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 7\
 
 ROUNDHEARTS.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 A NEW AND FASCINATINQ NOVEL, 
 
 RICHARD VANDERMARCK 
 
 1 VOL. 12MO. CLOTH, $1.50. 
 
 ALSO/ NEW EDITIONS, UNIFORM- IN STYLE AND PRICE, 
 
 EACH 1 VOL. 12no, $1.50 PER VOL., 
 
 RUTLEDGE. 
 
 THE SUTHERLANDS. 
 
 ST. PHILIP'S. 
 
 . FRANK WARRINGTON. 
 LOUIE'S LAST TERM. 
 ROUNDHEARTS- 
 
 A ROSARY FOR LENT.
 
 ROUNDHEARTS 
 
 . 
 _AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 7 
 
 it THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 Rutledge," " Sutherlands," "St PhUip's," " Frank Warrington, 
 " Louie's Last Term at St Mary's," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 CHARLES SCBIBNEE & COMPANY, 
 
 654 BROADWAY. 
 
 1871.
 
 Entered according to Aft of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
 
 GEO. W. CARLETON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 BHTXBBD according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
 
 SIDNEY 8. HARRIS, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
 
 
 . MASTER SIDNEY HARRIS. 
 
 tjis BOOK. 
 
 CHRISTMAS THE FIRST. 
 
 9327CI
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 L ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 Chapter I * " 
 
 Chapter II 3' 
 
 ChapterJII 5 2 
 
 Chapter IV. . . . . . 63 
 
 Chapter V. . . ... .78 
 
 II. THE CHRISTMAS SISTER . . 85 
 
 III. THE BOY REGIMENT. 
 
 Chapter I 9 
 
 Chapter II I21 
 
 IV. WILLY COLLINS * '3
 
 R 
 
 OUNDHEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 RECESS. 
 
 OUNDHEARTS?" said 
 Jerry, interrogatively.* 
 
 " Yes t round/iearts"said Ap, 
 emphatically, as he swung 
 himself up on the fence beside 
 Jerry, and balanced his dinner- 
 kettle on the gate-post, having jam- 
 med the cover down in a way that did not 
 Iqok well for Jerry's hopes of sharing the- 
 
 contents. There was a pause, during which 
 
 t 
 
 Ap ate steadily and comfortably the round
 
 1 2 ROU^DHEARTS. 
 
 brown cake, with its scalloped edges, that 
 he held in his hand, and during which Jerry 
 looked hungrily on, holding no cake of any 
 kind in his hand, and not having any imme- . 
 diate prospect of so holding any. 
 
 Poor little Jerry! It was nothing new 
 for*him to come breakfastless to school ; and 
 dinnerless, to watch the other children 
 empty their well-filled kettles, hardly throw- 
 ing him a crumb. His lazy, drunken aunt 
 was seldom out of bed when he started for 
 school; and though he always went down 
 into the cellar and tried to hunt up a crust 
 of bread or a scrap of meat to appease the 
 appetite that gnawed within, he very often 
 had no better luck than, we are told, old 
 Mother Hubbard had on that renowned 
 visit of hers to the cupboard. 
 
 Very bare was the cupboard generally 
 in Chary Wilson's old tumble-down house,
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. i $ 
 
 and very bare was the cellar where little 
 Jerry hunted hungrily for his breakfast. 
 Little fire there was in winter, and little food 
 in summer in that house; but of want, and 
 drunkenness, and profanity, and sin, there 
 was plenty. No one that knew the house 
 he came from could wonder that Jerry .Wil- 
 son looked half-starved and haggard, and 
 that his clothes hung ragged and tattered 
 about him. No one could wonder that he 
 was at the foot of the lowest class in 4 school, 
 
 and that he was the butt of his companions 
 
 
 
 for his stupidity and slowness. Though a 
 great many of these ill-cared-for and igno- 
 rant negro children who formed the Laurel 
 Hollow School had need of compassion 
 and kindness, none had so great need of 
 them as Jerry, and none perhaps received 
 less. There was something so dull and 
 lifeless about him that the children turned
 
 j^ ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 away from him; and his intelligence was 
 not of an order to attract the attention of 
 the ladies and gentlemen who occasionally 
 visited the school, nor enlist the interest of 
 those who had the teaching of him. Poor 
 little Jerry ! 
 
 Ap, on the contrary, was quite the show- 
 boy of the school bright, quick-witted, 
 and intelligent. His mother was the dairy- 
 woman at Squire Stoughtenborough's farm; 
 and being a thrifty, industrious woman, she 
 managed t> keep this, her only boy, well 
 dressed and respectable-looking, and her 
 little cottage in good repair, and her little 
 garden in good order. She had great 
 hopes for Absalom (familiarly known as 
 Ap), and often told him she meant to make 
 something worth having of him ; she said 
 he should have as much learning as any of 
 the white boys, and as good a chance to
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 15 
 
 get ahead as any lad in the village. Ap 
 took this in with much intelligence; and it 
 had the effect, in conjunction with his nice 
 
 clothes and smart way erf learning his les- 
 
 
 sons, of making him consider himself a 
 
 very important young person, and quite 
 the hero of the colored school. 
 
 AJrs. Rodman, the teacher, had perhaps 
 a different view of the matter. 
 
 The day on which Ap ate his round- 
 heart with so much relish on the gate-post, 
 and Jerry looked on with so much hun- 
 gry longing, was a bright, pleasant, sun- 
 shiny Friday in July. The trees and 
 lilac-bushes that surrounded the little 
 school-house were fresh and green, for 
 there had been a heavy shower the night 
 before, and nothing in all the country 
 round had as yet begun to look dried and 
 shrivelled. The fields were beautiful to
 
 1 6 ROUNDHEAKTS. 
 
