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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 BERTHA'S HOME. Page 9. 
 
ISettfja Wltmtx's WLisfy 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 BY 
 
 • M. L. B. 
 
 " Lord have mercy upon us, and write all thy laws in our hearts 
 we beseech Thee. — " 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY. 
 
 NEW YORK: HURD AND HOUGHTON. 
 
 1865. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, irf the year 1863, by 
 
 E. P. DtJTTON AND COMPANY, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachu- 
 setts. 
 
 riverside, Cambridge: 
 stereotyped and printed by h. 0. houghton. 
 
0£ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 — ♦— 
 
 CHAP. PAQB 
 
 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 
 
 VHI. Berty runs away for the last Time 78 
 
 IX. The Hospital 86 
 
 X. Mrs. Grey's Suspicion ... 95 
 
 XL The Chapel Service, and what came 
 
 of it 103 
 
 XH. The Wish fulfilled . . . .119 
 
BERTHA WEISSER'S WISH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 bertha's home. 
 
 T was a dreary, wet October 
 day, and drawing towards the 
 twilight. The dull leaden-look- 
 ing sky, the wet slippery pave- 
 ments, the chilly, cross, uncom- 
 fortable 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 gut- 
 ters 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 
 
8 BERTHA'S HOME. 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 stove- 
 pipe 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 ? " 
 
BERTHA'S HOME. 9 
 
 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 Ber- 
 tha 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 ; 
 
10 BERTHA'S HOME. 
 
 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 pa- 
 pers, 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 her- 
 self, which was by no means the case ; for 
 there were Lina, and Gottlieb, and Rosa, and 
 little Fritz, the baby, all younger and there- 
 fore more helpless than herself; and Berty 
 must care for them all ; for had she not prom- 
 ised her dead mother, and were they not her 
 
BERTHA'S HOME. H 
 
 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 mother- 
 less orphants " ; then, too, Gottlieb was grow- 
 ing a sturdy lad, with very sharp eyes for old 
 nails and horse-shoes ; and besides, the house- 
 people 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 Father-land, 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. 
 
12 BERTHA'S HOME. 
 
 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 dark- 
 ness was full of glorious visions, and poor 
 little Berty, the German rag-picker, lying 
 
BERTHA'S HOME. 13 
 
 there upon her bed of straw, in Biddy Flan- 
 agan'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, per- 
 haps, all the more tenderly because she had 
 no one else. 
 
CHAPTER n. 
 
 BERTHAS WISH. 
 
 T was one night after they had 
 been to visit the kind old Ger- 
 man 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 noth- 
 ing sc '-ell as talking of its kindly ways and 
 pleasant customs to any one who would lis- 
 ten. She knew no English ; but the homely 
 German, which, I dare say, sounds harsh and 
 unpleasant enough to you, was music in Ber- 
 tha'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 
 
BERTHA'S WISH. 15 
 
 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 can- 
 dle-end which Biddy had given her, to fash- 
 ion a frock for little Fritz from an old one of 
 her own. She was not a very skilful seam- 
 stress, 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 cor- 
 ner. Presently, however, having banned 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 Ber- 
 ty 's seen one ; but we never did." 
 
 " Poh ! " cried Gottlieb, turning a very con- 
 temptuous somerset ; " poh ! I have : but I 
 never told though before. It was last Christ- 
 mas, — that night, you know, I ran away from 
 Bert. We went to the avenue, Martin Fi- 
 
16 BERTHA'S WISH. 
 
 scher 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 
 
BERTHA'S WISH. 17 
 
 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 Christ- 
 mas, 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, 
 
18 BERTHA'S WISH. 
 
 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 lad- 
 der," said Litfa, coming to her brother's assist- 
 ance 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 could- 
 n'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 SchaefTer 
 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 
 
BERTHA'S WISH. 19 
 
 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 peo- 
 ple can buy them. I saw some once — very 
 tall and fall 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, Lin a." 
 
 " 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, giv- 
 ing 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. u I tell 'ou," said he, 
 " Bert tould, — Bert tould had a laddy and 
 
20 BERTHA'S WISH. 
 
 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 trouble- 
 some 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. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 " HOW TO DO IT. 
 
 S the days passed, and Christ- 
 mas-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; 
 
22 "HOW TO DO IT." 
 
