Transcriber’s Note
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BERTHA WEISSER’S WISH.

[Illustration: BERTHA’S HOME.]

[Illustration: Decoration]




  Bertha Weisser’s Wish.

  A CHRISTMAS STORY.


  BY

  M. L. B.


  “Lord have mercy upon us, and write all thy laws in our hearts
  we beseech Thee.—”


  [Illustration: Decoration]


  BOSTON:
  E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY.
  NEW YORK: HURD AND HOUGHTON.
  1865.




  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
  E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY,
  in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
    Massachusetts.


  RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
  STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON.




CONTENTS.


  CHAP.                                                           PAGE

     I. BERTHA’S HOME                                                7

    II. BERTHA’S WISH                                               14

   III. “HOW TO DO IT”                                              21

    IV. LITTLE MARY’S HOME                                          29

     V. “WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND”                                   44

    VI. TIM TURNS POLICEMAN                                         56

   VII. ANOTHER CHASE                                               69

  VIII. BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME                           78

    IX. THE HOSPITAL                                                86

     X. MRS. GREY’S SUSPICION                                       95

    XI. THE CHAPEL SERVICE, AND WHAT CAME   OF IT                  103

   XII. THE WISH FULFILLED                                         119




[Illustration: Decoration]




BERTHA WEISSER’S WISH.




CHAPTER I.

BERTHA’S HOME.


It was a dreary, wet October day, and drawing towards the twilight.
The dull leaden-looking sky, the wet slippery pavements, the chilly,
cross, uncomfortable passengers, gave to even the brightest and
most cheerful streets of the great city a very dismal look; and,
as for the meaner ones, with their rows of dreary little shops and
tumble-down houses, their reeking gutters and dripping wayfarers,
they were utterly forlorn.

In one of the meanest of these forlorn streets, in the back attic of
one of these tumble-down houses, a little girl sat looking out at the
window. It was not a pleasant prospect in the brightest of weather,
that little crowded court, upon which everybody’s back-door opened,
and where everybody’s rubbish was collected; but the child was not
looking at the court. Neither did she seem to be looking at the sky,
though the little pale face was turned wistfully upward; she rather
seemed to be thinking intently upon something which occupied all her
mind, and shut out for the moment the dreary court below, the dismal
sky above, and even the poor little room around her.

A very poor little room it was, indeed,—its only furniture being a
ragged, ill-made bed, a rickety stand, two broken chairs, and an old
painted chest, near which a rusty stovepipe came up through the floor
and passed out again at the low roof. But all the room was brightened
somehow by a group of four merry, rosy children, who sat upon this
chest, their little bare legs dangling, and their damp garments
steaming in the heat, laughing and chattering together in a queer
mixture of German and English, which none but an emigrant’s child
could understand.

“Bert!” cried the elder of the two boys, glancing towards the window;
“what are you looking for, Bert?—the moon?”

The children all laughed at this sally, but “Bert” paid no attention;
seeing which, the boy sprang down from the chest and, with a vigorous
pull at the flaxen curls, turned the wistful face round towards him.
“Bert!” said he, “don’t you know, if we don’t pick the rags soon,
it’ll be quite dark, and then Moses will be shut up, and we’ll get
nothing for _das Brod_ to-morrow? Wake up! wake up!”

The girl made no answer, but, with a weary sigh, picked up an old
basket filled with wet rubbish, and, turning the contents out upon
the floor, began, with her brother’s help, to sort them carefully
into separate little heaps; for Bertha Weisser, my dear children, the
dreaming girl by the window, and the heroine of my little story, was
nothing more nor less than a poor little German rag-picker.

Poor and little as she was, however, Bertha had arrived at a dignity
which few of my young readers have reached, I hope; for Bertha
was the head of this little household,—the one whom alone all the
children were bound to “mind,” and to whom also, alas! they were
bound to look for their daily bread; for Berty’s father had died at
sea, and her mother, not taking kindly to the foreign land, had pined
away soon afterward, leaving her helpless family to get their own
living as best they could.

And the best way Bertha could think of—for she was not very wise,
being only eleven years old—was, to gather the rags and papers,
the old bits of iron and copper, and nails and other rubbish, from
the gutters, and sell them to Moses, an old Jew who lived near her
lodging; or else sometimes to sweep the crossings with a stump of
broom, looking the while so forlorn and piteous that kind passengers,
when they were not in too great haste, would fling her a penny.

This was a very poor way to get a living, as you may suppose; and a
very poor living Berty would have gotten by it even if she could have
spent all her earnings upon herself, which was by no means the case;
for there were Lina, and Gottlieb, and Rosa, and little Fritz, the
baby, all younger and therefore more helpless than herself; and Berty
must care for them all; for had she not promised her dead mother, and
were they not her little family, the only ones this side the broad
ocean who had kindred blood of hers in their veins?

To be sure, old Biddy Flanagan, to whom the house belonged, let them
have the back attic, where their mother had died, rent-free, because,
as she said, it was but a poor place, and she’d no heart to turn
out “the motherless orphants”; then, too, Gottlieb was growing a
sturdy lad, with very sharp eyes for old nails and horse-shoes; and
besides, the housepeople often gave Fritz a penny when they met him
toddling about the passages; for Fritz was a pretty baby,—bright-eyed
and rosy-cheeked, and sweet enough, in spite of his rags, to open
the hearts of people less kind than Biddy Flanagan’s poor lodgers.
And beyond all this,—which Berty counted great good-fortune,—an old
lady in the next street, who had known their mother in the dear old
Fatherland, sent them every week a full meal of broken victuals. So
Berty thought this world a very kind world, though her poor little
heart was full, from morning till night, with care for _die Kleinen_,
as she lovingly called the children in her pleasant German tongue.

And Berty’s heart had been fuller than usual these few weeks past;
for, besides all the care, it had held a great wish in it,—a wish
that filled it almost to bursting; and yet this wish was such a very
impossible one, that Berty could think of but one way—and that a very
impossible way—of getting it fulfilled:—“If but a fairy would come
along,—a fairy godmother such as Mrs. Flanagan sometimes told them
about, when she was good-natured and not too busy,—and offer Bert one
of three wishes; O _then_!” But New York was not “ould Ireland,” as
Biddy often assured them, and so, alas! the fairy never came. Still
the wish held its place, and swelled the poor child’s heart all the
more, perhaps, that she never told it to any one.

Sometimes she would lie awake far into the night, staring with
wide-open eyes at the blank darkness of her attic, hugging little
Fritz in her arms, and thinking what if she _had_ a fairy godmother,
and what if she _should_ come and bring the wish, until all the
darkness was full of glorious visions, and poor little Berty, the
German rag-picker, lying there upon her bed of straw, in Biddy
Flanagan’s back attic, dreamed dreams as sweet as any which visit
the soft, guarded pillows of you happy children who fall asleep with
father’s good-night blessings in your ears, and mother’s good-night
kisses on your lips. Yes, the dear Heavenly Father, who bends so
lovingly from his Eternal Throne to listen to your evening prayer,
heard Berty’s German _Vaterunser_ also, and watched over her,
perhaps, all the more tenderly because she had no one else.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER II.

BERTHA’S WISH.


It was one night after they had been to visit the kind old German
lady, their mother’s friend, that this wonderful wish came into
Berty’s heart.

Madame Hansmann, as this old lady was called by the people of Biddy’s
house, was not yet weaned from the dear _Vaterland_, as she called
her native country, and liked nothing so well as talking of its
kindly ways and pleasant customs to any one who would listen. She
knew no English; but the homely German, which, I dare say, sounds
harsh and unpleasant enough to you, was music in Bertha’s ears; for
it was the language in which she had always heard her mother speak.
Berty had, too, or fancied she had, a dim remembrance of some of the
scenes which the good old lady described, especially of the Christmas
trees, and birthday feasts, and the concerts in the _Volksgarten_,
or public park, of the city where her parents had lived.

It was, as I said, one night after a visit to old Madame Hansmann
that Berty’s wish came into her heart. She was sitting in her attic,
striving patiently, by the light of a candle-end which Biddy had
given her, to fashion a frock for little Fritz from an old one of
her own. She was not a very skilful seamstress, and her materials
were none of the best; so, as you may imagine, she was much too
busy at first to pay much attention to the children’s chatter, as
they frolicked and tumbled upon the old straw bed in the corner.
Presently, however, having planned out her work to her mind, her
attention was attracted by their talk.

“Wasn’t it nice,” said Lina, “what she told about the Christmas
trees? And Berty’s seen one; but we never did.”

“Poh!” cried Gottlieb, turning a very contemptuous somerset; “poh!
_I_ have: but I never told though before. It was last Christmas,—that
night, you know, I ran away from Bert. We went to the avenue, Martin
Fischer and me, and we saw one. It was in that big stone house where
the Dutchman lives—Herr Westermann. It was very cold, and we stood
upon the sidewalk, and the wind blew so hard; but the blinds were
open just a bit, and we saw it! O my!—but wasn’t it jolly! The great
green tree most up to the top of the wall; and the lights blazing
on every limb; and the gold and silver nuts shining; and the apples
and oranges and candy!—and O, flowers, too! and hobby-horses! and
dolls!—and all the children dancing round and laughing! I tell _you_,
you never saw anything so fine,—never! never!”

“Did you see the Christ-child, Lieb?” asked little Rosa, in a tone of
awe.

“I saw a little blue angel with gold wings, quite up in the top of
the tree,” answered Gottlieb; “only its face was turned the other
way.”

“_That_ was He!” cried Rosa, clapping her hands joyfully. “_That_ was
He! O how I wish I could see Him! Mina Schaeffer says it is He brings
all the things,—only she says He will never come to us, because we
are poor,—and it is only the rich ones He takes them to.”

“Fie, Rosa,” said Lina, reprovingly; “don’t you remember what _die
liebe Mutter_ said, how Jesus (He’s the Christ-child, you know) was
very poor, and how the Holy Virgin laid Him in a manger when He was
born. I don’t believe _He_ would forget us because we are poor.”

“Will He come, then, do you think?” asked Rosa, eagerly. “Will He
come this Christmas, if we are very good? Perhaps we were naughty
last year,—I don’t remember,—and _die Mutter_ said He don’t love us
but when we are good. Let’s be _very_ good now, and see if He will
come.”

“I don’t believe it is the Christ-child does it,” said Gottlieb, who
had been lying quite still, thinking, for some time. “I don’t believe
it is the Christ-child does it at all. Mina Schaeffer knows nothing,
and the little blue angel looked just like a doll. I’ll bet you it
was Herr Westermann bought all those things, and Frau Westermann put
them on the tree;—only she’s a little woman, I know, and the tree was
very high. But, any way, I don’t believe it’s the Christ-child does
it. Martin says it isn’t. They had a tree to Martin’s house once, and
he peeped, and he thought he saw his mother; but then their tree was
little, and Herr Westermann’s was ever so big.”

“Perhaps Frau Westermann had a ladder,” said Lina, coming to her
brother’s assistance in his puzzle.

“A ladder! to be sure, so she must!” cried Gottlieb, much relieved.
“Yes, you may be certain she had a ladder.”

“But the tree,” put in little city-bred Rosa; “where would he get the
tree?”

“Pshaw, stupid!” answered her brother, impatiently; “don’t the trees
grow, and couldn’t he cut one and bring it home on a dray?”

“But wouldn’t the policeman catch him then?” asked poor puzzled Rosa,
whose only idea of trees was of those in the city parks.

“But, Rosa, there are woods,” explained Lina,—“great fields full of
nothing but trees,—that’s in the country. Mina Schaeffer went there
once to visit her cousin, and she told me. People may cut them if
they like, and there are no policemen; only I don’t think Herr
Westermann could bring one on a dray because it is so far, Lieb. I’ll
tell you, though: I think they bring them on the railroad to the
markets, and then the people can buy them. I saw some once—very tall
and full of green prickles, and Biddy said they were for Christmas
trees. I guess Herr Westermann bought his, Lieb.”

“Well, perhaps he did,” answered Lieb, sleepily; “and a ladder,—O
yes, a ladder! You may be sure it’s the father and mother do it,
Lina.”

“And we have no father—no mother,” said Rosa, with a sigh. “We have
nobody,—at least we have only Bert.”

“And Bert could not make a Christmas tree,” added Lina, sadly.

“Yes, Bert tould!” cried little Fritz, giving Lina a vigorous
punch with his stout little fist. Fritz had been lying broad awake
listening to all this wonderful talk without understanding it in the
least; but he firmly believed that his Berty could do anything, and
so he felt bound to defend her from Lina’s assertions. “I tell ’ou,”
said he, “Bert _tould_,—Bert tould had a laddy and make a kissmas
tee for Fitzy, and the bu andel tould hep her.”

It was just here, at these words of little Fritz’s, that the
wonderful wish came into Bertha’s heart, and set it throbbing, so
that the poor child forgot all about her troublesome work,—noticed no
longer the children’s talk, or the waning candle; but just sat with
her hands clasped in her lap, till the children were fast asleep and
the candle quite burnt out, thinking and thinking; then crept away
to her place by Fritzy’s side, and lay awake far into the night,
thinking and thinking still.

Perhaps you can guess now what was Bertha’s wish; at least, if you
cannot, you must be almost as stupid as was Gottlieb with his ladder.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER III.

“HOW TO DO IT.”


As the days passed, and Christmas-tide drew nearer, Berty’s wish
gained fuller and fuller possession of her childish heart. To get a
Christmas tree for these poor little children, who had no father or
mother, who had “only Bert,”—to make them for once perfectly happy,
as happy as rich Herr Westermann’s boys and girls,—and to do this all
herself,—how delightful, and yet how impossible the project seemed.

How bright and cheerful the old garret would appear, lighted up
by the glories of such a tree as the Westermann’s, for Bertha’s
dim German recollections were wonderfully freshened by Gottlieb’s
descriptions; how her mother would smile from her sweet rest in
Paradise upon the little pale girl to whose feeble care she had, with
such a failing heart, committed her little ones; how sweetly her
father would sleep in his bed there under the sea, if he knew how
happy his darlings were made.