 
 
 look at. The grass on the plot in front of 
 
 + 
 
 the door was quite as well-preserved as 
 grass in the neighborhood of school-houses 
 ever is. Twenty*four pair of emphatic 
 
 
 
 little feet trampling over it did not tend to 
 encourage it in an erect attitude; it lay 
 down irregularly and tangledly, but very 
 submissively, and was still very green. 4 At 
 present, Janey Martin, Clary Sanders, and 
 Lucy Richardson were rolling over it and 
 eating their bread and butter in quiet 
 enjoyment of the noonday intermission. 
 
 Mrs. Rodman, watching them all from 
 the school-room window, saw Jerry look 
 uneasily at them; but they were girls, 
 and girls laugh so hatefully when they do 
 laugh ! So Jerry didn't ask them for any 
 of their bread and butter, but watched Ap 
 as if all his hopes hung on him. Ap's 
 roundheart disappeared soon, and then
 
 ROUtWHEARTS. \ J 
 
 Ap unscrewed the lid of his kettle and 
 took out another; Jerry leaned anxiously 
 
 forward and looked into the 1 kettle too. 
 
 . f 
 
 After Ap took that one -out there were two 
 more whole ones left in it; he screwed the 
 lid down again and went on eating. He 
 couldn't be very hungry, Jerry thought ; he 
 had had the drumstick and wing of a 
 chicken, and a great slice of apple-pie, 
 before he began on the roundhearts. Just 
 at that moment several of the boys who 
 were playing horse down the road shouted 
 out to Ap to come and play ; he got down 
 from the gate, and cramming the round- 
 heart into his mouth, turned away and 
 was going towards them slowly, when Jerry 
 said hurriedly and huskily, and very low : 
 " I say, Ap, I wish you'd let me have a 
 bite o' one of them ; you don't want 'em ' 
 all, you know?"
 
 jg SOUNDSEAPTS. 
 
 " Don't I, now?- I'd like to know why I 
 . don't ! And if I didn't, I wouldn't be any 
 ways likely to give 'em to such a good- 
 for-nothing loafer as you are. Bring your 
 own dinner if you're hungry; you shan't 
 have any o' mine." 
 
 Ap called this out in a loud tone so 
 loud indeed that the girls on the grass 
 heard it very plainly, and stopped talking 
 and listened; and Jerry dropped his eyes 
 in shame and turned his back upon them. 
 The boys down the road shouted again 
 for Ap; so kicking the gate open with 
 one foot, he -dashed through it, and leaving 
 his kettle still hanging on the post, he 
 ran at the top of his speed towards them. 
 After he joined them, their game led them 
 still further away, and they soon disappeared" 
 into the woods that skirted the road. 
 
 Jerry stood perfectly still for several
 
 R UNDHEARTS: I g 
 
 minutes after they were out of sight; he 
 was so wretched he did not want to follow 
 them, he was so weak and faint he did 
 not want to run, and so ashamed and 
 angry he did not want to go near any- 
 body. After a while he sat down on 
 the grass outside the fence, and began to 
 toss the pebbles that lay within his reach 
 from the path into the road. 
 
 Now, he hated Ap; he thought how 
 ugly, and mean, and stingy he was ; how, 
 if he was strong and big, he would catch 
 him by the throat and throw him down, 
 and kick him so ! Oh, till he was sore all 
 over. Hateful, mean, stingy ! And Jerry 
 ground his teeth and clenched his fist 
 " I hate him ; yes, I hate him." 
 For a long while he lay there, tossing 
 the pebbles or pulling up the grass beside 
 him ; the girls had finished their bread and
 
 2O ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 
 
 butter, and had gone off to play; he heard 
 their merry laughing voices half-way up 
 the hill behind the school-house ; the boys 
 were still in the woods down the road ; he 
 was quite alone. The wicked thoughts of 
 anger and revenge that had kept him com- 
 pany since Ap's insulting answer did not 
 go away; but other wicked thoughts crept 
 in to keep them company. 
 
 The kettle hung within his reach. What 
 was to hinder him from taking those two 
 cakes that were in it ? Who would know 
 
 
 
 he did it ? If Ap accused him, who could 
 prove he had done it ? There was nobody 
 within sight; nobody could prove it ; they 
 might think the girls had done it ; or very 
 likely Ap would never miss them. 
 
 And he was so hungry ! The smell of 
 the apple-pie had driven him almost wild , 
 the sight of the roundhearts had made him
 
 ROUNDHEA.RTS. 2 1 
 
 almost sick with longing. He shut his 
 eyes and turned his face down on the 
 grass, but he couldn't get rid of the 
 thought, he couldn't get the roundhearts 
 out of his eyes; turn whichever way he 
 would, shut them ever so tight, the nice, 
 soft, smooth, brown cakes would be before 
 him the craving, gnawing' hunger would 
 be clamoring within. 
 
 He must ; he would ; he didn't care. 
 He raised up on his elbow and looked 
 stealthily around. All was so still ; there 
 wasn't a soul in sight ; nobody would 
 
 know nobody would ever know. 
 
 . 
 Just at that moment something . stirred 
 
 the lilac-bushes behind him; he gave a 
 violent start, and looked guiltily around. 
 He felt hot with shame when he saw what 
 it was ; it was only Moll, the half-grown 
 black-and-white cat, that had been straying
 
 22 EOUNDHEAETS. 
 
 around the Hollow all summer pelted by 
 the boys, kicked from the doors by the 
 women, teased and chased and mauled by 
 the girls. Jerry alone of all the children 
 never had worried or pelted her ; she had 
 often come mewing hungrily to the door 
 at night, and he had let her quietly in, and 
 kept her out of Chary's way, and let her 
 lick the unwashed frying-pan in the chim- 
 ney-corner, and dig greedily among the 
 pile of clam-shells and fish-bones that lay 
 upon the hearth ; and though such scraps 
 as were to. be found there, and an occa- 
 sional cold potato, and the freedom of the 
 
 
 
 cellar, were the only privileges that a resi- 
 dence at Chary Wilson's could afford her, 
 she seemed inclined -to embrace them, and, 
 as far as she could be said to live any- 
 where, lived there. She prowled around 
 the Hollow all day, however, and nobody
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 23 
 
 was ever surprised- to see her anywhere ; 
 so, after the first moment, Jerry was rjot 
 surprised to see her at his side. 
 