 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 ap- 
 ples, and oranges, and candy ; but there 
 must be also — what ? — ah, a little cart for 
 Fritzy, and — oh yes, a whole row of pew- 
 ter 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. 
 
"HOW TO DO IT." 23 
 
 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 trouble- 
 some 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, in- 
 stead of Ireland, could never feel quite cer- 
 tain 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 lit- 
 tle 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 ofT by them, changed in 
 its cradle for a fairy babe, — a strange little 
 
24 "HOW TO DO IT." 
 
 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 Hkely 
 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 peoole could never bide in cities. 
 
"HOW TO DO IT." 25 
 
 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 god- 
 mother 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 gain- 
 ed 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 
 
26 "HOW TO 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 will- 
 ing, but her cross, beer-drinking son, with 
 whom she lived, and of whom she stood in 
 such terror that she never permitted the chil- 
 dren 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 con 
 elusion 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 un- 
 pleasant 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 sympa- 
 thy with Gottlieb's rejoicing over his two 
 horse-shoes, no patience with Lina's linger- 
 ing over the bits of an illustrated news- 
 paper; and, when she crept into her bed 
 
"HOW TO DO IT." 27 
 
 in the darkness, after Gottlieb had returned 
 from his nightly chaffer with " Moses," the 
 Vaterunser was, I am sorry to say, forgot- 
 ten. 
 
 " 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, 
 
28 "HOW TO DO IT." 
 
 you had u 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 win- 
 dow, 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. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LITTLE MART S HOME. 
 
 PON that same October even- 
 ing, another little girl, near Ber- 
 tha'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 aa 
 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 
 
30 LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 
 
 seemed to give very little heed to its bright- 
 ness. 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 eager- 
 ly toward the door. A handsome, merry- 
 looking, young gentleman came briskly in, 
 shaking a tiny shower of rain-drops from his 
 hair and dress. w 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, wheel- 
 ing 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 some- 
 thing, 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." 
 
 " I was wishing for you, cousin John. 
 But 1 wasn't exactly watching, because I 
 
.■^ HP 1 
 
 MARYS HOME. Page 30 
 
LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 31 
 
 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 twi- 
 light, 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 al- 
 ways 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 
 
32 LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 
 
 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 
 
 
LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 33 
 
 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. 1 
 should have said, now, if any one had 
 asked me, that it was aunt Emily's tea-par- 
 ties 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 
 
 3 
 
34 LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 
 
 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. a 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, be- 
 cause 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 
 
LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 35 
 
 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, 1 
 could do nothing but cry ; so, 1 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 un- 
 thankful 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 
 
36 LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 
 
 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 shoul- 
 der, 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 friend- 
 less, 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 
 
LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 37 
 
 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 w r as not quite 
 pleased with her, — perhaps because she was 
 not quite pleased with herself. She was 
 conscious of being unthankful for her remain- 
 ing 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 sor- 
 row 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 
 
38 LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 
 
 fever passed through the city and carried off 
 its victims from every house. It was at 
 Norfolk that b'ttle 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 doc- 
 tors 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 adopt- 
 ed 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 discon- 
 tented. She had taken up a sad complain- 
 ing way, brooding over her grief, and refus- 
 
LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 39 
 
 ing to be comforted ; contrasting her grand- 
 mother's quiet, sober ways with her mam- 
 ma'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 child- 
 hood 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 dis- 
 pleasing 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 T indulged 
 
40 LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 
 
 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 snllen 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 
 
LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 41 
 
 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 grand- 
 child 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 lace to- 
 
42 LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 
 
 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, dry- 
 ing 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 
 
LITTLE MARY'S HOME. 43 
 
 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, anything, we 
 should not be willing to do for Him ? " 
 

 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 
 
 SRTY 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 curi- 
 osity 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 
 
" WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND ? " 45 
 
 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 ques- 
 tion 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, 
 1 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 dol- 
 lars, 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 dol- 
 lar, I know : Tim Daly told me," pursued 
 Berty. " Pounds and pounds;. and four hun- 
 
46 "WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 
 
 dred 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 Christ- 
 mas 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 
 
"WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 47 
 
 half its charm if it were not to be a surprise 
 to him. She thought of her Dutch acquaint- 
 ance ; 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 x>f everything, who al- 
 ways had a word of encouragement for every- 
 body, — who could be a better confidant than 
 he? 
 