Then the gifts, too. Oh, how Berty’s imagination revelled in those
gifts! Of course, there must be the blazing tapers, and the gold and
silver nuts, and the apples, and oranges, and candy; but there must
be also—what?—ah, a little cart for Fritzy, and—oh yes, a whole row
of pewter soldiers, and a whistle, and a rattle;—only think of a
baby who had never had a rattle! Then there must be a doll for Rosa,
and perhaps a cradle to rock it in; and Lieb must have a drum, for
he so dearly loves to make a noise, and perhaps a tin sword too,
and a soldier’s cap;—then he might “train” with the other boys upon
the street, perhaps even be Captain of a Company: how Lieb would
like that! And Lina must have a set of dishes, for Lina was such a
tidy little housekeeper she would be sure to like that best of all.
And Berty—ah! Berty would have _done it_; surely, that would be fun
enough: Berty was the little mother; surely, that was joy enough for
her.

O yes! it was easy enough to arrange all that; it was easy enough
to think _what_ to get; but _how_ to get it—that was quite another
thing. So, whenever this troublesome question came up, Berty was
fain, for a long time, to put it out of her head. But at last the
simple child bethought herself that this question, “How to do it,”
was by far the most important question of the two. If the Christmas
tree was ever to be anything more than a beautiful dream, this
question must be settled first of all. And so she set herself
resolutely to consider it.

The fairy godmother of Mrs. Flanagan’s tales was, as I said, the
first thought; but Bertha, having been born in Germany, instead
of Ireland, could never feel quite certain that she had a fairy
godmother. Biddy, to whom she applied in her perplexity, knew nothing
about German fairies; she could only speak confidently about the
“good little people” of her own green island, who were but too fond
of children, as she knew; for had not her own husband’s first cousin
had a child carried off by them, changed in its cradle for a fairy
babe,—a strange little being, which never grew older or larger, but
remained always a merry, silly child. Berty did not like this view
of the subject at all: but for the Christmas tree, she would have
been relieved to know that there was no such person about, for she
had no mind to have her Fritzy exchanged for any fairy folk. Ah, if
she would but bring the Christmas tree, and then fly away, and never,
never, come back any more! But, even if she had such a guardian, how
could she be sure that it had not been left in the “old country,”
along with the rest of their household treasures: the donkey, the
goat, the pet kid, the pink china shepherdess, the painted tea-set,
and the great old pewter tankard, which she dimly remembered.

Again she applied to Biddy:—did fairies ever emigrate? “Whisht,
child!” answered Mrs. Flanagan; “how can I tell? Sure, the fairy folk
are very wise, and is it likely they’d fash themselves with crossing
the salt wather? And Ameriky’s but a wild counthry, wid snakes, and
bears, and Injuns,—not tame and tidy like ould Ireland; and the weeny
people could never bide in cities. They must have their green rings
to dance upon, and all that. Troth, though, I _did_ see a place
in the park whin we wint there the day, so trim and green I tould
Mike it looked a likely spot for the good folk; but thin there’s
the p’leecemen. Whisht, child, how can _I_ tell? And why need ye be
talkin’ so much of them? Sure, Berty, they don’t like it; and it’s
not good to vex them.”

So at last, all things considered, Bertha came to the conclusion
that this fairy godmother was much too uncertain a personage to be
trusted with such an important and difficult matter as her Christmas
tree. But she could not manage alone,—how could she? It was almost
impossible for her, with all the help she had from the kind world, to
get food enough for all those children to eat, and clothing enough
for them to wear: how could she, whose only living was gained by
picking up what other people threw away as worthless, hope to indulge
in this luxury of giving, which few of the people around her, so much
better off than herself, could afford? No, she could never do it
alone. Who then would help her? Not Biddy: she was much too poor and
too busy to bother herself with such a matter. Not Madame Hansmann:
she might be willing, but her cross, beer-drinking son, with whom she
lived, and of whom she stood in such terror that she never permitted
the children to come to her except when he was absent, would never
allow it. Who, then, would help her? She had no one else.

“No one else!” It was to this sad conclusion of all her hopes and
schemes that Berty had come upon the evening when my story begins,
when she sat by the window, looking up at the dull rainy sky. It
was this dreary thought which made her turn back, with such a weary
sigh, to her unpleasant work at Gottlieb’s summons. Poor Berty! the
rags had never seemed so filthy, the bits of iron never so rusty,
the whole basket of odds and ends never so worthless, as they did
that night. She had no sympathy with Gottlieb’s rejoicing over his
two horse-shoes, no patience with Lina’s lingering over the bits of
an illustrated newspaper; and, when she crept into her bed in the
darkness, after Gottlieb had returned from his nightly chaffer with
“Moses,” the _Vaterunser_ was, I am sorry to say, forgotten.

“No one else!” What was it, then, that put into Berty’s mind, as she
lay there awake in the darkness, brooding over her fruitless plans,
the remembrance of that old talk of the children which had given rise
to them? What was it made her recall that sweet thought of little
Rosa’s, that it was the Christ-child brought the gifts,—or that still
sweeter faith of Lina’s, that JESUS would never forget them because
they were poor. What was it? Oh, my children! rather, _Who_ was it?
Who but that Friend, the best and dearest Who watches over us all,
even while we forget Him, and showers upon us new blessings, even
while we are unthankful for those He has already sent.

JESUS would not forget them: they had no father, no mother; but they
still had Him. I cannot tell you with what a flash of joy and hope
this thought filled little Bertha’s lonely heart. I suppose you could
never fully understand it until, like Bertha, you had “no one else”;
which, God grant, may never be your case; for it is a hard trial,
this having no one else, though it is an inestimable blessing to have
Him. And so Berty found it when she rose from her bed, and, kneeling
once more by the window, with her face turned toward the sky, laid
all her cares and hopes and wishes at His feet.

And I cannot think that Berty was wrong or foolish in this, even
though her trouble was about such a little thing; for I am sure that
He who cares for the sparrows, and who has provided so many beautiful
things for us to enjoy, cares even for our slightest pleasures, and
helps us to gain them when they are right.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER IV.

LITTLE MARY’S HOME.


Upon that same October evening, another little girl, near Bertha’s
age, sat by the window, looking out into the twilight. It was
no dreary back-court, however, which met her eye, but a broad,
well-paved street, lined with stately houses, and a quiet park, where
the graceful willows drooping round the fountain still showed a tinge
of green, and the elms and maples still looked gay in their autumn
livery of crimson and gold.

And the scene within presented as strong a contrast to poor Bertha’s
surroundings as did the scene without. The cheerful parlor, with
its rich curtains and soft carpet, its glowing grate and pleasant
pictures and comfortable easy-chairs, was very unlike that dismal
attic; but the gazer at the window seemed to give very little heed
to its brightness. She, too, was looking up at the cloudy sky, and,
with her pale little face and deep mourning-dress, made as sad a
picture through the plate-glass window as did poor ragged Bertha
behind her smoky panes.

Presently, however, as a footstep sounded along the pavement and up
the steps, the pale, sad face lighted up and turned eagerly toward
the door. A handsome, merrylooking, young gentleman came briskly in,
shaking a tiny shower of rain-drops from his hair and dress. “Were
you counting the rain-drops, Polly?” said he, “or looking for the
moon?”

“No, cousin John; I was only thinking.”

“_Only_ thinking!” said cousin John, wheeling the most inviting
easy-chair up in front of the glowing grate. “Well, come here and sit
with me, and, if you must stare at something, let it be at the fire:
it is a much more agreeable object than that mizzly sky. And so you
were thinking, Polly? I hoped you were watching for me.”

[Illustration: MARY’S HOME.]

“I was wishing for you, cousin John. But I wasn’t exactly watching,
because I was thinking of _them_;”—and the child clasped her hands
nervously, and turned her face up to him with a sorrowful look, which
was sadder than tears.

A shadow came over the young man’s pleasant face; and he stooped and
kissed her forehead, as he placed her on his knee. “You shouldn’t sit
here alone in the twilight, Polly,” said he; “it’s not good for you.
Where are the babies?”

“Grandmamma does not like them to stay in the parlor, you know: they
make such a litter; and she wants it tidy when you come home; and
Mrs. Evans says I sha’n’t be always in the nursery.”

“Grandmamma mustn’t sacrifice you to my old-bachelor notions, puss. I
had rather stumble over a dozen hobby-horses than to find my little
Polly sitting here alone with such a dismal face.”

“_I_ like it to be neat for you, too, cousin John,” said cousin
John’s little Polly, as he drew the kind caressing arm closer round
her; “and I don’t think Grandmamma would have made the rule; but the
last time they were in here, Jamie got the poker, and rode upon it
all round the room. He called it his gee-gee. Look, what a black mark
he made in the carpet. Nancy scrubbed it ever so long this morning,
and it won’t come out; and the black was all over his new scarlet
frock, too. Then Jeannie climbed on a chair, to get the dollies,—she
thinks those marble busts are dollies,—and she fell and bumped her
head. Mrs. Evans says it will be black and blue for a month. Oh, how
angry she was! She said they were spoiled. Sylvie never said so; and
Sylvie let me stay with them as much as I liked. Poor Sylvie!”—and
the child’s voice sank into a tone of sad complaint.

“Mrs. Evans is a bit of a tyrant, I know,” answered cousin John,
cheerfully; “but she is very fond of the twins, and of their big
sister too, I can tell you. But where’s Grandmamma to-night?”

“Aunt Emily came and took her home to tea. She asked me, too; but,
oh, cousin John, they do pity me so much, and ask so many questions
about _it_,—all those old ladies,—that I can’t bear it. But she said
you were to come, and I was to tell you the instant you came in, but
I forgot. Shall you go?”

“Shall I, Polly? I leave you to decide.”

“Oh, cousin! will you? And may I tell you to stay? I want you so
much: only I don’t wish to be selfish; and aunt Emily said you and
Grandmamma were dreadfully moped with us children.”

“Are we?” said cousin John, smiling. “I’m much obliged to aunt Emily;
I never should have guessed it without her help. I thought it was
very nice to have a little Polly to welcome me home every evening,
and to be company for Grandmamma all day; and I am sure the house
was never so lively as it is since Jemmy and Jenny came. _I_ should
have said, now, if any one had asked me, that it was aunt Emily’s
tea-parties which moped us; but then, of course, she knows.”

“I don’t believe you are moped at all,” said Polly, energetically;
“you are always so bright and merry, or, when you are sad, it is not
in a stupid way. I wonder at you sometimes, cousin John. You are just
like me,—that is, I mean you have no father and mother; and you have
not even the twins;—you have only Grandma in all the world, and yet
you seem so happy, while I can do nothing but cry.”

“_Only_ Grandmamma! Why, Polly, I should not be so very poor in
friends, even if you were right. Grandma counts for a great deal with
her Johnny, I can tell you. But I thought myself richer than that. I
thought I had you, my little cousin, and the twins. Don’t you mean to
give me any share in the twins?”

“Oh, cousin John! I didn’t mean _that_!” cried the little girl, very
earnestly. “I’m sure I love you better than anybody in the world,—at
least now,—and Jemmy and Jenny are always calling for ‘Cuddy.’ They
never call papa or brother now; and nurse won’t let me put them in
mind, because she says it does them no good and only makes me cry. Oh
no! I did not mean that. I meant people that belong to you,—people
that you have a right to.”

“And I insist that I have a right to you, Polly,” said the young
gentleman, pressing Polly very tight in his arms. “But I know what
you mean, puss, and I won’t tease you any more. Indeed, I have been
wishing to talk with you a little about this for some time; and, now
we have begun it, perhaps I had better say my say. I know very well
how sad it is to be an orphan, and I have seen the time, at first,
when, like you, I could do nothing but cry; so, I don’t mean to set
myself up for an example; but, my little Mary, there is one thing
which you and I must both remember, and which ought to help us very
much, and that is this: whatever our trials are, they are sent by One
who knows much better than we do what is good for us, and for those
we love; and whatever our blessings are, they come to us straight
from His hand. If we believe this,—as I try to do, as I hope you also
try to do,—it will make us afraid to murmur at the one, and ashamed
to be unthankful for the other,—will it not?”

“Perhaps so; I suppose it ought,” said Mary, slowly; “but, oh, cousin
John, it is so very hard. You are a man, and you are so very good you
would be sure to feel just right; but I am only a little girl, and it
is so very hard, so very different. You and Grandma are very kind,
but, oh, I want papa so much, and mamma, and Ned! Oh, cousin, you
don’t know! It seems sometimes as if my heart would break!”—and the
child leaned her head against her cousin’s shoulder, and wept as if
her heart were really breaking.

The young man soothed her very tenderly, and waited patiently until
her tears were dried; then he said, gently, “My darling must not
think I mean to blame her, but only to help her bear her trouble
better. I know it is sad, very sad, to lose so many dear friends
at one blow; but Polly must count up her blessings as well as her
trials: she has not been left quite helpless and friendless, as so
many poor children are, by this same fearful Providence.”

“That is what nurse is always saying,” answered Mary, a little
impatiently; “but I can’t see that it makes my trial any easier. I’m
sure it only makes me more wretched to think of other people being so
miserable.”

“I suppose it does have that effect,” answered cousin John,
thoughtfully, “unless one tries to help them. Yes, Polly, strange as
it may seem, the only way to lighten our own burdens is by helping
other people to bear theirs.”

There was not a shadow of vexation in his tone; and yet, somehow,
Mary could not help feeling that her cousin was not quite pleased
with her,—perhaps because she was not quite pleased with herself.
She was conscious of being unthankful for her remaining blessings;
she knew she had felt inclined to murmur at her lot, and to indulge
her grief without any regard to the comfort of those around her. But
she felt she had great excuse,—as, indeed, she had, if any one can
be said to have excuse for doing what is not quite right; for this
little Mary’s trials were no common ones.