 Poor Moll! Was there ever such a 
 dismal ash-cat before ! She was nearly out 
 of kittenhbod, " tall for her age," gaunt 
 and meagre, with a hollow sinking in 
 about her sides that made one faint to look 
 at her ; and a hungry, wistful expression in 
 her eyes that made one positively uncom- 
 fortable. All the black in her coat looked 
 rusty and dirty; and for the white, there 
 is no chance of conveying its griminess. 
 But Jerry loved this cat. He liked to 
 have her . paws on his arm when he lay 
 curled up o.n his heap of straw in the gar- 
 ret at night, and to feel the regular motion 
 of her claws as she opened and shut them 
 on his sleeve, purring all the while. Jerry 
 often wondered if she purred all night.
 
 24 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 He left her purring when he went to sleep ; 
 
 and when he woke up in the morning, he 
 
 % 
 always found her watching him and purr- 
 
 ing still. 
 
 " Poor old Moll ! " he said, looking down 
 at her, and forgetting for a moment all 
 about the roundhearts ; " Poor old Moll ! " 
 
 She purred intelligently and affection- 
 ately, and walked up and down beside him, 
 rubbing herself against his legs, and looking 
 up into his face with such a wistful look in 
 her great unhappy eyes. 
 
 " Oh, she's hungry ! I know poor puss 
 I know," and the tears rushed into his 
 eyes. Yes, he knew indeed. There was a 
 sympathy between him and Moll that there 
 was between him and no one else, human 
 or feline. That rush of tears weakened the 
 strength of the wicked thoughts. - He began 
 to know they were wicked; he began to
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 2 5 
 
 remember who it was that put wicked 
 thoughts in children's minds ; he, remem- 
 bered what his teacher had said about the 
 way to get rid of them. m He did not know 
 the Lord's Prayer very well ; he blundered 
 a good deal in it when it came round to 
 him in the Catechism, partly because he 
 did not understand the words .it was made 
 of, partly because all the children were 
 looking at him ; but the sense of the latter 
 part of it he had somehow got into his 
 head. It was only 'yesterday that Mrs. 
 Rodman had made him stand by her desk 
 and repeat it after her, and had told him 
 what " temptation " meant, and what it was 
 to "deliver," and what "evil" was. She 
 had put it all into very simple words, and 
 had said in conclusion : 
 
 "Jerry, that's the prayer you must say 
 when you feel wicked when you want to
 
 26 EOUNDHEABTS. 
 
 do anything bad. It is the devil tries to 
 make you naughty ; but God will help you 
 lo be good if you say that prayer^with all 
 your heart." 
 
 So now that Jerry, lay there with his 
 hand on poor Moll's head, and the sense 
 of the wickedness he wanted to do so 
 strong in his heart, he vaguely realized that 
 this was temptation that this was a time 
 to pray. Not understanding them exactly 
 not fully "knowing what it all meant he 
 said the words over* half aloud, only wish- 
 ing to do right; dimly hoping that God 
 knew all about his trouble, and would help . 
 him if he said them. Educated and intel- 
 ligent children can hardly understand the 
 uncertainty and mistiness of poor Jerry's 
 ideas of right and wrong the simplicity of 
 his fears of God and trust in Him. Nothing 
 that other children learn had got into his
 
 R UNDHEARTS. 2 7 
 
 blundering, stupid, darkened little soul, but 
 the one ray of light that came from know- 
 ing that God loved him, and wouldn't let 
 anything bad happen to him as long as he 
 was good and did what was right. So just 
 to do right was what Jerry wanted to do, 
 and you may be sure God helped him, 
 through all his ignorance and stupidity. 
 
 " I won't ; no, no, Moll, I won't," he said. 
 " I know it's bad. I don't mean to. Come, 
 let's go away, Moll." 
 
 And grasping her very tightly under his 
 arm, he got up and walked hurriedly away, 
 with an expression almost of fear as he 
 glanced back for an instant at the shiny tin 
 kettle hanging on the gate-post. He gave 
 Moll such a clutch, as he caught the glitter 
 of it in the sunshine, -that the poor cat 
 uttered an involuntary mew of pain that 
 brought Jerry to his senses, and he put her
 
 28 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 down on the ground quickly, and in an 
 apologetic manner. She seemed to be 
 afraid she'd hurt his feelings, for- she rubbed 
 herself against his legs affectionately, and 
 followed him closely as he went on. 
 
 He had just seated himself at the 
 school-house door when the bell^ rang. 
 He was very glad of it; it put the idea 
 of the roundhearts among the impossi- 
 bilities, and he went into the school-room 
 and took his seat at his end of the long 
 hard bench the youngest class occupied, 
 with a sigh of relief. 
 
 Friday afternoon was an exciting time 
 in the Laurel Hollow School; "the ladies" 
 always came then, and about three o'clock 
 Mrs. Rodman arranged them in two long 
 rows on each side of the room ; where, with 
 hands folded, - feet literally " toeing the 
 mark," and sharp black eyes rolling inqui-
 
 . ROUNDHEARTS. 29 
 
 sitively about, contrasting oddly with the 
 forced repose of the bodies they illumi- 
 nated, the young brigade awaited the 
 arrival of " the ladies." Mrs. Rodman, on 
 this afternoon, perceiving an unusually un- 
 governable tendency among them, walked 
 authoritatively up and down the line, a 
 slim little whip in her hand, with a view to 
 preserving the order she prided herself 
 upon, until the arrival of the ladies. Not 
 all the terrors of the Inquisition, however, 
 could have prevented the smothered but 
 universal exclamation of, " Here they 
 come ! " as a carriage stopped at the 
 gate. 
 