 So she turned upon the young Irishman a 
 brighter glance of welcome even than he 
 
48 "WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 
 
 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, eager- 
 ly. " 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, straighten- 
 ing 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." 
 
"WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 49 
 
 " 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 
 Lin a, 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 pity- 
 ing 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 Ma- 
 dame Hansmann, you see, has told them 
 about it, and their heads are full of it. I 
 heard them the other night talking, and wish- 
 ing, 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 everything for those children; 
 and I wish so much, so very much, to do 
 
50 "WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 
 
 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; 
 u and ov course ye can do it. Sure, I've got 
 fifty cints that I was laying by for the win- 
 ter 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 passen- 
 gers, 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 
 
" WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND ? " 51 
 
 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 pro- 
 ject 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, — cer- 
 tain 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 
 your* ; and you'll see — you'll see what a 
 pile of pennies I'll have to-night!" 
 
 " Well ; good luck to you, Berty," an- 
 swered 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 
 
52 "WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND ?" 
 
 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 cabbage- 
 stumps, 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 Imade 
 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 w T as a 
 
"WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 53 
 
 famous time for the crossing, if only peo- 
 ple would not be in such a hurry ; for every- 
 body 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-look- 
 ing 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 
 
54 "WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 
 
 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 po- 
 liceman 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 
 
"WHOSE LOST HAVE I FOUND?" 55 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 
 
 IM 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 in- 
 tently 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?" 
 
TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 57 
 
 The child turned and looked at him va- 
 cantly, 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, dar- 
 
58 TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 
 
 lint, 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 some- 
 thing." 
 
 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 stop- 
 ped, and putting her hand in her bosom, 
 drew out the pocket-book, and held it up be- 
 fore 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 cor- 
 ner, behind this water-butt. Now, Tim, 
 open it and count it, and tell me if there's 
 enough." 
 
TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 59 
 
 Tim took the book, and, loosening the elas- 
 tic band, spread it out before them as they sat 
 upon the sidewalk. The numerous red pock- 
 ets were famously lined. There were rolls 
 of bank-notes, drafts, checks, and in one lit- 
 tle 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 Christ- 
 mas 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 '11 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?" 
 
60 TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 
 
 " How should I ? " said Berty, growing red- 
 der 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, free- 
 ing 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 busi- 
 ness 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. 
 
 Tin> 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 
 
TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 61 
 
 bit. Oh, Berty .J, Oh, Berty ! come wid it to 
 the station. Come now ! Sure, you would- 
 n'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 look- 
 ing round or slacking her pace, until she 
 found herself safe in her attic, with the door 
 dosed 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 Ted- 
 dy's room opened upon the same landing, 
 and the merry little Irishman sat at the 
 
62 TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 
 
 door smoking his pipe in }Jie 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 w 7 e 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 aimed me- 
 self. 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." 
 
TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 63 
 
 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 declar- 
 ing 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 go- 
 ing wrong, was setting her heart upon keep- 
 ing 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 
 
64 TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 
 
 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 whis- 
 per 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 preci- 
 pice their sister stood. 
 
 " Come out to me, then, Berty," he whis- 
 pered, 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 
 
TBI TURNS POLICEMAN. 65 
 
 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 per- 
 suasive 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 stay- 
 ing longer: so he put his lips to the crack 
 again, and whispered softly, " Good night, 
 Berty dear ; " then added, with a sudden im- 
 pulse, " Say your prayers before you go to 
 sleep," and ran away down-stairs again, to 
 discuss with himself once more that momen- 
 tous 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 
 
66 TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 
 
 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 knowl- 
 edge. So much was settled then. But what 
 next ? Should he send uncle Teddy to the 
 station-house in the morning ? The police- 
 men 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 some- 
 thing for keeping it safe. 
 
 Bu* Berty would never let him see the 
 pocket-book again, — never. Could he re- 
 member the immber and the name ? Ah, yea. 
 " John Grey " ; he had made that out quite 
 distinctly ; — that was the name. But about 
 
TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 67 
 
 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 Pater- 
 noster, — 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 doubt- 
 less more sorry than you or I can be ; but 
 Tim was an honest, faithful boy, who tried 
 
68 TIM TURNS POLICEMAN. 
 
 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 re- 
 spect 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. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ANOTHER CHASE. 
 