I dare say my young readers have already guessed that Mary was an
orphan, but I hope they are not familiar enough with sorrow to have
guessed in what a terrible form her bereavement came. Perhaps some
of you may remember, however, to have heard or read of the fearful
pestilence at Norfolk in Virginia, a few years ago, when the yellow
fever passed through the city and carried off its victims from every
house. It was at Norfolk that little Mary’s parents lived; and it
was this terrible disease which had robbed her, in a single week, of
her father, her mother, her eldest brother, and Sylvie, her faithful
black nurse. Poor little Mary! well might she shudder and turn pale
as she remembered that fearful day when she found herself alone with
the twin babies, with only those strange doctors and nurses to care
for them. Well might she cling, too, to the dear cousin who had
braved the pestilence to come to their relief.

The grandmother’s house was of course open to the orphans. They had
already been with her two months when my story begins, and the twin
babies had become quite wonted to their new nursery, grown very fond
of “ganny,” as they called her, very familiar with “Cuddy,” as they
styled young Dr. Grey, and seemed to have adopted Nurse Evans into
the place of their lost Sylvie; but little Mary was still, I am sorry
to say, not only very sad but very discontented. She had taken up
a sad complaining way, brooding over her grief, and refusing to
be comforted; contrasting her grandmother’s quiet, sober ways with
her mamma’s sweet brightness, and Mrs. Evans’s strictness with poor
Sylvie’s indulgence.

Dr. John was the only person who could soothe or divert her; for she
chose to believe that he, an orphan himself, left from childhood to
his grandmother’s care, was the only one who could fully sympathize
with her great trouble. She was very fond of him; and now, though
a little vexed at his seeming reproof, could not bear the thought
of displeasing him: so, after a moment’s thought, she took his hand
caressingly in both her own, and said, “I am so little, cousin John,
and so silly, I don’t see how I could help other people any; but if
you want me to, I’ll try,—only you must tell me how.”

“I’ll tell you how I learned what little I know about it, Polly,”
answered Dr. Grey, kindly. “When I first came here, it was with me, I
suppose, very much as it is with you now. I pined for the dear ones
I had lost, and found this great empty house very lonely and dreary.
I thought no one had ever been so afflicted as I, and I indulged my
grief without giving a thought to other people’s feelings, until, one
night, Grandma and I sat here in this very parlor. I was moping by
the window, just as you were when I came in. I thought of that night
when I saw you here, looking so doleful; and dear Grandma sat by the
fire with her knitting in her lap. She was not so old a woman as now
by a good many years, but she seemed to me every whit as aged; and
I confess I thought it something of a bore that there should be no
younger people in the house. She had been trying hard to wile me into
a little cheerful talk, but I was obstinate; so she had finally given
it over, and sat there thinking, with her hands folded over the work
in her lap. I don’t know what prompted me to peep out at her from my
sullen nook in the window-seat, but I did, and I never shall forget
the weary, sorrowful, jaded look upon that dear old face. Perhaps you
have seen it, Polly; it has come back once or twice since you came.
It came over me all at once then, that I was not the only sufferer;
that, if I had lost my parents, dear Grandma had lost her only son;
if I was lonely in my orphan childhood, she must be still more so
in her widowed age; and that I, who should have been her comfort,
was adding to her trouble by my selfish grief. I can’t tell you how
I felt, Mary; but I remember I jumped from the window-seat, and sat
down upon the footstool at Grandma’s feet, and leaned my head against
her knee. The kind old smile came back then, and I made a great vow
to myself to keep it there. I have tried; I don’t know if I have
succeeded always; but one thing I do know, Polly: I have never felt
myself quite desolate since that night. I have never wished for
any one younger than Grandma either; and I hope, I believe, I have
filled, in some measure, the place of the son she then lost. But the
dear old patient heart has got a fresh wound now, Polly: she has lost
a daughter now; another orphan grandchild is weeping in her home; and
the old look of sadness and weariness has come back. I can’t banish
it alone this time, Polly. Will you help me?”

“Oh, I know what you mean!” cried Mary, bursting into tears; “I know
what you mean. I have seen the look. It was on her face to-night,
when I would not go with her, and aunt Emily would insist upon taking
her away. But I did not mind it as you did. I never thought she could
care so much for mamma; but I see now: if I had died, dear mamma
would have been so sad, so sorry. Yes, I _will_ try, cousin John,—I
_will_!”

“I knew you would, my darling; and, I am sure, Grandma will be very
happy in her little daughter.”

“Her little daughter,” repeated Polly, drying her eyes, and
brightening up, as if that put the subject in a new light. “That is
like being your little sister, isn’t it? I like that.”

“Yes,” said Dr. John, “my little sister,—Grandma’s boy and girl. I
like it too, Polly, very much.”

“We’ll be ever so good, won’t we? But, cousin John, you’ve only told
me about Grandmamma, and you said there were others. How did you
learn to help the others?”

“I haven’t done learning that yet, Polly; so we can study together,
and, if we have but the motive, I dare say we shall find a way to
lighten the burden of many a weary fellow-traveller.”

“What is the motive, cousin John?”

Dr. John made no answer to this question in words; but he took his
grandmother’s great Bible from the stand beside him, and turning
over the leaves, put his finger on a passage, and held it up to the
fire-light for Polly to read. The child made out the words slowly by
the flickering light: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the
least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me”; then looked up
in his face and asked, in a frightened tone, “Do you think He really
meant _that_, cousin John?”

“We have His own Word for it, Polly,” answered Dr. John; “and is not
that motive enough? Is there anything, _any_thing, we should not be
willing to do for Him?”

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER V.

“WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?”


Berty rose next morning with the firm belief that her wish was to
be granted, though in what way she could not tell. She was not so
unreasonable as to expect the coveted pleasure to fall from the sky
in answer to her prayers, however; and so she could not help feeling
some curiosity about the means by which it was to come to her. Was
it to be given her, or was she to be helped to earn it? The first
plan seemed very unlikely, for she knew no one who had both the means
and the will to do so much for her; and the second seemed, at first
thought, more unlikely still, but she was fain to settle upon it at
last, as being the more probable of the two. Yes: she would be very
diligent in her work; and who knew but she might find something very
valuable in the gutter, or do some great service to the people at
the crossing, and so get money enough.

But how much money would it take, was another question, and a very
puzzling question to poor Bertha, whose acquaintance with the prices
current was very slight indeed. In this emergency she applied once
more to Mrs. Flanagan. “Biddy, how much does a Christmas tree cost?
Do you know?”

“A Christmas tree! Faix, Berty, what a child ye are for axin’
questions’. Sure they don’t be havin’ such toys in ould Ireland; and
I niver bought one. Pounds and pounds, I suppose; but your Dutch
folks be talkin’ of thim so much, they’d be liker to know than I.”

“And how many cents is in a pound, Mrs. Flanagan?”

“How many cints? Sure, child, I niver reckoned. There’s betune four
and five dollars, I know; but I niver could remember rightly how
much, to a penny,—the money’s so bothersome in this counthry.”

“And there’s one hundred cents in a dollar, I know: Tim Daly told
me,” pursued Berty. “Pounds and pounds; and four hundred cents to a
pound. Oh, dear! oh, dear! Mrs. Flanagan, do you think I could ever
earn so much?”

“Hear till the child now! Is she crazy, d’ye think?” cried Biddy, in
amazement. “Sure, you’re niver thinkin’ of buyin’ a Christmas tree!
you, that haven’t shoes to yer feet, nor clothes to yer back, nor
food to yer stomach!”

Poor Berty! the good Irishwoman’s words fell upon her heart with a
heavier weight than even the “pounds and pounds”; but she would not
wait to hear more,—she _would_ not be talked out of her project at
the very beginning,—so she caught up her broom and her basket, and
scampered away as fast as her bare little feet could carry her.

Once safe round the corner, out of reach of Mrs. Flanagan’s
astonished gaze, Bertha began to walk slower, and to revolve again
in her mind that weary question of ways and means, which has puzzled
so many wiser heads than hers. It was so hard to settle what to do;
some adviser she must have; but who? She could not consult with her
little prime minister, Gottlieb, for the project would lose half
its charm if it were not to be a surprise to him. She thought of her
Dutch acquaintance; doubtless they would know all about it; but she
remembered Biddy’s amazement, and she had no mind to encounter a
second edition of that. No; she wanted no prudent old heads shaking
themselves so provokingly over her wild plan. What she wanted, after
all, was some one to sympathize rather than advise.

“The top o’ the morning to ye, Berty,” cried a pleasant, cheery
voice, breaking in upon her meditations; and her heart leapt
within her at the sound of the merry brogue, and the sight of the
round, rosy face of the little speaker. Here was just the adviser
she wanted. Tim Daly, her master in the rag-picker’s arithmetic,
her protector in all her street troubles,—honest, merry, wise,
kind-hearted, blundering Tim, who always looked upon the bright
side of everything, who always had a word of encouragement for
everybody,—who could be a better confidant than he?

So she turned upon the young Irishman a brighter glance of welcome
even than he was accustomed to get. “Oh, I _so_ glad to see you,
Tim!” said she. “You’re just the very one I wanted.”

“Well, it’s good to be welcome, any way,” said Tim, who cared more
for Berty’s smiles than he would have been willing to confess. “It’s
good to be welcome. An’ what were ye wanting of me, Berty?”

“I’ll tell you, Tim,” answered Berty, eagerly. “I’ve got such a
wonderful plan; and I can’t tell Gottlieb, you see, because it’s part
to be for him; and I want somebody to talk it over with; and you’re
better than any one.”

“Am I, though?” asked Tim, straightening himself up grandly. “You’re
the _broth_ of a boy, Berty.” Tim thought it very nice to be better
than any one to Berty, you see; and as for Berty herself, she
seemed quite contented to be called the “broth of a boy,” though it
certainly sounded very much as if Tim was a cannibal, and not a very
good judge of child-soup at that.

“Yes Tim,” said she, “you are,—because you’ve some sense, and you
won’t fly out at one like Mrs. Biddy, I know.”

“I’ll never fly out at you, Berty, that’s sure,” said Tim,
confidently.

“Well, then, you see, it’s just this:—There’s those poor
children,—Lieb, and Lina, and Rose. They were so little when we came
from the old country,—and Fritzy, he wasn’t born,—and none of them
ever saw a Christmas tree in all their lives;”—and Berty held her
breath here, as if she had made a very astonishing statement.

“No more have I,” said Tim; “but that’s nayther here nor there,
Berty. Go on.”

“Didn’t you?” said Berty, casting a pitying glance up at the merry
face beside her, and mentally fastening a present for Tim upon the
green branches of her imaginary tree. “Well, neither did they; and
Madame Hansmann, you see, has told them about it, and their heads
are full of it. I heard them the other night talking, and wishing,
and they said they could not have it because they had no father,
no mother,—nobody but Bert. And oh, Tim, I promised mother to do
_every_thing for those children; and I wish so much, so very much,
to do this. Oh, Tim, do you think I could? and will you help me?”
finished up poor Berty, in a choking voice.

“‘Deed an’ I will, Berty,” cried Tim, with an encouraging slap upon
Berty’s shoulder; “and ov course ye can do it. Sure, I’ve got fifty
cints that I was laying by for the winter shoes; but what’s shoes to
a Christmas tree? Sure, we’ll get it betune us, Berty. Don’t ye cry;
we’ll get it, sure as fate.”

This was rather more help than Berty had bargained for. She did not
at all like the notion of robbing Tim of his shoes; for, if the truth
must be told, she was much more tender of Tim’s feet than of her own.

“Oh no, Tim,” said she, earnestly; “I did not mean _that_. I don’t
want you to help me with money, for I mean to earn it all myself;
and I have prayed, and I know that the Christ-child (that’s Jesus,
you know) will help me. I’m going to look sharp in the gutters, and
I shall find heaps of things; or else I shall do something for the
passengers, and they’ll pay me ever so much. I’m not afraid about the
money; but you see I’m not wise,—I can’t count much. Will you help
me count the pennies, when I get them, and keep them for me till we
get enough,—so Lieb shall not guess,—and go with me to buy the tree
and things, so the market-men and the toy-sellers shall not cheat me.
Only there’s one thing I want to buy all myself, and you mustn’t look
then. Will you, Tim?”

“Yes,” said Tim, who had a famous project in his head of counting his
own pennies in with Berty’s, and never telling her; “yes, Berty, I’ll
do everything you ask me,—certain sure.”

“Then it’s all settled,” cried Berty, with a long sigh of
satisfaction, the tapers of her Christmas tree shining brightly in
her mind’s eye as she spoke,—“quite settled at last. And, Tim, here’s
my crossing, and yonder’s yours; and you’ll see—you’ll see what a
pile of pennies I’ll have to-night!”

“Well; good luck to you, Berty,” answered Tim, and scampered off.

If you had been near to watch little Berty that morning, I am sure
you would have thought her the most industrious little rag-picker
in all New York. She turned over very carefully the sweepings of
the shops, ransacked all the rubbish in the gutters, and swept
patiently at her crossing, keeping a sharp eye to the passengers
meanwhile, for any chance to do them service; and yet, when she sat
down, quite tired out, upon the curb-stone to eat her crust at noon,
she had in her basket only the usual amount of cabbagestumps, and
rags, and rusty nails, and in her pocket only the two pennies which
a pleasant-looking gentleman had tossed her as he stepped out of the
stage at the crossing.

It was very discouraging. And Tim, too, who scarcely ever failed to
come round now and then for a bit of friendly chat, had never been
near her all day. Berty was almost glad, since she had nothing to
show him; and yet it gave her a forsaken feeling, which, added to the
discouragement, almost made her cry.