 " Children, will you be quiet ? " And 
 Mrs. Rodman waved her whip signifi- 
 cantly, at which they all subsided into 
 the quiet recommended; and you might 
 have heard the smallest pin ever manu-
 
 30 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 factured fall upon the thickest carpet ever 
 woven, as Mrs. Danforth came up the 
 path to the school-room door.
 
 ROVNDHEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 POOR MOLL. 
 
 'HE lady's plan was gene- 
 rally to have a sort of 
 review of the lessons of 
 the week, examining the 
 children upon what they had learn- 
 ed since she was there last ; then 
 she would hear them" say the Cate- 
 chism; and lastly, the hymns they knew 
 from the younger ones, and the Collect for 
 the week from the older. It is needless 
 to say the children tried to do their best, 
 and from nine o'clock Monday morning 
 looked forward with anxiety to Friday
 
 32 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 afternoon. The rewards, of which this 
 very delightful lady was extremely lavish, 
 .were not the sole causes of their assiduity, 
 however. She was so kind and so good, 
 and looked so pretty in her soft muslin 
 
 o 
 
 dress, and straw-bonnet with its marvellous 
 bright ribbons, and came in such a fine 
 carriage, and drove away so fast, while 
 they all stood watching her, that it is my 
 belief, if she had not given any rewards 
 more tangible than that very sweet smile 
 of hers, and some gentle words of praise, 
 they would have tried very hard to win 
 them and to please her. 
 
 Occasionally she brought some of her 
 own children with her; and on this occasion 
 a small boy, keeping tight hold of her 
 dress, and showing a half-developed inten- 
 tion of hiding himself in its folds from all 
 those black eyes, followed her. Indeed,
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 33 
 
 little Larry was as much afraid of the 
 children as the children were afraid of him, 
 and very often came, and went away, with- 
 out exchanging anything more familiar 
 with t them than a great many shy and 
 curious glances. 
 
 After the usual examination, in which 
 Ap distinguished himself by rattling off all 
 the weights and measures in the table- 
 book two degrees faster than usual, and in 
 which poor Jerry did himself more dis- 
 credit than ever before by his hopeless 
 stupidity and alarm, the lady took her little 
 prayer-book out of her- pocket, and began 
 to hear them say the catechism. Very 
 well they knew it, certainly, as far as the 
 mere words went ; but whether they had at 
 all grasped the ideas that the words con- 
 veyed, seemed a question in her mind just 
 then, for she asked them very searching 
 
 2*
 
 34 ROUNDREARTS. 
 
 and simple things about the Command- 
 ments, and did not get very satisfactory 
 replies in all cases. Then she asked them 
 to say the Lord's Prayer. Oh, of course 
 they all knew that, and they all knew 
 " what they desired of God in this prayer ;" 
 at least they all said it fast enough. 
 
 Indeed, the older ones answered tolera- 
 bly well most of the questions she put 
 them about this [ Mrs. Rodman had taken 
 an infinite amount of pains with them, and 
 they had at least reaped a little benefit 
 from her labors. But it happened that 
 when she said, " Now, children, you tell 
 me you pray God ' that it will please Him 
 to save and defend you in all dangers both 
 of soul and body, and that He will keep 
 you from all sin and wickedness, and from 
 your spiritual enemies, and from everlast- 
 ing death;' what words of the Lord's
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 35 
 
 Prayer mean this, do you say ? there 
 was an uncertain pause ; no one seemed 
 to know. 
 
 She looked around inquiringly. " Why, 
 children, can't you tell me that ? Can't you 
 tell me what words you must say when any 
 danger, either of soul or body, frightens 
 you ; when you want to do something bad ; 
 when the devil is tempting you ? Think 
 
 
 
 a minute ; can't any of you tell me what 
 words our Lord taught His people to 
 say?" 
 
 Another, pause, during which Ap and 
 the bigger boys looked rather ashamed, and 
 the little ones very much" puzzled. But 
 glancing down the double row of unsatis- 
 factory faces, the lady caught a gleam of 
 something like intelligence on Jerry's, and 
 an eager, stammering movement of his lips. 
 
 " Well, my little boy, speak. What is it? "
 
 36 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 " Lead us not into temptation, but but 
 deliver us from evil," he repeated huskily 
 and slow. 
 
 " That's right," she said with a quiet 
 smile of approbation. She saw he was 
 miserably frightened at the sound of his 
 own voice and at the wondering eyes turned 
 upon him, so she did not ask him any 
 more questions or take any further notice 
 of him, but'she did not lose sight of or for- 
 get him ; there was something in his face 
 that had struck her with much pity. 
 
 The picture reward-card, of course, be- 
 longed to Ap; he had had decidedly the 
 best lessons ; but just as she was going, the 
 lady called Jerry to her, and opening her 
 purse, gave him a five-cent piece, with some 
 kind words of commendation. Poor Jerry 
 stood holding the bright little coin in his 
 hand, looking hopelessly dull and ungrateful-
 
 ROUNDHEARTS, 37 
 
 "Jerry!" called out Mrs. Rodman, very 
 much shocked; " why don't you say ' thank 
 you?'" 
 
 " Make a bow, stupid," whispered the 
 envious group of children in the rear, and 
 Ap tried to push him forward. 
 
 .But Jerryj perfectly stunned with it all, 
 could neither command a bow nor a " thank 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, no matter this time," said the lady, 
 kindly. " He means * thank you,' I know. 
 