 F 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 remem- 
 brance, and somehow it was strangely unwel- 
 come. 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 kind- 
 
70 ANOTHER CHASE. 
 
 ness ; 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 sftining tapers 
 were all gone out and would not be. re- 
 lighted. 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 
 
ANOTHER CHASE. 71 
 
 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 gen- 
 tleman, 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 tak- 
 ing 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, 5— 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 
 
72 ANOTHER CHASE. 
 
 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 be- 
 fore Berty was stirring. 
 
 " Good morning, Berty," said he, pleasant- 
 ly. " 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 need- 
 ed 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 de- 
 cided what to do with all that money. So 
 she set off for the crossing, while Tim fol- 
 lowed 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 
 
ANOTHER CHASE. 73 
 
 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 per- 
 haps 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 watch- 
 ing there ; she would send him away. But 
 
74 ANOTHER CHASE. 
 
 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 any- 
 thing with the money while Tim was watch- 
 ing 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 pur- 
 sued, 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 
 
ANOTHER CHASE. 75 
 
 rest herself a little and determine what to 
 do. It was a handsome street, clean, and 
 well paved, and lined with stately brown- 
 stone 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 unperceivecl. He had taken it for 
 granted that Berty was running away from 
 
76 ANOTHER CHASE. 
 
 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 
 bim. 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 an- 
 swer 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." 
 
ANOTHER CHASE. 77 
 
 " 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. 
 

 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 BERTY RUNS AAV AY FOR THE LAST TIME. 
 
 ERTY would scarcely have sat 
 there so securely, though, if she 
 had known who was making 
 his way, through all the down- 
 town maze, towards the very 
 house in front of which she and Tim had 
 settled themselves. 
 
 Perhaps my young readers have not for- 
 gotten the aunt Emily of whom little Mary 
 spoke in a former chapter. This house be- 
 longed 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 ex- 
 patiating, belonged to Mrs. Grey, who, with 
 her little grand-daughter, was making a morn- 
 ing visit to aunt Emily. 
 
 While the old ladies were gossiping to- 
 
BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME. 79 
 
 gether, little Mary sat by the window watch- 
 ing the passing stages, and looking out for 
 Dr. John, who had promised to return that 
 way when his business down town was fin- 
 ished, 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 cer- 
 tainly poor enough, and the little girl es- 
 pecially 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 
 
80 BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME. 
 
 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, sup- 
 posed 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. 
 
 The cakes looked very inviting, and the 
 
BKRTY, TTM, AND MARY. Page 80. 
 
BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME. 81 
 
 little girl's manner was so courteous that 
 it would have seemed quite uncivil to re- 
 fuse ; 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 
 
82 BERTY RUNS AWAY _FOR THE LAST TIME. 
 
 babies and I," said little Mary, sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 " Are they ? " cried Berty, drawing nearer 
 to Maty 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 our- 
 selves, my brother and I ; the otheis are 
 too little." 
 
 " But how can you ? " cried Mary, ut- 
 terly 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." 
 
BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME. 83 
 
 " 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 can- 
 not 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 pock- 
 et-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 
 
84 BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME. 
 
 too late, — the stage-horses, frightened by 
 the cry, had started on, trampling poor 
 Berty under their feet. 
 
 Ther? was a moment's confusion, little 
 Mary and the stage-passengers screaming, 
 and Tim, the Doctor, and Mrs. Grey's coach- 
 man 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, bleed- 
 ing, braised, 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 oper- 
 ation, 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 
 
BERTY RUNS AWAY FOR THE LAST TIME. 85 
 
 shockingly hurt. Bring me out some harts- 
 horn, 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. 
 
 <^&® 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 HEN Berty came to herself, she 
 was lying on a bed, and the 
 strange gentleman was bend- 
 ing over herewith a very anx- 
 ious expression upon his pleas- 
 ant face. Her first impulse was to try run- 
 ning 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 gen- 
 tleman, 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, 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 87 
 
 she took it in her hand, and squeezing it 
 a little, handed it to the gentleman, say- 
 ing, " 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, pass- 
 ing 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 scarce- 
 ly help crying out with it ; but she made a 
 great effort, an 1 kept still. 
 