By and by a drizzly rain came on, soaking her thin garments, chilling
her blood, and making the bright tapers of the imaginary tree look
very dim and distant through its dismal mist. Yet Berty would not
allow herself to lose heart entirely: this was a famous time for the
crossing, if only people would not be in such a hurry; for everybody
was crowding to the stages to escape the rain. Perhaps, if she kept
it very neat, so that the ladies should not soil their fine dresses,
nor the gentlemen their shining boots, some of them might be grateful
enough to fling her now and then a penny; and Berty did not think a
penny so small now as she had done in the morning. At any rate she
would try.

So she took her broom and swept away vigorously; and, sure enough,
the pennies did come, one after another, ringing down upon the
clean pavement, till Berty had counted ten; and then along came her
pleasant-looking gentleman of the morning, and he tossed her a dime,
with such a cheery smile, too, that Berty’s heart quite glowed within
her, and the tapers shone out again brighter than ever.

But what was this which came tumbling down upon the pavement as the
loaded stage rolled off,—not ringing at all, but with a heavy thump?
Berty picked it up. A pocket-book of purple Russia leather, very
fat and full. Whose could it be? The pleasant-looking gentleman’s?
Very likely; for Berty remembered that he was the last to step upon
the platform. So she held it up and shouted, and ran after the stage
a moment; but nobody heeded, and she could never overtake it, that
was certain. What should she do? Give it to the policeman? Doubtless
he knew where the gentleman lived; policemen knew everything. Berty
looked round, but, for a wonder, there was no policeman near. What
should she do then? Take it to the station-house, or wait till the
stage came down again and hand it to the conductor? He knew the
gentleman, for she had seen them nod to each other. But what if he
should not give it up; what, if he should keep it?

“_Keep it!_” What was there in that thought to make Berty’s heart
beat so, and her head grow giddy? What was there to make her clinch
the pocket-book tighter, and hide it in her dress, and glance round
to see if any one was looking? Was it a good angel, think you, that
whispered in Berty’s ear at this moment—“_Keep it!_ If any one is to
keep it, why not you? You did not see him lose it; how do you know to
whom it belongs? You found it in the street; and what is found in the
street belongs to the sweepers. And you prayed, too; how can you tell
but this is an answer to your prayer? It is a good fat one. Surely,
it holds enough to buy a Christmas tree. Look at it and see if it
does not.”

It might have been an angel; very likely it was; but, truly, I think
such angels are very poor help in growing Christmas trees.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER VI.

TIM TURNS POLICEMAN.


Tim came back to the crossing towards night, his round face rosier
and merrier than ever, and a new little splint basket on his arm,
which Berty would have wondered over at any other time, but did not
notice now. She sat upon the curb-stone with her basket beside her,
and her hands folded in her lap, thinking as intently as on the night
when we found her at the attic window. But there was a flush on her
face, and a strange look of care in her eyes, for which Tim could not
account, and which he thought boded little good to the wished-for
tree. Still, Tim thought he carried the cure for all such trouble in
his breeches’ pocket, if he could but get Berty to take it. So he
began, cautiously, “Well, Berty, so you’re waiting, for me; how goes
it?”

The child turned and looked at him vacantly, but did not answer.
“Bad enough?” said Tim, sitting down beside her. “Well, honey, never
mind. You’ll let yer own Tim help ye, sure ye will. An’ he’s a rich
man the night. Faix, it’s not a rag-picker he is at all any more, but
an apple-boy; hooroo! Whist, Berty,” he added, as the girl started
nervously at this outburst. “Whist, Berty, an’ I’ll tell ye. I had
a bright thought whin I left ye the morn; an’ I just scampered home
an’ tuk the fifty cints from the ould stockin’ fut, where uncle
Teddy bade me keep ’em; an’ I wint to the market an’ bought this
tidy basket, d’ye see? an’ filled it wid apples from a stall; an’
then I wint down to the ferry an’ sold ’em. And whin the apples were
all gone, I filled it wid oranges; an’ whin the oranges were gone, I
filled it wid chestnuts; an’ whin the chestnuts was gone, I filled
it wid pennies, d’ye see?”—and, suiting the action to the word, Tim
poured a jingling stream of pennies from his pocket into the basket.

“There, darlint,” said he, coaxingly, placing the basket upon Berty’s
knee. “There, darlint, ye won’t mourn for yer luck now any more.
Ye’ll just let yer own Tim help ye. Sure, ye know, Berty, I’ve no one
but meself to care for. Uncle Teddy’s not depindent on me; an’ you’ve
all those childer;—so, it’s only fair—”

“Tim,” said Berty, grasping the boy’s arm, and speaking in a
frightened whisper, “Tim, come with me. I want to show you something.”

Tim caught the basket as Berty heedlessly rose, and, without
speaking, followed her—still holding his arm—down a neighboring
alley. He had never seen his little friend look, or act, so
strangely, and he was curious to know what it meant. When they came
to a quiet, out-of-the-way spot, Berty stopped, and putting her hand
in her bosom, drew out the pocket-book, and held it up before him,
saying, still in the same frightened whisper, “There, Tim, see what I
found!”

“A pocket-book! Oh, Berty, let’s see!”

“Hush, Tim!” gasped Berty, “don’t speak so loud; and here, come in
the corner, behind this water-butt. Now, Tim, open it and count it,
and tell me if there’s enough.”

Tim took the book, and, loosening the elastic band, spread it out
before them as they sat upon the sidewalk. The numerous red pockets
were famously lined. There were rolls of bank-notes, drafts, checks,
and in one little flapped pocket a handful of shining gold. “Why,
Berty!” cried Tim, almost breathless with amazement, “_I_ could never
count it. It would take a bank-teller to do that. Sure, there’s money
enough to buy a dozen Christmas trees.”

“Is there?” said Berty, clutching eagerly at it. “Is there? Then
there’s surely enough to buy one. Give it to me, Tim; let me put it
away. Somebody’ll be coming along.”

Tim caught the grasping hand in one of his, and held the pocket-book
firmly in the other. “Where did you get it, Berty?” he asked.

Berty’s head drooped a little, and the color flushed up to her
temples. “I told you, Tim,” she answered: “I found it.”

“Yes; but where?”

“In the street.”

“And you don’t know who it belongs to?”

“How should I?” said Berty, growing redder still, and wrenching
impatiently at the detained little hand. “Give it to me, Tim; it’s
mine.”

Tim looked gravely down at the pocket-book, which he had closed and
fastened, and then back again at Berty’s face. The strange look there
was getting a meaning in it which he did not like at all. “Berty,”
said he, freeing her hand at last, and pointing with his finger to
a row of gilt letters upon one side of the book, “do you see that?
That’s the owner’s name and number. We’ve got to take this to the
station. That’s all the business we’ve got with it.”

“You sha’n’t, Tim! It’s mine, I tell you! You’ve got no business
with it at all. Give it here, I say!” cried Berty, snatching the
pocket-book from his hand, and hiding it again in her bosom.

Tim made no attempt to recover it. He stood looking at Berty for a
moment, with a mixture of grief and astonishment in his face, and
then said, slowly, “Well, Berty Weisser, I never thought that of you,
any way. It’s no better than stealing,—not a bit. Oh, Berty! Oh,
Berty! come wid it to the station. Come now! Sure, you wouldn’t be a
thief, I know. Come, Berty, come.”

“I won’t, Tim,” cried Berty, passionately. “It’s mine, I tell you! I
found it in the street. What we find in the street is ours; you know
it is. You are bad, Tim, you are cruel, to call me such names. I hate
you! I won’t stay to hear you!” and the child put both hands to her
ears and ran away, with all the speed she could muster, towards her
home.

Tim’s first impulse, of course, was to run after her; so he followed,
shouting to her to stop,—the pennies in his basket keeping up a
jingling accompaniment to his cries and his pattering feet. Berty,
however, paid no attention, but ran on and on, without looking round
or slacking her pace, until she found herself safe in her attic, with
the door closed and bolted against her pursuer.

Tim stopped at the foot of the garret-stairs, and sat down upon the
lowest step, quite breathless with his chase. Uncle Teddy’s room
opened upon the same landing, and the merry little Irishman sat at
the door smoking his pipe in the twilight, and laughing heartily at
his nephew’s ill luck. “What’s come to your sweetheart, Tim?” said
he; “she tore up the stairs like mad.”

“She is mad, I think,” answered Tim, wiping his forehead, and looking
ruefully up the stairs towards Berty’s room.

“Well, leave her alone for a little, and she’ll come to; it’s the
way of them all,” counselled Uncle Teddy. “But what’s that you have
there, Tim?”

Tim looked down at his basket, and the ghost of a smile lighted up
his face again. “It’s pennies, Uncle,” said he. “I’ve set up for an
apple-boy the day; and see, I made all these from the fifty cints we
laid by for the shoes. There’s a dollar and ten cints.”

“Is there though? Ye’re a sharp lad, Tim. It’s half as much as I’ve
airned meself. Put it by and take care of it, lad. Well, I’m goin’
out for a bit,” he added, knocking the ashes from his pipe, “and ye
can come wid me, if ye like, Tim,—just for once in a way.”

“No, Uncle,” said Tim; “I’ll bide here, I think; I’m tired.”

Very tired was Tim, and very sad, and sorely puzzled about what he
was to do. There was his little venture, so successful, and yet so
useless; there was Berty, whom he loved better than all the world,
hiding away from him, calling him cruel and declaring she hated him;
and there was the pocket-book, of which he felt himself become in
some mysterious way the especial guardian, taken out of his reach.
But, worse than all, harder than all, for poor, honest, warm-hearted
Tim to bear, was the thought that this little Berty, whom he had
first learned to love because she seemed so much better than other
children, the remembrance of whose goodness and purity had kept him
from many a boyish transgression, was going wrong, was setting her
heart upon keeping what did not belong to her. Oh, if she would but
heed him! Oh, if she would but listen to reason! Perhaps she would
now; perhaps she was cooler, and would talk the matter over. He could
at least try. So he crept softly up the stairs to Berty’s door. It
was quite dark by this time, and all was quiet within. He put his
lips to a crack in the panel and called, “Berty! let me in. I want
to spake wid ye.” Then he laid his ear to the crack and listened, but
heard no sound. She could not be asleep so soon. “Berty, honey!” he
called again, coaxingly. “_Do_ let me in.”

“Go away, Tim,” answered a hoarse whisper close to his ear. “Go away.
You’ll wake the children, and they must not know.”

No, the children must _not_ know. Tim agreed with her there. The
children must never guess upon the brink of what a precipice their
sister stood.

“Come out to me, then, Berty,” he whispered, softly; “they’ll not
hear.”

“No; go away. I’ll not come out. You’ll be trying to get it. Go away,
I tell you.”

“No, I won’t,” said Tim, earnestly. “I promise you I won’t. I only
want to talk a little. Come, now,—there’s a dear girl,—come.”

“I won’t, I tell you,” said Berty, decidedly. “I don’t want to talk
with you, Tim. You call me names. Go away.”

Tim saw he was losing ground, for he knew from Berty’s voice that she
was getting in a passion again; and of all things he dreaded that.
What had come to his gentle Berty to get in a passion so easily? At
any rate, they must part good friends, or he felt he had no chance
left of winning her to a better mind.

“Berty,” said he again, in his most persuasive tone,—“Berty dear,
you’re not vexed wid me? Say you’re not.”

“Go off, I say, Tim; go away.”

“Say good night, then, Berty, and I’ll go.”

“Good night, Tim.”

There was a shadow of relenting in the voice this time; and poor
Tim was fain to carry off this drop of comfort in his heart without
running the risk of losing it by staying longer: so he put his lips
to the crack again, and whispered softly, “Good night, Berty dear;”
then added, with a sudden impulse, “Say your prayers before you go to
sleep,” and ran away down-stairs again, to discuss with himself once
more that momentous question—what to do.

One thing seemed plain, however, through all the puzzle: he must
keep an eye on Berty so long as she had that pocket-book in her
possession,—to save her, if possible, from herself, and to guard this
property which had been so strangely committed to his care. So he got
his blanket from uncle Teddy’s room, and curled himself up in it at
the foot of the stairs. None of the lodgers, except Berty, came down
that staircase; and she should never come down without his knowledge.
So much was settled then. But what next? Should he send uncle Teddy
to the station-house in the morning? The policemen would come then,
perhaps, and drag poor Berty away to the tombs. Oh no, he could never
do that! Berty would have a right to call him cruel,—she would have a
right to hate him, if he did that. What then? Should he find out the
stranger and let him know where his property was? Perhaps that would
be best; perhaps the gentleman was a kind one, who would even give
Berty something for keeping it safe.

But Berty would never let him see the pocket-book again,—never. Could
he remember the number and the name? Ah, yes, “John Grey”; he had
made that out quite distinctly;—that was the name. But about the
number he was not so sure; indeed he was not sure that he had read it
at all;—he had only noticed something printed after the name, which
he had taken for granted was a number. And now all at once it flashed
upon him that it was not a number, but two letters—M. D. Yes, he saw
it quite plainly with his mind’s eye now,—“John Grey, M. D.” But what
did M. D. mean? And how was he to find the gentleman if there was
no number? Poor Tim! he was getting sorely puzzled and very sleepy;
and so at last, lest he should forget them, he got upon his knees
and murmured his _Ave Maria_ and his _Paternoster_,—and one little
Irish-English prayer, which perhaps mounted higher than either, that
the dear JESU would watch over him and Berty, and keep them from
evil, and help them to do right, and bring them safe out of their
trouble at last; and then laid down again and fell asleep.

Yes, children, I am sorry to say Tim was a Papist, and knew no better
than to pray to the Virgin, who, if she heard him, was doubtless more
sorry than you or I can be; but Tim was an honest, faithful boy, who
tried with all his might to do his duty to God and his neighbor
according to the light that was given him; and therefore I have a
great respect for those Latin prayers of his, which, little as he
understood them, were doubtless more acceptable than many an English
one which goes up from a less earnest heart.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER VII.

