, and you will live like a lady. It would break my heart to see Master's daughter work for her living."

Fannie said, "You are a dear, good Chloe, but I could not be happy to live that way;--no--I must go to work, and that will keep me from thinking of my troubles. I should become very miserable if I sat still, with my hands folded, and thought only of so many sorrowful things. No, no, dear Chloe--I shall teach in Mrs. ----'s school; and you will see, the education that my dear mother has given me will be just as good as so much money."

So Chloe said no more about supporting her, because she saw that she _really_ would be happier to support herself; but she insisted upon washing and ironing her clothes for her, and the day that she carried them home, all nicely folded in a basket, was the happiest day in the week to poor Chloe.

Chloe had taken a little room to herself, and cooked her own food. All blacks are born cooks, I believe, and many a tempting little dainty she stowed away of a Saturday night, to take up to school to Fannie. Sometimes it would be a loaf of cake; sometimes a pie or two; sometimes a few oysters, nicely cooked; for she said "it was poor fare enough teachers had in boarding schools, and who knew but Miss Fannie might get quite run down, on that and the hard work together."

Then she would go round her room, picking up the stockings and mending them, and brushing her little gaiter boots; and then she would take the comb out of her long hair and part it nicely, and brush it and dress it all over as well as Madame Marmotte, the French hair dresser, could do.

If Fannie took cold, she'd come and make her some hot tea, and soak her feet in mustard water, and leave her some nice hot lemonade to drink when she went away; and if she had a letter to put in the post-office, or was expecting one, then Chloe was on hand to do the errand, just as promptly as an express man.

Now she did all this out of sheer love for Fannie, and because she had been kind to her in her mother's house, and never put on airs and ordered her about, as some children do.

By and by, Miss Fannie took it into her head to get engaged to be married.

Chloe didn't half like it;--she was jealous. She was "afraid Massa Hale wouldn't make a good husband enough. Miss Fannie ought to have a _very nice one_, because she was such a fine young lady;" and Chloe shook her woolly head, till her gold hoop ear-rings rung again, and advised Miss Fannie to "wait a leetle longer." "Time enough yet, when she was only eighteen, plenty more gemmen; no hurry _yet_ for Miss Fannie."

But Fannie had her own way that time, too, and married "Massa Hale;" and when Chloe found there was no help for it, she said she would go and be her cook, "just to look after the dear child a bit, and see that she had everything she wanted," and that nothing was wasted.

You ought to have seen her in "Miss Fannie's" kitchen, (for she still kept on calling her Miss Fannie;) with her gay bandanna handkerchief twisted round her wool, and her neat check apron tied round her waist, moving round among the shining pots, and pans, and kettles, as important as if she were the great Mogul; turning out pies and hoe cakes, and flap-jacks, (and every other Jack, too, for Chloe had no beaux dangling after _her_, I promise you.)

If "Miss Fannie" put her head into the kitchen, she'd tell her it was no place for _her_,--to go right up stairs, and sit in the parlor like a lady, and not be worrying her little head about the cooking and such matters; that she'd send up a dinner pretty soon that would make Massa Hale open his eyes; and she didn't care if he brought the President home with him to dine!

Chloe was scrupulously honest;--she took care of everything just as carefully as "Miss Fannie"--never wasting, never giving slily away tea or sugar, or bread, or meat, or coal, to her acquaintances, as I'm sorry to say many unprincipled servants do.

So "Massa Hale" began to like her, as well as "Miss Fannie," and many a nice calico dress, or handkerchief turban, found its way mysteriously into Chloe's trunk.

After a while, Chloe had _another_ Miss Fannie to look after. Was there ever a baby like that? Certainly not--except the _original_ Miss Fannie. Chloe forgot her pots, and pans, and pickles, and preserves, and hoe-cakes; and said that "somebody else must do the cooking, or else that baby never would thrive; for what did Miss Fannie know about babies, she would like to know?"

So Chloe washed her hands, and walked up into the nursery, and when she said that little Fan must have some peppermint, she had it; and when she objected to its wearing caps, they were taken off; and when she said it was time for her to go to sleep, she _went_ to sleep, as a matter of course.

Chloe sent its mother out to take the air, and told her it was no use for her to trouble her head about the baby, because it was a thing she knew nothing about;--in fact "Miss Fannie" never was allowed to peep into its cradle without Chloe's express permission.

But the time was coming when Sorrow's dark shadow should cross the happy threshold. Death laid his icy finger on the little baby's lip, (with scarce a moment's warning,) just as it had twined itself round all their hearts with its winning little ways.