 The children gathered round him in an 
 eager group, almost too much engrossed 
 with his good fortune to watch the carriage 
 drive away; which it did, however, very 
 briskly. Jerry was entirely unsatisfactory 
 upon the question of how he was going to 
 spend it, and put the hand that held it 
 tight in his trousers' pocket, and snubbed 
 all invitations to go shares with sturdy re- '
 
 2 8 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 solution. For he had made up his mind 
 very distinctly what to do', with his five- 
 pence; half of it in roundhearts, right 
 straight away, and half of it for something 
 to eat to-morrow morning a little bit of 
 taffy perhaps, some peanuts, and a bolivar. 
 He had never had more than a cent at a 
 time in all his life before, and the times in 
 which he had possessed even that sum he 
 could count up very shortly ; so it was no 
 wonder he felt giddy and almost sick with 
 excitement. It was his afternoon for clear- 
 ing up the school-room, however, so he had 
 to tie the fivepence up in a corner of the 
 grey rag he called his pocket-handkerchief, 
 and stuff it very low down in his pocket, 
 and take the broom and go to work. Mrs. 
 Rodman bade him good-by kindly, and 
 went away; and so, after a while, all the 
 children did, and he was left alone.
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 39 > 
 
 The school-room was generally lamen- 
 tably dirty on Friday afternoon, and poor 
 Jerry was nearly stifled with the clouds of 
 dust that rose from the application of his 
 broom. He was in a great hurry to be off 
 to the village for his roundhearts (which is 
 not to be wondered at, considering he had 
 not had a mouthful of food that day), but 
 he had a general idea of his duty in 
 regard to anything he had been entrusted 
 with, and he knew Ihe school-house had 
 been left in his charge ; so he worked 
 away patiently at it, swept it as well as he 
 could, and put the benches back in their 
 places, then dusted it rather clumsily, but 
 very faithfully ; and at the end of his per- 
 formances put away broom . and duster, 
 took his tattered cap from its peg, shut 
 down the windows, and shut and locked 
 the door. He ran around to Aunt Sally's,
 
 40 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 where the key was kept, deposited it, and 
 then made a "straight wake" for the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 " Cross lots," of course, his route lay ; 
 the first lot was a ploughed one, and ter- 
 ribly stumbling work his poor weak knees 
 made of it ; but then the roundhearts ahead 
 kept his courage up till he had crossed it 
 A tangled -hedge of cat-brier and alder- 
 bushes separated him from the next field, 
 and he stooped down on his hands and 
 knees to try to find a place to crawl 
 through, when the sound of voices on the 
 opposite side of the hedge made him stop 
 a moment and listen, and then, as the 
 meaning of the talking reached him, start 
 up in anger and alarm. 
 
 The first voice he heard was Moll's, in a 
 miserable, tortured, uncomfortable whine, 
 as if some one were holding her very hard.
 
 BO UNDHEARTS. 4 1 
 
 The second voice was Ap's, and he was 
 saying low : " The shingle's too long by a 
 couple of inches ; it'll keep her too far out 
 of the water. By George, I bet she'll drift 
 a mile before she sinks." 
 
 " Don't lash her down too tight," Bill 
 Watson whispered ; " she can't kick if you 
 do, and it's half the fun to see her kick and 
 make the shingle go up and down." 
 
 " Give me some more cord," Ap said. 
 " I'm sort of 'fraid of this, it's so ' thin. 
 Double the next ; there that's better. 
 Jingo ! ' how strong, she is ! Ton my 
 word it's all I can do to hold her." 
 
 " How are you going to get her down to 
 the shore without the folks in the village 
 seeing us ? " asked Dick Slossom. 
 
 " Go along through the swamp till we 
 come to Walton's hill, then cut across the 
 road and along through the edge of the
 
 42 ROUNDHEAKTS. 
 
 church-yard till we come to the creek, and 
 so on down to the beach. Nobody '11 see, 
 if we hurry." 
 
 As quickly as all this got through poor 
 Jerry's bewildered head, he started up and 
 bolted head foremost through the briers, 
 appearing most unexpectedly to the asto- 
 nished youths on the other side, and 
 making them, for one instant, suspend 
 their brutal business. 
 
 " What are you about ? I say, put 
 Moll down; put her down right off!" he 
 gasped as soon as he could get his breath. 
 There was something in his determined, 
 resolute manner that for a moment influ- 
 enced the boys ; no one spoke, and they 
 looked at him, till Ap, with a coarse laugh, 
 * helped them back to their accustomed in- 
 solence and ease. Indeed there was some- 
 thing half-ludicrous in the figure of the
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 43 
 
 lean, tattered urchin, as he stood facing the 
 group of stout lads a head taller than he, 
 and a good many times as strong. But 
 Jerry never had a thought of fear; he 
 would have fought them all in a minute; 
 the sight of poor Moll lying there bound 
 to the shingle, lashing her tail about with 
 such certain significance of pain, and look- 
 ing up at him with such a troubled look, 
 made him fierce; he would kill them if 
 they didn't let her go ; he would ; he didn't 
 care 
 
 " Oh ho ! I'd like to see you touch 
 her ! " cried Ap. " I'd like to know how 
 you're going to make us let her go ! " 
 
 " Like as not he's going to thrash us all 
 round," laughed Bill. 
 
 " Don't hit me hard," cried Dick, a big' 
 lazy negro about thirteen years old. " I'm 
 so little you oughtn't to hurt me."
 
 44 
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 " I don't care whether you're little or 
 big," stammered Jerry, his fierce indigna- 
 tion almost choking him. " I don't care 
 anything about you ; but you've got to let 
 her go ; you shall you shall " 
 
 " How're you going to make us, that's 
 all ? " said Ap, doggedly, stooping down to 
 go on with his cruel work. 
 
 " I'll show you how ! " cried Jerry, doub- 
 ling up his fist and dashing at him; but 
 the other boys caught at him, and held 
 him by the arms. 
 
 " Behave yourself, you little fool ! " and 
 Dick shook him by the shoulders with 
 considerable vehemence. " Keep quiet, or 
 I'll give it to you." 
 
 " Let go my arm ! you great big coward ; 
 let go ! I say," and Jerry twisted his head 
 round quickly, and snapped at his oppres- 
 sor's hand with his teeth. Dick uttered a
 
 JtOUNDHEARTS. 45 
 
 yell of pain, and relaxed his grasp, giving 
 him with the other hand a heavy blow' on 
 the ear. 
 