ANOTHER CHASE.


If Tim had meant to revenge himself for all Berty’s crossness, he
could not have chosen any means more certain than his parting-words
to do it. In the tumult of her thoughts, and her anxiety to get rid
of Gottlieb’s questions about the basket and broom, which in her
haste she had left unheeded upon the sidewalk, Berty had hurried
herself and the children into bed without remembering her usual
devotions. But those words of Tim’s, “Say your prayers before you
go to sleep,” brought the remembrance, and somehow it was strangely
unwelcome. She sat down upon the bedside, after Tim was gone, to
think it over. If the pocket-book had been sent, as she tried to
persuade herself, in answer to her prayers, she ought at least to be
willing to thank her Father in Heaven for such great and unexpected
kindness; and yet for her life she dared not have done it. If it
was God’s gift, it should fill her heart with love and thankfulness.
Whence came, then, this anger and terror? Berty would not let herself
understand,—would not allow herself to answer,—but crept into bed
again with the _Vaterunser_ still unsaid, though not forgotten.

But the sleep which settled so sweetly over Tim’s hard couch held
aloof from the straw bed in the attic. Berty tossed and tumbled in
feverish unrest,—or lay in silent terror listening to the footsteps
of the late lodgers coming in, and fancying they were policemen
seeking for her,—or magnifying the rats in the ceiling into robbers,
breaking in to steal her treasure. She tried to put the pocket-book
out of her head, but it lay there like a leaden weight in her bosom,
and would not be forgotten; she tried to think of her Christmas tree,
but the shining tapers were all gone out and would not be relighted.
The face of the strange gentleman would come up in their stead; but
the cheery smile which had warmed her heart so, burned into it now
like a red-hot iron. And Tim’s words, too,—those bad, cruel words,
“It’s no better than stealing, not a bit; and you would not be a
thief, Berty,”—came back again and again. And so the night wore
on,—the most wretched night which, with all her troubles, poor Berty
had ever known.

Towards morning she fell into an uneasy slumber, and dreamed that
the strange gentleman, in a policeman’s dress, with the cheery smile
still upon his face, hunted her up and down through crowded streets
and lonely alleys, while Tim and all the people cried “Stop thief!”
and woke to find it morning, and Lieb calling her to get up and
asking again those weary questions about the basket and the broom.

She put him off with a story of Tim’s taking care of them, gave him
his breakfast, and sent him away to his work; then dressed little
Fritz, and, leaving Lina and Rose to take care of him and put the
room to rights, started out, with not much notion where she was
going,—only somewhere to get away from herself. Tim was waiting for
her at the bottom of the stairs, with his new basket full of apples
in one hand, and his own old rag-basket and broom in the other. The
faithful little sentinel had waked with the first peep of day, and
gone out to the earliest market-stall to purchase his little store
before Berty was stirring.

“Good morning, Berty,” said he, pleasantly. “You left your basket
and broom in the street yesterday. I forgot all about it till just
now; and they’re quite gone before this. You can take mine, though. I
sha’n’t want ’em any more, you know.”

Berty nodded, and took them without speaking. It seemed that she
scarcely needed such tools now, rich as she was; but she should feel
lost without them, and they might help to occupy her mind until she
had decided what to do with all that money. So she set off for the
crossing, while Tim followed close at her heels, very uncomfortable,
but quite determined to keep her in sight. He had gotten no farther
through his puzzle, poor boy, than this first determination; and this
playing the policeman upon Berty was not at all to his taste.

And Berty liked it as little as he; for more than anything else
she dreaded to meet those eyes, the only ones which had seen her
hidden treasure,—more than anything else she wished to avoid a talk
with their owner, the only person in all New York who knew her
uncomfortable secret. She thought perhaps he would leave her at the
crossing, and go on to the ferry if she took no notice; so she began
to hunt very carefully among the rubbish in the gutter, as if she had
eyes and thoughts for nothing else; but she could not help looking
round slyly at last, and there was Tim posted at the corner with his
basket, though there could be very little chance for customers among
the few early passers-by. Presently, when the crowd began to thicken,
she began to sweep the crossing with her back towards the sidewalk;
but, ever and anon, as she glanced over her shoulder, she would catch
sight, between the flitting figures, of her little policeman, never
looking for customers at all, never speaking, never coming nearer,
but watching, watching still.

It was very provoking. What could Tim mean by it? She would not
have him watching there; she would send him away. But if she once
spoke to him, what might he not say to her? what might he not do? It
was a new feeling, this being afraid of Tim, and not by any means
a pleasant one; but one thing was certain: she could never come to
any decision,—she could never do anything with the money while Tim
was watching there. Berty was just thinking of running away herself,
when a stage stopped at the crossing directly in front of her, and
out stepped the pleasant-looking gentleman, with the old cheery
smile upon his face. That decided her; she dropped her broom in a
twinkling, and scampered away up the street.

On and on she ran, passing through street after street, turning
corner after corner, till at last, quite breathless and spent, she
ventured to look behind, and seeing she was not pursued, took courage
to slacken her pace. Still she dared not go back to the crossing;
she was even afraid to return to Mrs. Flanagan’s, lest the gentleman
should be seeking her there; and so she wandered on, the streets
growing less and less familiar, till she had lost her way entirely,
and then sat down, quite wearied out, upon the curb-stone, to rest
herself a little and determine what to do. It was a handsome street,
clean, and well paved, and lined with stately brownstone houses, not
at all like any part of the city where Berty had ever been before.
Though it was nearly noon, the people on the sidewalks were few and
far between, and, but for the stages and the handsome carriages, the
street would have seemed very lonely and quiet. Berty thought to
herself it could not be a very good place for the rag-pickers and the
crossing-sweepers. But who was that skulking behind the area railing
yonder, and peeping out at her? Berty started up in alarm, but she
was too tired to run away now; and, after all, it was only Tim. Tim
could not do her any great harm; upon the whole, she would be rather
glad to see him than otherwise, for he would know the way home. So
she sat down again and waited for him to come.

But Tim did not come. He stayed behind the railing, only peeping
out now and then to make sure that his charge did not steal away
unperceived. He had taken it for granted that Berty was running away
from him, for he knew nothing about the strange gentleman; and so he
had been skulking behind things and people all the way up in such a
sly fashion that any one who noticed him at all must have taken him,
poor honest fellow, for the culprit, instead of Berty.

Berty waited, as I said, and wondered; and when she found Tim was not
coming to her, plucked up courage at last to go to him. Tim could
scarcely believe his eyes; but he did not run away from Berty, you
may be sure. He made room for her upon the stone step beside him, and
received her with a very pleasant smile.

“What made you run away, Berty?” said he. “Sure, you knew I’d never
harm you.”

Berty was very glad Tim had put this construction upon her flight,
for she dreaded, of all things, letting him know about the gentleman.
“What made you watch me so, then, Tim?” said she.

Tim was not quite prepared with an answer to this question, so, in
true Irish fashion, he turned it off with a joke. “A cat may look
at a king, Berty,” he answered; “and you’re no better than a king,
sure.”

“And you’re no better than a cat, Tim,” answered Berty, sharply. “You
looked just like one, I’m sure. But I don’t want to talk about that
now,” she added, decidedly; “and if you begin, I shall run away. I
want you to show me the way home.”

“You’re too tired to go home now, Berty,” said Tim, with a pitying
glance at the pale, anxious face. “Sit down here, and rest a bit,
and eat an apple. You’re hungry, I’m sure. I’ll never say a word you
don’t like, honey,—see if I do.”

Berty _was_ very tired, and not a little hungry; so, having
confidence in Tim’s promise, she sat down beside him; while Tim,
having made up his mind that his best chance of influencing her was
by removing her fear of him, set himself to entertain her to the best
of his ability.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER VIII.

BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME.


Berty would scarcely have sat there so securely, though, if she had
known who was making his way, through all the downtown maze, towards
the very house in front of which she and Tim had settled themselves.

Perhaps my young readers have not forgotten the aunt Emily of whom
little Mary spoke in a former chapter. This house belonged to that
very aunt Emily; and the fine carriage, with the handsome bay horses,
which was drawn up in front of the door, and upon the merits of which
Tim was expatiating, belonged to Mrs. Grey, who, with her little
grand-daughter, was making a morning visit to aunt Emily.

While the old ladies were gossiping together, little Mary sat by the
window watching the passing stages, and looking out for Dr. John,
who had promised to return that way when his business down town was
finished, and take them with him to visit a hospital where some of
the patients were under his care. When Berty and Tim came and sat
down in front of the gate, Mary turned her attention a little from
the stages and began watching them.

Berty’s pale face and weary look soon interested her very much;
for, ever since that talk with cousin John she had been looking out
for some one whom she could help. Here was, perhaps, the very case
she wanted, for these children were certainly poor enough, and the
little girl especially looked very sad; but how could she begin? Just
then, aunt Emily, whose only notion of entertaining children seemed
to consist in feeding them, ordered a plate of cakes brought in for
Mary to eat. Mary was not at all hungry, so she only broke off a
little corner of one, not to seem rude, and set the plate upon the
window-seat. Then it occurred to her that perhaps the little girl
was hungry and might like some of the cakes. At least it would give
her a good excuse for talking a little.

“Aunt Emily,” said she, “there is a little girl and boy out here by
the steps, and they look hungry. May I give them some of my cakes?”

“If there are more than you want, my dear,” answered the old lady;
“but mind and don’t go very near them, Polly, or you may catch some
disease.”

Very glad of this permission, Mary took the plate of cakes in her
hand and went out upon the steps. Hearing the door close, Tim and
Berty looked round, and seeing the little girl coming down the steps,
supposed she was coming out of the gate, and rose to go away.

“Don’t go away, please,” said Mary. “I was only coming to bring you
some cakes. My aunty gave me some, and there were more than I wanted,
so I brought some out for you. Wouldn’t you like some?” And she held
the plate out to them over the little iron gate.

[Illustration: BERTY, TIM, AND MARY.]

The cakes looked very inviting, and the little girl’s manner was
so courteous that it would have seemed quite uncivil to refuse; so
Tim made his best bow, and Berty dropped a courtesy, while each took
a cake.

“Oh, take more, take them all; I meant them all for you,” said Mary,
still holding out the plate. “If there are too many to eat now, you
can put them in your pockets and take them home.”

“Take them, Berty,” said Tim, “since the little Miss is so kind. I
can put them in my basket for you, and the childer will be glad of
them; they don’t get such every day, ye know.”

“So you have some brothers and sisters?” said Mary, after the plate
was emptied and the contents stowed in Tim’s basket. “How many?”

“There are four younger than me, Miss,” answered Berty: “two boys and
two girls.”

“And I have two,—a brother and sister. Mine are twins. Are any of
yours twins?”

“No, Miss; we all come in a row. Mother said we are like little
steps,” said Berty.

“You have a mother, then. My father and mother are dead; there are
only the babies and I,” said little Mary, sorrowfully.

“Are they?” cried Berty, drawing nearer to Mary with a shy feeling of
sympathy. “So are mine, too; and there are only the children and me,
except uncle Gottlieb in the old country; and we cannot hear from him
since mother died.”

“What!” cried Mary, in amazement. “Have you nobody to take care of
you? no grandmother, or cousin, or aunt?”

“No, Miss; we have only each other.”

“But who feeds you, then? Who buys your clothes for you?”

“We have not much, Miss,” said Berty, simply. “But what we have we
get ourselves, my brother and I; the others are too little.”

“But how can you?” cried Mary, utterly unable to understand such
destitution. “You are too little to work yourself, and your brother,”
glancing at Tim, “is not very big. How can you take care of so many?”

“We pick things from the gutters, Miss,” said Berty, “and sometimes
we sweep the crossing; and Mrs. Flanagan forgives us the rent.”

“Oh, it is very sad!” cried Mary, clasping her hands; “it is much
worse than us. Cousin John said there were others much worse off than
I, but I did not see how it could be. He said I could help them. Can
I help you? I have not any money here, but I have some at home. Will
you come there and let me give you some? I should like so much to
help you if I might.”

Berty scarcely knew how to answer these eager questions, so
unexpected and so kind. What answer she would have made I cannot
tell; for, while she was considering, a stage stopped in front of the
gate, and Mary called out eagerly, “There is cousin John! Oh, cousin
John! have you found the pocket-book? have you some money with you?
Here is a little girl who has no father or mother, and I want—”

Little Mary never finished her sentence, for Berty heard that word
“pocket-book,” saw and recognized the strange gentleman getting out
of the stage, and, putting both hands to her bosom, darted, with a
wild cry of terror, out into the street. Tim dropped his basket and
sprang after her; but he was too late,—the stage-horses, frightened
by the cry, had started on, trampling poor Berty under their feet.

There was a moment’s confusion, little Mary and the stage-passengers
screaming, and Tim, the Doctor, and Mrs. Grey’s coachman all
springing to the horses’ heads while a little crowd of people
gathered round. Then Dr. John pushed his way through it, bearing
Berty in his arms, bleeding, bruised, and quite insensible.

“Don’t bring her in here, John! pray don’t!” called out aunt Emily
from the window,—to which she and Mrs. Grey had been attracted by
Mary’s cries,—as she saw the young Doctor turning towards the steps.
“She’ll die, or there’ll have to be some operation, and I never could
bear it in the world. Don’t bring her here.”

Dr. John made an impatient gesture, and looked appealingly towards
Mrs. Grey: “Shall I take her home, grandmother?”

“Certainly, John,” said the good lady, “if you do not think it too
far. She is not dead?”

“No; only fainted,” said the Doctor, “and shockingly hurt. Bring me
out some hartshorn, and lend me your handkerchiefs, some of you,”
added he, bearing the child towards the carriage.

“Cousin John,” said Mary, pushing her way through the crowd, “why
don’t you take her to the hospital? It is so much nearer, and you
were going there, you know.”