 " Yes," said "Dr John at length, — of course 
 
88 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 my young readers have guessed that Dr. 
 John and the strange gentleman were one 
 and the same person, — "yes, it is as I fear- 
 ed : the shoulder is dislocated, and the fore- 
 arm broken." 
 
 Tim gave a pitying exclamation, and Berty 
 a little frightened cry. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, my dear," said the Doc- 
 tor. " 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?" 
 
 u 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 HOSPITAL. 89 
 
 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 Doc- 
 tor, wiping the pale face tenderly and hold- 
 ing 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 im- 
 ploring 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 hon- 
 est boy could not help feeling almost guilty 
 
90 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 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 com- 
 fortable, 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. 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 91 
 
 " I never had a grown-up patient who be- 
 haved 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 com- 
 passionate 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. 
 
 u Who is Lieb ? " asked Dr. John, turning 
 again to Tim. 
 
 " He is her brother, sir ; but he's younger 
 
92 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 than she, and they've no one else. The fa 
 ther 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 prom- 
 ise 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 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 93 
 
 patients, Berty tped to think the matter ove* 
 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 Doc- 
 tor's parting injunction, and fell asleep. 
 
 Great was the amazement at Mrs. Flana- 
 gan'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 hos- 
 pital and the kindness of the Doctor and the 
 nurse went far to console them ; and Mrs. 
 Grey's famous basket of provisions, too, 
 w T as a great help : for these poor little chil- 
 dren seldom tasted anything really good ; 
 and even Gottlieb and Lin a, who were the 
 only ones old enough to appreciate their sis- 
 ter's misfortune, could not help heartily en- 
 joying the wholesome food. 
 
 Fritzy cried a little for his Berty when bed- 
 time 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, 
 
94 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 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-keep- 
 ing, that Tim resolved to bring Berty to terms 
 on the morrow, or never to take charge of it 
 again. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 MRS. GREY'S SUSPICION. 
 
 R. JOHN was met at the dool 
 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 enthusi- 
 asm in packing the basket of provisions, but 
 was still full of eager curiosity and sym- 
 pathy. Grandmamma, too, was very anx- 
 ious 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. 
 
9b MRS. GREY'S SUSPICION. 
 
 " 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 ac- 
 count 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 remem- 
 bered that I hadn't, my purse ; and then I 
 saw you, and I asked if you had found your 
 pockat-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 acci- 
 dent and put everything out of my head." 
 
 " But about the pocket-book, John," said 
 Mrs. Grey, " I have not heard you say. Pid 
 you find it, or get any trace of it ? " 
 
 u Not the least. I sent an advertisement to 
 the ' Herald ' and another to the ' Times,' and 
 
MRS. GREY'S SUSPICION. 97 
 
 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 af- 
 ford 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 \o 
 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." 
 
 7 
 
98 MRS. GREY'S SUSPICION.. 
 
 " Yes, I do," insisted Dr. John, " because 1 
 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 bet- 
 ter 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 atten- 
 tion to the old lady's raillery. He was think- 
 ing too intently, — trying to remember some- 
 thing, 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 lit- 
 tle Berty are the same. I thought I had seen 
 her somewhere. And what is more," he 
 added, interrupting Mary's wondering excla- 
 mation, — " 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 
 
MRS. GREY'S SUSPICION. 99 
 
 when she dropped her broom and ran off up 
 the street as if the sight of me had fright- 
 ened her out of her wits. Look at me, 
 Polly. Am I so very ugly ? Do I look like 
 an ogre to frighten little girls ? M 
 
 " 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." 
 
 u 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, indig- 
 nantly ; " that good, poor, innocent little Ber- 
 ty! How can you say such cruel things? " 
 
 u Think a moment, John," pursued the old 
 lady, giving little heed to Mary's remon- 
 strance. " You are certain you have not 
 seen it since you took it out to give this child 
 the dime ? " 
 
100 MRS. GREY'S SUSPICION. 
 
 " I certainly have not. I missed it when 1 
 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 man- 
 ner," 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-chil- 
 dren, 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 mus- 
 ing 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. 
 