 "Try that again, and I'll show you!" he 
 muttered, rubbing his hand and turning 
 away. 
 
 " I'll show you, if you don't let Moll go," 
 cried Jerry, beside himself with passion. 
 
 " Keep off! keep off! you rascal !" howled 
 Ap, as Jerry's clumsy boot struck him a 
 heavy kick, and by a desperate exertion 
 of strength the enraged boy freed himself 
 from Bill's grasp, and sprang upon the 
 kneeling Ap, and possessed himself of the 
 tortured cat, and started madly across the 
 field, before any one of the trio knew what 
 he was about. Of course, his escape was 
 hopeless. As soon as he started to run, 
 his miserable weak limbs began to fail him, 
 and in a moment the boys surrounded him.
 
 46 mUNDHEARTS. 
 
 Whether Bill Watson was more temperate 
 because he had had no bite or kick, or 
 whether he was by nature more humane, 
 or, possibly, more avaricious, it is unimpor- 
 tant to decide. At any rate, he held back 
 the violently-minded Ap, as he was plung- 
 ing after Jerry, and, laying the other hand 
 on that poor victim's shoulder, said, con- 
 ciliatingly 
 
 " Hold on, boys ! Just stop a minute ! 
 What's the use o' all this muss ? If Jerry's 
 so mighty fond o' Moll, he can have her, 
 as long as he's a mind to pay us for givin' 
 of her up. He's got a five-cent piece. 
 That's as much as '11 make up for the loss 
 of the fun ; ain't it, boys ?" 
 
 A change was apparent in the faces of 
 the boys. Well, yes; they guessed it 
 would do. They guessed they'd give her 
 up to Jerry for that. He might hand over
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 47 
 
 the fivepence. "No, that I won't," he 
 cried indignantly. " You great big bullies, 
 you shan't get my money that way." 
 
 And he struggled fiercely to get off. 
 But there was no use, the poor lad soon 
 saw. Either his precious little half-dime 
 must be surrendered, or poor Moll must be 
 given up to torture and death. " I can't 
 no, I can't," he thought miserably; "the 
 roundhearts and all and I'm so hungry. 
 Oh, the stingy fellows ! They sharit have 
 it ! " And he again wrestled desperately to 
 release himself and his suffering favorite. 
 But all to no purpose; one or the other 
 they would have. And at last the thought 
 of poor drowning Moll, and the sight of her 
 present pitiful distress, overcame the pain 
 of losing his treasure ; and with a choking 
 feeling in his throat, and a shaking 'uncer- 
 tainty in his hands, he took the rag out of
 
 48 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 his pocket and undid the corner of it, while 
 Ap and Bill, whispering together, cut the 
 string that bound Moll to the board, and 
 took her up ; and when Jerry, with an un- 
 steady lip, and eyes that looked very anx- 
 iously another way, put the coin into Dick's 
 hand, Bill threw down Moll upon the 
 ground, and clapping his hands together, 
 shouted, " Scat, scat." 
 
 Moll darted under the hedge, and disap- 
 peared. Bill gave Ap a wink, and Ap dis- 
 appeared too. But this Jerry did not no- 
 tice. His heart was too heavy to notice 
 anything, now the effort was made, and 
 all his great pleasure given up. He wasn't 
 sorry he'd done it. He knew it was right, 
 but it was dreadfully hard. He was too 
 sick and miserable to cry, so he turned his 
 back upon the village for which he had 
 started in such good hopes a quarter of an
 
 EOUNDHEARTS. 40 
 
 
 
 hour before, and dragged slowly and wearily 
 back to the Hollow, while Dick and Bill 
 strolled across to the road; and he saw 
 them, as he reached home, sauntering on 
 towards the village. 
 
 Jerry went up the overgrown path that 
 led" from the road to the house, and tried 
 the door, but it was locked. Chary was 
 gone away, then, and Jerry gave a sort of 
 patient groan as he sat down on the stone 
 before the door. He had begun to hope 
 there might be some crusts in the house, 
 and was making up his- mind to be con- 
 tented with them instead of the round- 
 hearts, but here was an end of that now. 
 To >e sure, if he tried, there were several 
 ways of getting into the old house. The 
 window of the garret was open ; and if he 
 chose to carry the old step-ladder that was 
 lying by the wood-pile round to it, he might
 
 tjO ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 tf 
 
 easily climb up and get into the attic. But 
 the prospect of success in his search was 
 too faint, or the idea of tugging the ladder 
 around the hous.e was too much for his 
 
 strength ; for he sat still on the door-step, 
 
 
 
 witn his chin on his hands, too weak and 
 spiritless to move. By and by, however, 
 Uncle Jake,- a stalwart negro who lived a 
 few doors off, shouted out to him from the 
 potato-patch where he was hoeing, " I say, 
 Jerry, what you about ? Aunt Chary is 
 gone to Sampson's, and won't be back till 
 bout dark, and she wants you to go down 
 to the shore and dig some clams for 
 supper. The hoe and basket's round by 
 the back door." ^ 
 
 " Did she say I must go ? " Jerry said, 
 with a miserable conviction that this 
 message indicated that there was nothing 
 else for supper.
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 5 1 
 
 " Wall, ef she hadn't, do you think I'd 
 have told you so ? " 
 
 And Uncle Jake resumed his work, and 
 took no further notice of little Jerry.
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ASLEEP ON THE fcEACH. 
 