“The very thing. You have more sense than any of us, Polly,” cried
the Doctor, springing into the carriage with Berty still in his arms.
“Drive to the hospital, Tom, carefully, but as quickly as possible.”

“And her brother,—here’s her brother. Pray, let him go with you,
cousin,” said Mary, pushing poor, frightened, anxious Tim towards the
carriage-door.

“Certainly. Jump in, my little fellow,” said the Doctor, kindly.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER IX.

THE HOSPITAL.


When Berty came to herself, she was lying on a bed, and the strange
gentleman was bending over her, with a very anxious expression upon
his pleasant face. Her first impulse was to try running away once
more, but she found she had not strength enough to lift her head from
the pillow. Then she became conscious that there was a bandage round
her temples, and that a kind-looking lady was beside the gentleman,
helping him to unfasten her dress. “They’ll find the pocket-book
now,” thought she, and she tried to put up her hands to shield it;
but the right one was strangely powerless, and the left one the
gentleman held in his, while he felt her pulse. When the lady came to
the pocket-book, which she presently did to Berty’s great distress,
she took it in her hand, and squeezing it a little, handed it to the
gentleman, saying, “I don’t know what it is.” It was no wonder she
did not know, for Berty had wrapped it carefully in several papers,
and tied it with a piece of string before she left home that morning.

“Never mind,” said the gentleman, passing it to Tim, who, Berty now
saw for the first time, was standing at the foot of the bed. “Never
mind, Madam; only make haste, and cut the sleeve from the right arm
there. I suspect it is broken.”

Berty thought it very strange that the gentleman should not know
his own pocket-book when he held it in his hand; but she was so
frightened at the thought of her broken arm that she could scarcely
feel relieved at her escape. The sleeve was soon cut away, and the
gentleman lifted the wounded arm gently, and felt it tenderly here
and there. The pain caused by the motion was so great that Berty
could scarcely help crying out with it; but she made a great effort,
and kept still.

“Yes,” said Dr. John at length,—of course my young readers have
guessed that Dr. John and the strange gentleman were one and the same
person,—“yes, it is as I feared: the shoulder is dislocated, and the
forearm broken.”

Tim gave a pitying exclamation, and Berty a little frightened cry.

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear,” said the Doctor. “It is not so very bad.
If you are only brave and patient, we can put it all right again
directly; and after that we shall take such good care of you that
you will be quite sorry when you are well enough to go away. All our
little people are sorry when their time comes to leave us; are they
not, Mrs. Gantz?”

“But the children,” cried Berty, in dismay,—“what will become of the
children?”

“Sure, ye know I’ll not let them suffer, Berty,” said Tim. “Never you
worry for them.”

“Yes, we’ll take care of the children,” said the Doctor. “Never fear
for them. Now, Berty, see how still you can lie; and you, Madam, keep
hold of this hand while I feel of that poor shoulder again;” and,
with a single dexterous motion, Dr. John brought the bone back to
its wonted place. Berty had been too much taken by surprise to cry
out at first, and when it was over she felt too faint even to groan.

“You are a brave little girl,” said the Doctor, wiping the pale face
tenderly and holding a glass of water to Berty’s lips. “The worst
is over; it is only to dress the arm now and attend to one or two
other little matters. My boy,” turning to Tim, “you may go down to
the carriage,—I think Tom is back by this time,—and tell him to
drive home with you, and ask Mrs. Grey to put up a good basket of
provisions. By the time you are back again I shall be ready to go
with you.”

Tim telegraphed, in answer to Berty’s imploring look, that he would
take care of the pocket-book, and would not betray her; for Tim, it
must be remembered, had not the slightest notion to whom it belonged,
not having noticed little Mary’s question, and he would not, for the
world, have exposed Berty to the risk of going to the Tombs by taking
it to the station-house now: and yet the honest boy could not help
feeling almost guilty as he put the package in his pocket and went
down to the carriage.

“Now we are rid of the boy,” said Dr. John, who had been all the time
busily at work putting splints and bandages upon the broken arm,—“now
we are rid of the boy, we’ll attend to that bruise on the side and
the sprained ankle; and then I think you can change her clothing a
little, perhaps. Does your arm feel better now, my dear?”

“Much better,” answered Berty, faintly; “but oh, my side!”

The side was, indeed, the worst injury, for the horse’s hoof had
struck there, tearing off the skin and inflicting a frightful bruise.
The Doctor feared at first that a rib was broken, but finally
concluding it was not, he dressed the wound carefully and bandaged
the sprained ankle. Then the good nurse put on a little white
night-gown in place of the soiled and torn dress; and, by the time
Tim came back, Berty was much more comfortable, though still very
faint and in great pain.

“Your sister is a right brave little girl,” said Dr. John, as Tim
came to the bedside. “I never had a grown-up patient who behaved
better.”

“Berty’s not one of the whining sort,” Tim answered; “but, sir, she’s
not my sister at all.”

“Ah! is she not? I thought you were very unlike,” said Dr. John,
glancing from one to the other.

“She’s Dutch and I’m Irish, sir; but we live in the same house.”

“Fellow-lodgers, eh? That explains it. But about these children, now.
How many are there?”

“Four, sir,” answered Tim.

“And you don’t mean to say,” said the Doctor, turning to Berty, “that
there is no one who takes care of them but you?”

“Lieb helps me,” answered Berty, faintly, turning her face away from
Dr. John’s compassionate gaze. Berty did not much like talking to, or
looking at, the Doctor, kind as he was, and pleasant as he looked,
for the pocket-book somehow would come between.

“Who is Lieb?” asked Dr. John, turning again to Tim.

“He is her brother, sir; but he’s younger than she, and they’ve no
one else. The father died at sea, and the mother wint afther him last
spring, sir. It’s very hard upon Berty, sir, feeding so many little
mouths, and she’ll not let me help her, though I’ve tried, many a
time and oft.”

“Hard enough, indeed,” said Dr. John, exchanging a glance of surprise
and pity with the nurse; “but she can’t help herself now, my lad; so
you and I will take care of them in spite of her. You are faint and
tired, my dear,” he added, turning to Berty; “but all you have to do
now is to rest and get well. I would go to sleep directly, if I were
you. We’ll look after the children, this young gentleman and I; and
I promise you they shall not want for anything. I will see you again
to-morrow. Good night, now, and God bless you.”

Berty could only murmur a faint “Thank you,” in answer to all this
kindness; for the pocket-book loomed up very big by this time, I can
tell you. When the Doctor and Tim were gone, and the nurse, after
smoothing the bedclothes and arranging the pillows very comfortably,
went off to attend to her other patients, Berty tried to think the
matter over and decide what to do; but she was much too faint and
tired for such weary work, and soon, in spite of her efforts, obeyed
the Doctor’s parting injunction, and fell asleep.

Great was the amazement at Mrs. Flanagan’s when the grand carriage
drove up, and Dr. John and Tim got out; and dire were the
lamentations of Berty’s little family when informed of the accident.
But Tim’s glowing account of the comforts of the hospital and the
kindness of the Doctor and the nurse went far to console them; and
Mrs. Grey’s famous basket of provisions, too, was a great help:
for these poor little children seldom tasted anything really good;
and even Gottlieb and Lina, who were the only ones old enough to
appreciate their sister’s misfortune, could not help heartily
enjoying the wholesome food.

Fritzy cried a little for his Berty when bedtime came, but Lina
managed to soothe him; and, for the rest, the Doctor’s pleasant face
had so won their hearts that they were quite ready to credit Tim’s
assurance that both they and Berty would be safe under his care.

Tim did not sleep at the foot of the stairs again, but spread his
straw pallet at the head of them, close to the children’s door, in
spite of uncle Teddy’s remonstrance. He did not mind the hard bed in
the least; but the pocket-book pricked so, through the thin pillow
under which it was laid for safe-keeping, that Tim resolved to bring
Berty to terms on the morrow, or never to take charge of it again.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER X.

MRS. GREY’S SUSPICION.


Dr. John was met at the door on his return by little Mary who had
been sitting at the window an hour or more, watching for him to come.
She had worked off a little of her enthusiasm in packing the basket
of provisions, but was still full of eager curiosity and sympathy.
Grandmamma, too, was very anxious to hear more of the little sufferer
at the hospital, and the helpless children of whom little Mary had
told her. So Dr. John was obliged to go over the whole story of
Berty’s injuries, and her patient endurance of the painful operation
and dressing,—of her anxiety for her little ones,—of Tim’s touching
account of the helpless family, given during their drive,—and, last
of all, he was made to describe Mrs. Flanagan’s house, and the room
in the attic, and the poor little orphans themselves.

“But there is one thing,” said Dr. John when he had finished his
story, and answered every question Mary could think of,—“there is
one thing for which I cannot account. The child was talking to you,
Polly, when the stage stopped; was she not? What could have possessed
her to dart into the street in such a frantic way, I cannot tell; and
the boy seemed quite as much at a loss to account for it as I. What
were you saying to her, Polly?”

“I don’t remember,” answered Mary, thoughtfully,—“Oh, yes, I do, too!
She had been telling me about the children, you know, and I offered
to help her, and then I remembered that I hadn’t my purse; and then
I saw you, and I asked if you had found your pocket-book, because I
wanted to borrow some money; and then she ran. I know now I thought
it was because she didn’t want to take it; and then came the accident
and put everything out of my head.”

“But about the pocket-book, John,” said Mrs. Grey, “I have not heard
you say. Did you find it, or get any trace of it?”

“Not the least. I sent an advertisement to the ‘Herald’ and another
to the ‘Times,’ and stopped the drafts at the bank, and left the
description, with the numbers of the checks and a few of the larger
notes, at the police-office. I don’t see that I can do any more. It
is a large sum, more than I can well afford to lose; but if it is
gone I cannot help it. So you need not look so doleful, Polly. I
shall get along without it somehow.”

“If you would only let me give you some of mine, cousin John. I have
so much more than I know what to do with.”

“Have you? Well, I shall know where to come, then, when I get hard
up.”

“I wouldn’t lend him any, if I were you, Polly,” said Mrs. Grey,
smiling. “He’ll be sure to lose it, such a careless fellow. I always
told you what would come of it, John, sticking your purse in such
out-of-the-way places.”

“It was in my breeches-pocket this time, Grandma,—just where you
taught me to keep it when I was a boy.”

“As if you were anything else now!” said Mrs. Grey, shaking her head
at him; “and I don’t believe you know in the least where it was.”

“Yes, I do,” insisted Dr. John, “because I remember it was in the way
when I wanted a dime from the bottom of that same pocket for a poor
little girl at the crossing, and I took it out—”

“And never put it back again,” interrupted his grandmother. “There,
I knew just how it was. You’re not fit to be trusted with a purse at
all. You must leave it at home next time with Polly and I. We know
better than to lay a stuffed pocket-book down upon a stage-seat, as
if it was a paper parcel.”

Dr. John appeared to pay very little attention to the old lady’s
raillery. He was thinking too intently,—trying to remember something,
if one might judge by his knitted brows. “Yes,” he said, at length,
as if he had gotten at it at last,—“yes; I am sure of it. The child
at the crossing and this little Berty are the same. I thought I had
seen her somewhere. And what is more,” he added, interrupting Mary’s
wondering exclamation,—“what is more, I saw her again at that same
crossing when I went down town this morning; and I was feeling for a
dime when she dropped her broom and ran off up the street as if the
sight of me had frightened her out of her wits. Look at me, Polly. Am
I so very ugly? Do I look like an ogre to frighten little girls?”

“You are not a bit like an ogre, cousin John,” said Polly, patting
lovingly the comely face, which bent down to hers. “You are very
handsome, and you know it. Nobody could be frightened at you, and I’m
sure Berty wasn’t; but it is very strange.”

“It is more than strange,” said Mrs. Grey, thoughtfully. “I don’t
like the look of it at all. Is it possible, John, that the child has
your purse?”

“My purse!” cried Dr. John, astonished. “Surely not; how can you
think so?”

“Oh, Grandmamma!” said Polly, indignantly; “that good, poor, innocent
little Berty! How can you say such cruel things?”

“Think a moment, John,” pursued the old lady, giving little heed to
Mary’s remonstrance. “You are certain you have not seen it since you
took it out to give this child the dime?”

“I certainly have not. I missed it when I put my hand in again to get
my fare.”

“And you are sure you had it then?”

“As certain as I can be of anything; for I remember thinking how
much trouble you gave me by insisting upon my keeping it in such an
inconvenient place.”

“And this child has run away from you twice now in the most
unaccountable manner,” the old lady went on; “and if it had been
all right, after getting a dime from you once, she would have been
certain to wait for another. It is not like these street-children,
whatever Polly may think, to refuse what is offered to them. It is
very sad. I am quite as unwilling to believe it as Mary can be;
but, if you are certain you had it, and there were no pickpockets
in the car, I’m afraid this little Berty knows something about the
pocket-book. John, I’m very much afraid it’s not all right.”

Dr. John started out of another fit of musing as his grandmother
ceased speaking, and glanced at Mary, who was by this time weeping
bitterly over what seemed to her these cruel suspicions of her little
favorite. “Well, Grandma,” said he, with a meaning look at the old
lady, “I can’t be at all sure about the pickpockets. I may have had
one for my next neighbor, for aught I know; or I may have laid the
purse down on the seat, as you said. It would be just like me, I dare
say; so we won’t suspect anybody,—we’ll wait and see; and meantime
we’ll put the whole matter out of our heads.”

“And you don’t think it’s Berty, cousin John?” said Mary, drying her
tears; “so I may use some of my money for her and for the little
ones, and I may hope it is like doing it for Him?”

“Certainly, Polly; how can you doubt it?”

“I was afraid,” said Polly, timidly, “if Berty was a thief, you know
she would not be one of his brethren. Do you think it would be the
same?”

“Just the same, if it is done for his sake.”

“Then, cousin John, will you tell me how to help them most?”