Who comforted poor Fannie then? Who arrayed the baby's dainty little limbs for burial? Who placed the tiny flowers between its waxen little fingers? Who folded away from the weeping mother's sight the useless caps and robes? Who spoke words of cheer, while her own heart was breaking?--who, but _Chloe_?

Ah, dear children, _never say that servants are without feeling_; never say it spoils them to treat them like human beings. They all have their trials--humble though they be--and (often, God knows,) _few joys enough_.

A PEEP FROM MY WINDOW.

"Oh, stop! stop! Pray don't beat that child so," said I to a strapping great woman in front of my window. "What has she done? What is the matter? Don't strike her."

"Well, then tell her not to meddle with me again," said the virago, shaking a stick at the child. "I got to that barrel of cinders on the sidewalk, _first_, and had put my stick in it, to see if I could get anything out worth saving; of course, if I came first, I had the first right to what I could find; and then she came up and put _her_ stick in it, without saying 'by your leave.' I'll teach her better manners"--and the stick descended again on the child's shoulders.

"Run in here, run in here," said I. "I'll take care of you;" and I opened the door for her. Poor little thing--all tears, and rags, and dirt; her little bare feet cut and bruised with the stones, and her hair streaming all over her face. You would have pitied her, too. She gazed about the room, looked at the fire, then wistfully at the breakfast table, from which I had just risen.

"You shall have some," said I, giving her a cup of hot coffee and some egg and roll; "eat away, as much as ever you can."

She didn't need a second invitation, but swallowed the food as if she were famished. She put on the shoes and stockings I gave her, and then she told me that her father was killed on the railroad; that her mother had four little children beside herself; that they lived in a cellar in ---- street, where the water often came in and covered the floor; that her mother had a dreadful bad cough; that her baby brother was very sick, and that they had nothing to eat except what they got begging.

"Why did you hunt in that old barrel?" said I.

"To find bits of coal, to burn. Sometimes the servants in the big houses don't sift it, and then we find a great many pieces to carry home and burn. Oh dear! that was such a _nice_ barrel, that the women beat me for coming to!"

"Never mind the barrel," said I; "do you want this? and this? and this? and this?"--giving her some old dresses, "and this loaf of bread, and this bit of money for your mother?"

"Oh yes--yes. She will be _so_ glad!" And off she skipped, down street, drawing her ragged shawl over her head.

Directly after, thinking of an errand I wished to do, I put on my bonnet and walked out.

I had passed several blocks, when I came to an alley where I heard voices. The speakers had their backs turned to me, but I could see them. It was the child who had just left me, and the woman who had beat her for meddling with the barrel of cinders.

"You did it _well_," said the woman. "I couldn't have _made believe cry_ better myself. I knew she'd call you in. Did she give you all these? and these? and these?" (holding up the dresses.) "That's good. I can sell them to the second-hand clothes shop there, for money;--_you_ may have that bit of money she gave you, to buy yourself a string of beads, because you cried so well. Which story did you tell her, hey?"

"The one you told me this morning"--said the child; "all about the cellar, and the water in it, and how father was killed on the railroad track. Didn't she give me a good breakfast, though?" And the child stretched up her arms and yawned.

* * *

Well, I was not sorry that I gave her that breakfast, or those clothes, or that money; I was sorry to see a little child so deceitful; but, do you know it is better _sometimes_ to be mistaken than _never_ to _trust_?--better sometimes even to _lose a little_, than with icy words to crush from out a despairing heart, the last hope of a tempted, starving, fellow creature!

That's the way I comforted myself, dear children, as I walked along home.

THE BOY PEDLAR.

Rain, rain, rain! How the drops come down! I wonder if anybody beside myself will get out doors to-day?

Ah, yes! There's a little boy, not much bigger than Tom Thumb. He's a little merchant, as true as the world, and has a box strapped on his back. Now he wants to sell me something.

"Corset lacings?" Never use such things, my dear.

"Paste blacking?" Wear patent leather.

"Ear-rings?" I leave those to the Indians.

"Combs? hooks and eyes? pins? needles? tape? scissors? spools?"

Oh, you little rogue--come in here; where did you come from, hey?

"I am an Englishman."

No, you are not.

"Well, my father was. I was born in Hamburgh."

That's it; now, how came you to be selling these things?

"I'm doing it to try to pay my own board. I pay ten shillings a week. My brother has gone to California. By and by, perhaps, he will come home, and send me to school. Buy anything, to-day, ma'am?"