MRS. GREY'S SUSPICION. 101 
 
 " 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 i? 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 
 
102 MRS. GREY'S SUSPICION. 
 
 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 tor- 
 mented by an uncomfortable remembrance 
 of that little package which Mrs. Gantz had 
 taken from Berty's bosom, and of the tel- 
 egram 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. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE CHAPEL SERVICE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 HE 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 oc- 
 cupants, 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 power- 
 less arm and aching side, brought back 
 the remembrance of the accident, even be- 
 fore the kind nurse appeared with her cheer- 
 ful, 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 
 
104 THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 
 
 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 
 
THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 105 
 
 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 accom- 
 plish 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 
 
106 THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 
 
 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 Novem- 
 ber. 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 Pa- 
 
THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 107 
 
 radies. 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 our- 
 selves, 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 
 
108 THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 
 
 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, recog- 
 nizing the Paternoster, fell upon his knees ; 
 and Berty, lifting her well hand in sup- 
 plication, 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 troub- 
 led 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 
 
THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 109 
 
 think nothing too much to do for her chil- 
 dren's friend. What would she say, how 
 would she feel, if she knew how her daughter 
 proposed to requite him ? 
 
 JBut, 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 " de- 
 sires " 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 
 
110 THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 
 
 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 shall 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 sta- 
 tion right off." 
 
THE CHAPEL SERVICE. Ill 
 
 « 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 
 
112 THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 
 
 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 cour- 
 age 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 CHAPEL SERVICE. 113 
 
 The Doctor changed color then, and tear- 
 ing 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. 
 u 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 
 8 
 
114 THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 
 
 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, 
 
THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 115 
 
 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 un- 
 derstand 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 fel- 
 low. But he must bid you good-morning 
 now, for I want to look at that side of 
 yours." 
 
116 THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 
 
 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 con- 
 fidence 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 Heav- 
 enly 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 
 
THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 117 
 
 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 sur- 
 plus 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 
 
118 THE CHAPEL SERVICE. 
 
 himself, as he looked down at the little girl's 
 glowing, happy face, that any amount of 
 money would have been well spent in work- 
 ing such a change as these kind schemes 
 had made in his sad, little cousin. 
 
.^ss#W3-fc 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE WISH FULFILLED. 
 
 ARY'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 
 
120 THE WISH FULFILLED. 
 
 gay streets, where Mrs. Grey took care that 
 Tom should go, in the handsome, easy car- 
 riage, 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. 
 
THE WISH FULFILLED. 121 
 
 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 Doc- 
 tor'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. 
 
122 THE WISH FULFILLED. 
 
 The Doctor was so busy nowadays, per- 
 haps 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 new- 
 found 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 mys- 
 terious 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 WISH FULFILLED. 123 
 
 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 en- 
 velope, addressed to Fraulein Bertha Weisser. 
 This note of course she could not read, but 
 Mrs. Gantz read it for her. It was an invi- 
 tation, in good set terms, to spend the even- 
 ing with Miss Mary Kendall, at her grand- 
 mother'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. 
 
124 THE WISH FULFILLED. 
 
 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 peep- 
 ing 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 hand- 
 some 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 
 
THE WISH FULFILLED. 125 
 
 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 god- 
 mother, 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 ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 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. 
 
126 THE WISH FULFILLED. 
 
 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 mys- 
 terious parlor glided swiftly back and dis- 
 closed 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 chil- 
 dren'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 
 
THE WISH FULFILLED. 127 
 
 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 pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 " 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 
 
128 THE WISH FULFILLED. 
 
 share of the magical fruit, — every one ex- 
 cept 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 ? " 
 
THE WISH FULFILLED. 129 
 
 " 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 some- 
 thing 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 s,he 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 
 
 9 
 
130 THE WISH FULFILLED. 
 
 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 
 
THE WISH FULFILLED. 131 
 
 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 god- 
 daughter, 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 an- 
 swered 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 
 
132 THE WISH FULFILLED. 
 
 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 has- 
 tened 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 de- 
 clared that he had nearly smothered in carry- 
 ing it out; and Dr. John averred that he had 
 chuckled so much as nearly to discover him- 
 self 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 
 
THE WISH FULFILLED. 133 
 
 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 bet- 
 ter, 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 sus- 
 picion 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.