“I don’t think you can do much for Berty now,” said Dr. John; “you
will have to leave her to the tender mercy of Mrs. Gantz and myself;
but those little people down there are sadly in need of clothing.
They are the oddest-looking little mortals; the girls’ dresses are
like patchwork quilts, and as for the boy,—well, I shouldn’t care to
have Berty for my tailor, poor child. I think the best thing you can
do is to get Grandma to go with you there in the morning, and find
out what they need. I dare say you’ll get rid of all your superfluous
cash. I shouldn’t wonder if you had none left by the time I come to
want, and then we shall both have to fall back upon Grandma.”

So Polly soon lost the sad suspicions in a vision of coats and frocks
and shoes; but Dr. John, through all his kind plans, was tormented by
an uncomfortable remembrance of that little package which Mrs. Gantz
had taken from Berty’s bosom, and of the telegram which had passed
between his little patient and Tim. I say uncomfortable; for, though
Dr. John would have been very glad to find his purse, he would rather
have found it anywhere else than in Berty’s or Tim’s possession.




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XI.

THE CHAPEL SERVICE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.


The morning sunshine streamed through the lofty windows of the
children’s ward, lighting up cheerfully the snowy beds and the pale
faces of their little occupants, and waking Berty from her feverish,
uneasy slumber. She was puzzled at first by the unfamiliar objects
around; but the bandage on her forehead, with the powerless arm and
aching side, brought back the remembrance of the accident, even
before the kind nurse appeared with her cheerful, motherly face and
pleasant greeting. This good lady’s watchful attentions, the morning
bath so tenderly administered, the delicate invalid breakfast so
invitingly spread upon the little tray, and the bright room where
even suffering was made to look so cheerful and comely, were all so
new and so delightful, that Berty thought it almost a privilege to be
ill in such a place.

Afterwards, too, when breakfast was over, and the nurse propped her
up with pillows, and left her to attend to other duties, Berty was
very happy, though her arm and side were still very painful. She
thought she could never tire of looking at the beautiful prints upon
the walls, nor of watching and listening to her young companions,
who seemed to be quite at home, and called to each other, from bed
to bed, as merrily as any well children could do. But presently some
one spoke of the Doctor, hoping he would come early; and, at the
mention of that name, all Berty’s joy and contentment melted away in
a moment, and she sank back upon her pillow, with a look of care and
weariness upon her face which made all the children pity her very
much indeed.

The old tormenting question, What to do, had come back again, and it
seemed to Berty more troublesome than ever before. The Doctor had
been so kind, both to her and to her little ones,—how could she bear
to do him such injury as to keep his property? But he evidently knew
nothing about her possessing it,—he had held it in his hand without
seeming to have the least suspicion; and now she was ill she had no
chance of earning anything: she could never accomplish her design in
any other way.

Just in the midst of these painful thoughts, the nurse came in
ushering Tim to pay her his morning visit. Tim had left home with
the firm determination to make Berty do the right thing about the
pocket-book, or else refuse to have anything more to do with it;
but, remembering her strange conduct about it from the first, he was
a little shy about beginning. So he sat down by the bed, and gave
Berty a long and glowing account of the Doctor’s kindness to the
children, and the great fancy they had taken to him,—a very good
way of beginning, if Tim had only known it. After he had spun this
subject out as long as he could, and answered all Berty’s questions
about little Fritz, he came to a dead stop for a moment, and was
just mustering courage to commence his lecture, when a strain of
sweet music floating in seemed to fill all the hall with a cheerful
solemnity.

“What is it, Tim?” asked Berty, after listening a moment.

“It’s the organ, I think,” answered Tim.

“The organ! Where?”

“Why, in the chapel, sure; don’t ye know, Berty, there’s a chapel
here, a little church like, right in the middle of the building? All
the halls open into it; and it’s beautiful, I tell you.”

“But it’s not Sunday, Tim.”

“No; but I think they has service every day,—leastways, I saw the
people sitting there whin I wint out last night, waiting like. But
it’s a feast to-day, Berty; it’s All-Saints, ye know,—the first of
November. Belike they’d have service to-day, if ever. I was to go to
Mass meself but for you; thin I put it off till Vespers,” answered
devout Tim.

“All-Saints,” said Berty, thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, I know,—_Das Fest
Allerheiligen_: they keep it in my country, too. Mother took us to
_die Kirche_ last year, because of father, and now she is with him in
_das Paradies_. I _meant_ to remember them to-day; I’m so glad this
puts me in mind.”

The music ceased, and a nurse, watching her patient near, held up a
warning finger. There was a moment’s silence, Tim bending his head
reverently, and Berty closing her eyes, the only outward sign of
which she was capable; then the service began. “If we say that we
have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but if
we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins,
and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” A strange beginning,
perhaps, for a service in commemoration of the saints departed; but
very well suited, assuredly, to make saints of those who were left
behind. Perhaps the good clergyman had some such case as Berty’s in
his mind; certainly, he could have chosen no sentence which would
have fixed her attention more securely.

The beautiful ritual which followed was quite unfamiliar to both
Tim and Berty, the one being a Lutheran, and the other a Papist;
but the slow, distinct utterance of the minister rendered every
word perfectly audible, and the solemn confession of sin is
fitted for all who have named the name of Christ. When it came to
the Lord’s Prayer, all the children joined. Tim, recognizing the
_Paternoster_, fell upon his knees; and Berty, lifting her well hand
in supplication, repeated her _Vaterunser_ with the rest.

As the service went on with Psalm, and Lesson, and Collect, Tim
noticed that the children seemed to consider themselves quite a part
of the congregation, joining in the responses, and singing with a
hearty zeal which pleased him very much; but as for Berty, though
she still lay with her eyes closed and her hand raised, her mind had
wandered far away from the scene, around the dear ones she had lost.
She tried to recall her father’s dying words, her mother’s parting
counsel. She wondered in her troubled heart whether they could still
look down upon their child,—whether they could know her uncomfortable
secret. Then she thought of the Doctor again, and of his kindness to
the little ones. Ah, if her mother knew it, how grateful she would
be, how she would think nothing too much to do for her children’s
friend. What _would_ she say, how _would_ she feel, if she knew how
her daughter proposed to requite him?

But, all at once, as the notes of a hymn died away and the
clergyman’s voice was heard again, it seemed to Berty that it took
a more stern and solemn tone. She could not help listening, and,
while she listened, the words seemed to carry her straight into the
presence of Him “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and
from whom no secrets are hid.” She had thought of her mother, and of
the Doctor, and wondered what they would think _if_ they knew; but
here was One who _did_ know, from whom she could not hide her secret
if she would. What did He think? How would her “desires” bear His
inspection?

Berty trembled with terror as she asked herself this question, and,
even as she asked it, the answer came; for the solemn voice went on
to the rehearsal of the familiar Commandments which she had learned
at her mother’s knee; while, at the end of each one, the response
swelled up from the chapel,—“Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline
our hearts to keep this law.” Berty held her breath as if waiting
for a blow; and at last it came, in that stern, solemn voice,—_“Thou
shalt_ NOT _steal_.” Tim, too, had been waiting for this, and his
voice joined in the response, “Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline
our hearts to keep this law,” with a startling emphasis, which went
to Berty’s heart; then, almost before the words had left his lips,
he leaned forward and whispered earnestly, “Say it, Berty,—say it
for your life.” It seemed to Berty almost as if her life did hang
for a moment in the balance,—only a moment though, for she could not
hesitate. She raised her hand again, and murmured the petition so
faintly that Tim could scarcely hear. Another heard, and answered it,
as we shall presently see; and Tim heard, too, and gave thanks upon
his knees that his Berty was saved.

“Now, Berty,” said he, rising when the service was ended, and taking
the package from his pocket,—“now, Berty, you know what I’m going to
do,—take this to the station right off.”

“To the station! What for, Tim? Of course that would be easier; but
maybe they wouldn’t find him; and then, Tim, don’t you think he ought
to know? It would be very hard, to be sure, but don’t you think I
ought to tell him?”

“An’ who’s him, Berty?” asked Tim, quite puzzled.

“The Doctor, of course. Oh, Tim, didn’t you know it was the Doctor’s?
That’s one thing why I couldn’t do it.”

“The Docther’s! You don’t mane to tell me now, Berty, that this
pocket-book belongs to the Docther?”

“Yes, Tim; he gave me a dime there at the crossing, and this dropped,
and I ran after the stage, but they didn’t notice me, and then at
first I meant to take it to the station or something; but I thought
of my Christmas tree, and so—and so—I didn’t.”

“Well, Berty,” said Tim, after a long, thoughtful pause, “I’m glad I
didn’t know the rights of the matther till ye had come to a betther
mind, for I can’t say I think well of it. So it’s running away from
_him_ ye were, and no wonder; and he had it in his own hand too,
sure enough. Yes, it’s well I didn’t know, for I should have given it
back to him straight, and it’ll look betther coming from you.”

Berty quite agreed that it would look better coming from her, and yet
her heart sank within her when she saw the Doctor’s pleasant face
appear at the door. He came straight towards her bed, only nodding to
the other children as he passed them.

“Good morning, Berty,” said he; “how do you find yourself to-day?”

Berty did not wait to answer. Her courage was melting away so
rapidly, that she felt she had no time to lose. She took the
pocket-book from Tim and held it out to the Doctor.

“Here it is. Oh, take it! take it, quick!” said she, and burst into
tears.

The Doctor took the package in his hand, and stood looking from one
to the other. He had put his suspicions so entirely away that they
did not readily return.

“What is it, Tim?” said he, at last.

“It’s a pocket-book, sir, that Berty found. She says it’s yours.”

The Doctor changed color then, and tearing the cover away, examined
the enclosure.

“Yes,” said he, “it is mine. Where did you get it?”

“Please count the money then, sir,” said honest Tim, before Berty
could command her voice to answer. “I kept it for her last night. I
should like you to see if it’s all right.”

“Why did you not give it to me then?” asked Dr. John, sharply,
opening the pocket-book, and glancing rapidly over the contents.

“Oh, sir,” said Berty, finding her voice instantly,—“Oh, sir, you
must not blame Tim; he did not know it was yours. I never told him,
and he was always at me to find the owner. I meant to give it back at
first, and I should, but for the Christmas tree. I wanted it so much,
so very much, and I could never earn enough. I’m very, very sorry;
but you must not blame Tim.”

“It is all right,” said Dr. John, nodding to Tim, and putting the
purse in his pocket. “Now, Berty,” he added, soothingly, “you must
not cry any more; it is all right and safe, and I’m very much obliged
to you for bringing it back; it is not every one who would have
done it. Stop crying now, and tell me how you got it, and about this
Christmas tree. I do not understand.”

“I wanted one for the children, sir,” said Berty, composing her
voice a little; “they never saw one, you see, but I did; and Madame
Hansmann told them about those in the old country. So I heard them
one night wishing for one,—only they said they could not have it,
because they had no one but me. Then I wished so much to get one,
because I promised mother to take such care of them; and I asked
Biddy, and she said they cost pounds and pounds; and I did not
believe quite in the fairy, so I thought I must earn it; and I felt
very bad, and almost gave it up. Then I thought about Jesus, and
how mother said he would be our friend; so I prayed, and I hoped he
would help me. Then, the very first day, when you gave me a dime, the
pocket-book came tumbling down beside me, and I did not know if it
was yours; but I ran after the stage, but nobody noticed; and then
I thought it might be sent because I prayed, you know,—only, when
I showed it to Tim he said it was as bad as stealing. That made me
angry, and I would not speak to him; but I was not happy with it at
all when I meant to keep it. Then in the morning I saw you at the
crossing, and I thought you were looking for me, so I ran away; and,
while I was talking to the little girl, you came again, so I got all
wild like, and ran into the street. Then you were so kind, I did not
know about keeping it last night, only for the tree; but this morning
I thought of mother, because of the feast of All-Saints, and the
minister said the Commandments, and I could not keep it any longer
for the children, or anybody,—don’t you see?”

I am not at all sure that Dr. John did see, for I know that his eyes
were full of tears when Berty finished; but he seemed to understand
quite clearly for all that.

“Yes, Berty,” said he, “I see that you have had a great temptation,
and have won through it bravely. And as for Tim here, I beg his
pardon; I perceive he is a very honest fellow. But he must bid you
good-morning now, for I want to look at that side of yours.”

Tim felt a little disappointed that Dr. John did not offer Berty
something as a reward for bringing back his money, for Tim could not
bear that the Christmas tree should be given up after all; but still
he had great confidence in the Doctor, and did not doubt but he would
make it all right somehow. So he went away to his peddling with a
light heart.

As for Berty, she thought she had never felt so happy in her life,
even though her wounds were very painful, and the Christmas-tree
tapers had utterly gone out; for there was something shining upon
Berty which lighted up her heart far more brightly than any Christmas
tapers ever could,—her Heavenly Father’s smile. And the Doctor, too,
instead of being angry, seemed kinder than ever. He dressed her side
and ankle very tenderly, and then sat down by the bed and talked for
a long time, asking many questions about her family, and especially
about the uncle Gottlieb in the old country, of whom little Mary had
told him. Berty knew very little about him, except that he was her
mother’s only brother,—that he lived in Frankfort, and belonged to
one of the bands which she remembered with such delight as playing at
the concerts on the feast-days. Madame Hansmann had written to him,
it seemed, after her mother’s death; but they had never received any
answer.

“Well, Polly,” said Dr. John, when he went home that evening, “I have
found my pocket-book; and, what is more, I have got hold of a famous
plan for spending your surplus money.”

“I have a plan, too, cousin John,” said Polly; “but let us hear yours
first.”

So the Doctor told Berty’s story, which you will not care to hear for
the third time; and as for his famous plan, I mean to keep that for a
good ending to my story. Polly liked it very much, and so I dare say
will you; but she could not give up her own, and so it was decided
that both should be carried out.