 ORTUNATELY for Jerry, 
 at the moment that he 
 reached the gate, carrying 
 the rake and basket, never 
 so "heavy before, a stripped wagon 
 came along on its way to the saw- 
 mill. He asked the man if he 
 might ride; and the man nodded yes, 
 and slacked up a little, and then stopped 
 quite, when he saw the difficulty that the 
 child had in climbing on. Jerry got his 
 seat at last, however, and the horses 
 started off very briskly. The ride rested
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. cj3 
 
 him a good deal, and the fresh wind in his 
 face made him feel quite alive again ; and 
 by the time the man drew up at .the- saw- 
 mill, he was strong enough to get down 
 without stumbling, and to pick up his hoe 
 and basket and walk off like a man, feeling 
 them not half so heavy as they were 
 before. 
 
 As he looked down towards the beach, 
 he saw that the tide was still too high for 
 clamming; so, knowing the best place was 
 abo'ut half-way between the creek and 
 the steamboat landing, he got' over the 
 fence and plodded across the swamp and 
 Mr. Walton's cornfield, and at last came 
 out upon the beach, just at the right of 
 two large bathing-houses that stood alone 
 below the fence. The tide Had gone down 
 very slowly; it was still too high, so he 
 must wait awhile. He threw himself
 
 54 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 down on the soft sand, in the shade of a 
 clump of cedar-trees, and almost out of 
 sighf of anything at . the right of him, 
 by reason of the bathing-houses. The 
 sand was very soft and dry, and the breeze 
 blowing across the bay was cool and fresh ; 
 and by and by, lulled by the low sound of 
 the water dashing up on the beach at his 
 feet, and the stillness of everything else 
 around him, the fagged child laid his*head 
 
 on his arm and fell fast asleep. 
 
 
 
 The next thing he was conscious of was 
 the shutting and locking of the bathing- 
 house door, which made him awake with a 
 start. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he 
 saw that the tide was more than half down, 
 
 and he started to his feet in some alarm, 
 
 
 nearly running against a young lad who 
 
 had just come out of the bathing-house, 
 and whom in his hurry and bewilderment,
 
 ROU2WHEARTS. 55 
 
 he had not seen before. He was a manly- 
 looking boy of about eleven years, very 
 fresh and rosy from his bath, and followed 
 close by the little Larry whom Jerry had 
 that afternoon seen with his mother at the 
 school. 
 
 "Hollo!" ^cried the older boy, "don't 
 run over us, I say? Did you come with 
 those boys ? What are they about ? " 
 
 * 
 
 " What boys ? " stammered Jerry, con- 
 fusedly, looking bewildered around him. 
 
 Aye, what boys indeed ; and what were 
 they about! Jerry looked down below, 
 on the * beach left bare by the retreating 
 tide, and at the group pushing off the little 
 boat that had been left high up by it ; and 
 dull and weary as his eyes were, they 
 could not fail to see what it all meant. 
 He put his hand for a moment to his head, 
 as if it were confused and aching, then
 
 i- 6 BOUNDHEARTS. 
 
 sprang down towards them as if wild. The 
 boat was off, Ap standing in the stern, and 
 holding in his hand the shingle with poor " 
 Moll lashed on it, waiting for the word 
 from his companions to throw her off into 
 the deep water. There were rro oars to 
 the boat; so the two on the shore had 
 given it a hard push, holding the anchor 
 fast meantime, and had sent it quite far out ; 
 far enough for their purpose, in fact, which 
 was only to get their wretched victim quite 
 clear of the shore, and that was not a 
 difficult thing, for the tide was falling, and 
 would naturally carry her out into the bay, 
 whether they started her that way or not, 
 and she was perfectly helpless, and at the 
 mercy of the current. 
 
 They started guiltily, when Jerry 
 rushed down the beach ; but Bill, recover- 
 ing himself, called out to Ap to give
 
 BO UNDHEARTS. $ 7 
 
 
 
 her a good swing quick, and they'd pull 
 him in. 
 
 "Swing her if you dare," cried Jerry, 
 seizing the rope and trying to pull the 
 boat in. " I'll kill you if you throw her in 
 the water ; I'll kill you " 
 
 " Swing her off quick, quick," shouted 
 Dick to Ap. 
 
 But Jerry, like a little savage as he was, 
 rushed into the water up to his waist and 
 clutched at the boat. It 'was just beyond 
 his reach, but another plunge brought him 
 to it ; and grasping the side with one hand, 
 with the other he dealt a vehement blow 
 on Ap's rfaked legs, and was rewarded by 
 a hard kick in return. 
 
 "Stamp o;n his hands; kick him; kick 
 him off," cried Bill. 
 
 "Swing the cat; swing her quick!' 
 shouted Dick.
 
 c 8 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 But Ap could not swing Mtfll ; he had 
 his hands full, parrying Jerry's frantic blows, 
 and it was not till he had beaten the boy 
 off from the boat that he was able to lift 
 the shingle up and give it the desired hurl 
 out beyond his reach. But whether from 
 hurry, or from excitement, or the dread of 
 having those savage fists about his legs 
 again if he didn't get to shore, Ap did not 
 give the cat the toss he had intended ; she 
 struck the water not ten feet from where 
 they were, struck head foremost, went 
 
 * partly under, but came all out again in 
 an instant, dripping and horrible to look 
 at, with her distended eyes and gasping 
 
 -* mouth. 
 
 Before Ap knew it or could resist, Jerry 
 was in the boat beside him, and hand to 
 hand they renewed the fight ; Jerry strug- 
 gling to get to the stern of the boat, where
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 59 
 
 ,he hoped to reach the shingle, Ap holding 
 him back and returning blow for blow. 
 At this moment the boys on the shore 
 began to pull in the boat, for they began 
 to fear for the result of the encounter ; and 
 the white boys by the bathing-house had 
 come down and demanded what it meant, 
 as if, should they find it wrong, they would 
 surely do their best to right it. But the 
 sudden motion of the boat threw them 
 both down. Ap made a violent effort to 
 push Jerry overboard, but, as is not unfre- 
 quently the case, his evil design came 
 back upon himself; his efforts made the 
 boat tip just an inch too far, and into the 
 water they both rolled, Jerry uppermost, 
 only relaxing his hold on his antagonist as 
 they -went under. They rose, in an in- 
 stant; Jerry touched bottom where he 
 stood, and making a violent plunge in the
 
 <5o ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 direction of the half-drowned cat, struck 
 vigorously out and swam towards her. 
 The tide, however, had drifted her into 
 pretty deep water by this time, and little 
 Jerry's arms were very weak, and he was 
 but an indifferent swimmer; it was no 
 wonder he did not make much headway, 
 loaded" down with his clumsy clothes and 
 heavy boots, and growing fainter every 
 minute. 
 