“I am glad,” said Polly, when all was finally arranged,—“I am glad,
cousin John, that you found your pocket-book, for I should not wonder
if you had to lend me some money, after all;” and Dr. John thought
to himself, as he looked down at the little girl’s glowing, happy
face, that any amount of money would have been well spent in working
such a change as these kind schemes had made in his sad, little
cousin.

[Illustration: Decoration]




[Illustration: Decoration]




CHAPTER XII.

THE WISH FULFILLED.


Mary’s plan, which developed itself the next day, turned out to be a
project for taking the children, in their new clothes, to visit their
sister at the hospital. She had stipulated that nothing should be
said to Berty, though she had taken care to give Tim warning that he
might be on hand to enjoy the surprise. It was a beautiful, bright
autumn day, and everything worked to Mary’s satisfaction. Grandmamma
seemed to enjoy it as much as she; and even Tom, who had grumbled a
good deal at bringing his horses so often into such “ojus” streets,
could not resist a contagious grin as he lifted the happy children,
one by one, into the carriage.

It was indeed a wonderful delight to Berty’s little family. Driving
through the gay streets, where Mrs. Grey took care that Tom should
go, in the handsome, easy carriage, would have been pleasure enough,
but going in such a way to see Berty, whom they had missed so
much, was almost more than they could bear. Then the wide lawn of
the hospital, where the little pale children were playing in the
sunshine, was a new surprise; and the children’s ward, with its
lofty walls and little white beds, in one of which sister Berty lay,
looking so placid and happy, seemed like a glimpse of paradise.

You will guess, of course, how joyfully Berty received them; how she
hugged little Fritz with her one arm, and set him on the bed beside
her, while she made the others stand off, one by one, that she might
admire them in the comfortable new clothing; how she thanked Mrs.
Grey and the Doctor and Mary; how Tim grinned from ear to ear, and
Dr. John rubbed his hands, and Polly clapped hers, and the nurse and
old Mrs. Grey both cried, and the hospital children sat up in bed and
laughed at the merry hubbub, until the matron came up and chided them
all for making such a noise and threatened Dr. John with a policeman
if he did not keep his party quiet.

Yes, it was a happy time; and happy, too, though in a different way,
was the long quiet time which followed, when, under the Doctor’s kind
care, Berty was growing better and stronger every day, and learning
every day to love more and more dearly the pleasant room, the lively
prints upon the walls, the happy little sick children, the gentle
nurses, the good rector who stopped to talk with her so often, and
the dear, dear Dr. John, to whom she owed it all.

The Christmas-time to which she had looked forward in her dreary
attic on that dismal night—how far away the attic seemed, how long
ago the night—was drawing near, was close at hand. Tim told her of
the laurel-wreaths which they were hanging in the chapel. Her dearest
wish was to get strong enough to go down there with Tim and keep the
Christmas feast, and afterwards, perhaps, to have the children come
to her again. It would be treat enough for them, she knew, and joy
enough for her; but when she asked the Doctor, she got no answer but
a smile.

The Doctor was so busy nowadays, perhaps he had no time for anything
but smiles. And very busy, too, was little Mary; it was wonderful
what a deal of shopping those two found it necessary to do together,
and what piles upon piles of parcels, of all shapes and sizes, they
brought home at night, and stowed away in that mysterious parlor
which no one else was allowed to enter. If Polly paid for all those
goods, I think she must have made a requisition upon Dr. John’s
newfound pocket-book; for I am sure no little girl’s purse could have
been half long enough.

But at last there came a day, the 24th of December it was, when
Polly’s purchases seemed to be all made. She did not go down-town
at all that day, but spent all the morning closeted with Dr. John
in the mysterious room. And, altogether, that seemed to be quite
a mysterious day at Mrs. Grey’s; for all day long there came such
mysterious noises from the mysterious parlor, and Mrs. Grey and the
housekeeper and Nurse Evans went about with such mysterious smiles
upon their faces, that even Jenny and Jemmy seemed to have a notion
that something was the matter, and no amount of coaxing could keep
them in the nursery. Then, towards evening, there came a mysterious
ring at the door, and a mysterious stranger was ushered in, whose
arrival seemed to fill Dr. Grey and Mary with the most mysterious
surprise and delight; and finally the Doctor and Tom took the
carriage and went off upon some mysterious errand.

If you could have peeped into the hospital just about that time,
you would have seen that the mystery had penetrated even there; for
Berty sat, wrapped in cloaks, in a great arm-chair, with a strangely
excited expression upon her thin, pale face. She had received that
morning a note, in a little white envelope, addressed to Fräulein
Bertha Weisser. This note of course she could not read, but Mrs.
Gantz read it for her. It was an invitation, in good set terms, to
spend the evening with Miss Mary Kendall, at her grandmother’s house;
and accompanying this note was a new dress and other very comfortable
things for Berty to wear. And so our little Berty sat there, very
happy and eager, though a little frightened and shy, waiting for the
carriage.

And when the carriage came, and Tom took her up in his strong arms
and bore her down to it, a new surprise was waiting for Berty; for
there were her little ones all peeping out to greet her with shouts
of delight. Berty thought this was all that was needed to make her
perfectly happy.

Miss Mary received them with a joyous welcome, and kind Mrs. Grey had
a sofa ready furnished with pillows for Berty to rest upon, which Dr.
John insisted that she should occupy at once, though she did not feel
in the least tired.

The children were very shy at first, but Fritz and the twins soon
made friends. Tim took upon himself to entertain Gottlieb, and as for
Rosa and Lina, it was entertainment enough for them to look about
them. Berty wondered at Tim; he seemed, she thought, quite as much at
home in Mrs. Grey’s handsome house as at Biddy Flanagan’s, always the
same-merry, good-natured fellow, never shy, and never too forward;
she wondered, too, at her little ones, so clean and bright and
wholesome; and when she heard Fritzy’s happy laugh, she thought this
was even better than the Christmas tree for which she had longed.

Presently, little Mary, who had been flitting in and out in a most
extraordinary manner, came in once more, and made a significant
motion to Dr. Grey, seeing which, the Doctor, with a merry look, took
her hand and led her up in front of Berty’s couch.

“Berty,” said he, “you were wishing for a fairy godmother, I hear.
Mrs. Flanagan was right about one thing, the fairies do not emigrate;
but she was wrong about the other, for there is a tribe of them in
America, wild as it is; and as fast as you little people come over
they adopt you, because there are not Yankee children enough to keep
them busy. So you see everybody has a fairy godmother, and all is
right. Hearing, from Mrs. Flanagan, that you were in need of yours, I
have been at some pains to find her, and here she is, very happy to
make your acquaintance.”

Berty was quite puzzled by this speech, but Polly seemed to think it
great fun; her eyes fairly danced with glee as she dropped Berty a
queer little courtesy, and said, “Dr. Grey has summoned me, and I
have come. You were wishing for a Christmas tree, he tells me. Ah,
well; my children have but to wish, and, presto! it is here!” saying
which she stamped with her little foot upon the floor, and, lo!
the folding-doors of the mysterious parlor glided swiftly back and
disclosed a wondrous sight,—a Christmas tree indeed, whose blazing
tapers far outshone those which had lighted Berty’s dreams, whose
graceful branches bent beneath their weight of generous fruit! While
the children’s eyes were still dazzled with the burst of light, Dr.
Grey and Mary stepped forward and took their stations on either side
the tree. Then Mary turned to the wondering children, and pointing to
it, said: “This, children, is Berty’s Christmas Gift to her little
family.”

Berty was too happy, too thankful for words; she could only cast a
grateful look at Dr. John, who, she felt sure, was at the bottom of
it somehow; and Dr. John looked back at her with a merry twinkle in
his eye, which she did not quite understand. The children, meanwhile,
were pressing round the tree, and devouring it with eager, wondering
eyes.

“It is finer than the Westermann’s, Lina,” said Gottlieb, at last.

“But where is the Christ-child, Lieb?” said little Rosa. “I don’t see
him at all.”

“But he is here, Rosa,” said Dr. John. “He is here, though you do
not see him. It is he who put it into the heart of Berty’s fairy
godmother here to give you this pleasure.”

“Now,” said Mary, who seemed somehow to be in a great hurry, “if you
have gazed your fill, perhaps you would like me to gather you some
fruit;” and she took a long, hooked stick which leaned against the
wall beside her, and began to take off the presents from the tree.

I shall not trouble myself to describe those presents. Christmas
trees, I am happy to say, are getting very common. A bountiful crop
of them springs up every year all over the land, and I dare say there
are none of you who have not assisted in stripping at least one.
So I shall only tell you that every one of the children got a very
satisfactory share of the magical fruit,—every one except Berty.
Strange to say there seemed to be no present for Berty. She never
thought of wishing for one; it was all just as she had planned it
herself, and she was heartily satisfied; but so were not the others.
Tim especially, who had gotten a bountiful share himself, was greatly
concerned about Berty; and at last, when the branches were nearly
bare, and nothing was yet forthcoming, he bethought himself of
speaking to Dr. Grey. It might have been forgotten, though Tim did
not see how that could be. At any rate, he knew Dr. John would never
be content to have Berty neglected, any more than he. So he made his
way through the children to where the Doctor still stood beside the
tree.

“Dr. Grey,” he whispered, “has Miss Mary forgotten Berty, d’ye
think—or what?”

“Berty!” cried the Doctor, speaking very loud, and pretending to be
quite astonished. “Sure enough! the tree is quite stripped, and Berty
has nothing! That’s a great oversight of yours, my good fairy; it
will never do at all. Couldn’t you manage to spirit us in a present
for Berty yet?”

“What shall it be?” asked Mary, paying no attention to Berty’s
exclamations and assurances that the tree itself was present enough
for her.

“Since you have kept her waiting so long,” said the Doctor, “I think
it should be something very nice,—something, for instance, from over
the sea.”

Mary nodded, and, tapping her stick three times upon the floor, sang,
in a queer little piping voice, which made all the children laugh,—

    “Come, fairies, good fairies, bring swiftly to me
    A present for Berty from over the sea!”

Then she stood quite still for a moment, and looked towards the door,
as if expecting some one; and at last nodded and waved her hand,
and, dropping a courtesy to the Doctor, said, “My good Doctor, your
bidding is done. You will find a present for Berty there at your
right hand. If my elves have been somewhat dilatory, you must excuse
them; for the package, you perceive, was rather heavy.”

The Doctor sprang quickly aside, and, sure enough, there at his right
hand, half hidden by the spreading branches, was a heavy oaken
chest, strongly bound with iron, which everybody stared at as if it
had fallen from the sky.

“Upon me word, Miss Mary,” said Tim, “if ye’d hire out yer elves down
at the docks there, ye’d make yer fortin in no time. They’re stronger
than any derrick they have there, certain sure.”

“Well, Tim,” answered Polly, laughing, “I’ll think of it.”

“Somebody’ll have to open it for Bert,” said prudent Gottlieb,
looking appealingly to Dr. John; “she never can.”

“Sure enough. Shall we want a hammer, think you, or is it locked?”
said Dr. Grey, bending over the chest with a puzzled look. “Ah, yes,
here’s a lock,” he added, fumbling at the side towards the wall.
“Have your elves brought the key, Madam Fairy?”

Polly fumbled in her pocket a little, and brought out a huge bunch
of keys, one of which Dr. John, with great jingling, applied to
the lock. Tim had a shrewd suspicion that the chest was not locked
at all, nor even fairly closed; but, before he had time to assure
himself by nearer inspection, the cover flew up with a bang, and
out sprang—what? A genie? All the children thought so at first, and
shrank away, while Berty covered her eyes with her hands.

But the strange being, whatever it was, went straight to Berty’s
couch, and bending down, whispered some German words close in her
ear. Berty could not help peeping out between her fingers. Surely, it
was no genie. Would a genie call her his darling, his goddaughter,
his dear, dear child? Would a genie look at her with blue eyes so
like her mother’s? Ah no, this was no genie, though he had come to
her as strangely as any genie could. It was, it _could_ be, no one
in the world but the dear, dear uncle Gottlieb, from the blessed old
Fatherland.

So Berty let the stranger take her in his arms, and gave him kiss for
kiss, and answered his caresses with her own, and called the children
to her, one by one, to show this dear uncle who had come so far to
see them all. It was so sweet to little Berty to feel that strong arm
round her, and to know that it was ready to shield her from all care
and harm; it was so sweet to hear him call her children his, and to
know that he would care for them as she, with all her efforts, never
could have done.

Yes, it was uncle Gottlieb, to whom Dr. Grey had written as soon as
he heard of him from Berty, and who, hearing thus, for the first
time, of his sister’s death, (for Madame Hansmann’s letter had
miscarried,) had hastened to the orphans, and arrived just in time
to be put into Polly’s strong box. He had entered heartily into the
joke, though he declared that he had nearly smothered in carrying
it out; and Dr. John averred that he had chuckled so much as nearly
to discover himself to the children before the time. Polly produced
from the chest a whole bundle of presents for Berty, which she had
hidden there the better to carry out her scheme; but, though Berty
was properly grateful, it was easy to see that uncle Gottlieb’s niece
thought him the best present of all. There is no need that I should
tell you they spent a merry evening,—what could prevent them? Uncle
Gottlieb informed them next morning, for they all spent the night
with hospitable Mrs. Grey, that he had risen in the world,—become
a composer of music and leader of the band; and also that some old
relative in Frankfort had left him a little house. He had been
thinking, he said, of getting a wife to keep house for him; but he
should take the children all back with him, and Berty should keep
house: it would be much better, and leave him more time for his music.

And so Berty and her little ones went back to the dear Fatherland.
It was hard parting from the Doctor and Mary and Tim; but Dr. Grey
promised to bring Mary to see them at Frankfort, which promise he
has kept. And as for Tim, I have a shrewd suspicion that that young
gentleman has by this time paid uncle Gottlieb off in his own coin,
and taken Berty another sea-voyage; but then Lina must be quite big
enough for a housekeeper now.


THE END.