 How had he struggled ! What brave 
 str6kes he tried to make with his limbs, 
 out of which the strength seemed going 
 going so fast ! How anxiously he kept his 
 eyes on the object ahead of him, which did 
 not seem to grow a bit nearer, work as 
 hard as he might ! How cold and wide 
 the bay looked with his eyes on a level 
 with it ; and the waves came into his mouth 
 at every stroke, and his head seemed to be
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 6l 
 
 growing lower and lower down, and the 
 rush of the water in his ears almost deaf- 
 ened him. 
 
 Poor Moll ! Oh, if he could only get to 
 her, they would both go down together ; 
 they would get rid of the cruel, ugly, wick- 
 ed people ; they wouldn't be unhappy any 
 more ; he didn't care what happened to 'em, 
 he didn't care what God did to 'em God 
 was good. 
 
 His head was getting lower and lower; 
 the rushing, deafening waves were rolling 
 in his ears and blinding his eyes; a faint, 
 limp feeling was creeping over all his 
 limbs. There was no use, he couldn't get 
 her ; he was sinking ; he stretched his 
 hand out once, but it was far top short to 
 reach the shingle, now not three feet off ; 
 he- had tried his best; he had to give
 
 62 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 up. He tried to say, or perhaps he -only 
 thought, 
 
 " Deliver us from evil," 
 
 and the struggle was over; the 'waves 
 choked the prayer as they rolled over him. . 
 Poor Jerry had sunk. Moll on her board 
 rode the waters alone.
 
 BOUNDHEARTS. 63 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE LITTLE HERO. 
 
 ALF an hour later that 
 afternoon, there was an 
 unusual stir on the steps 
 of Mrs. Danforth's house ; 
 the doctor's gig stood before 
 the door; and that gentleman, just 
 going, was giving his departing 
 instructions to the nurse, who, with an 
 armful of flannel wrappers,- stood on the 
 piazza, beside him, white little Larry, with 
 very large and excited eyes, holding fast 
 his mother's dress, watched them from the 
 doorway. 
 
 " Keep Master Roland in bed till I see
 
 64 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 him .to-morrow morning," the doctor was 
 saying. " I don't apprehend any ill effects 
 from his adventure to-day, but it is best to 
 be on the safe side. He is only a little 
 restless from his excitement and exertions, 
 I fancy, ami will be quite fresh after a good 
 night's sleep. Such a brave boy ought not 
 to be neglected, at any rate. I am sure 
 you have reason to* be proud of him, Mrs. 
 Danforth." 
 
 " I think I am ra little, perhaps," she 
 answered, with a smile. " But it is no 
 more than we ought to have expected of 
 Roland; you know that he has always 
 been told his duty, whereas poor little 
 Jerry, untaught and neglected, has turned 
 out such a hero, that I feel I can never 
 admire him enough." 
 
 "Poor little fellow !" said the doctor, 
 thoughtfully. " He is such a dull-looking
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 65' 
 
 child, I never imagined he was capable of 
 so much courage. How did you hear the 
 whole story of the sixpence and the 
 roundhearts ? " 
 
 " Why, Ap, Jjie ringleader of the plot, 
 was very much subdued and terrified at 
 his own fall into the water; and when he 
 reached the shore and witnessed, with the 
 others, Jerry's attempts to reach the cat, 
 and his . subsequent failure of strength, he 
 was very much overcome and horrified ; 
 and after Roland brought to shore 'what he 
 thought was poor Jerry's dead body, he be- 
 gan to cry and say, ' They had done it ; it 
 was all their fault.' I started for the beach 
 just then and met him coming up the lane, 
 crying bitterly; and he told me all the 
 story, with a little coaxing and threatening, 
 before I knew exactly who was hurt or 
 what had happened."
 
 66 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 " Well, well," said the doctor, " I hope 
 poor little Jerry will IrVe through his trial, 
 and get well; and there's one thing cer- 
 tain,' we won't let him starve if he does. 
 He shall have as many ro^mdhearts as he 
 can cram for the balance of his days. 
 I will come early to-morrow, ma'am, 
 and hope to hear good news of both my 
 
 patients, indeed, of all three, I may say ; 
 
 
 for Moll, down by the kitchen fire, she 
 
 counts one, doesn't she ? Larry, my boy ! 
 I leave her in your charge. Give her 
 another Dover's powder if she's restless in 
 the night, and don't forget the warm ap- 
 plications ; they're of great importance. 
 Good-by, madam." 
 
 Larry grew very red and hot, and looked 
 up awkwardly in his mother's face to see 
 
 whether the doctor was joking or serious, 
 
 
 as he drove off. His mother laughe.d and
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 67 
 
 said, " She didn't think Moll would need the 
 powder, but he might go down and see whe- 
 ther she was doing well, and then come 
 up and sit by Roland if he liked." He 
 did like, and went down to the kitchen and 
 walked softly over to the fireplace, where, 
 in a warm corner on the hearth, stood a 
 basket, in . which, on a soft, thick old 
 shawl, lay Moll, an unfinished bowl of 
 bread and milk standing on the hearth be- 
 side her basket, being probably the first 
 unfinished nourishment that had ever be- 
 fore been allowed to stand within her reach 
 since she had begun td provide for herself. 
 Larry's hospitable attentions knew no 
 bounds ; he overwhelmed her with bread 
 and milk, chicken soup, and panada, the 
 last two preparations being intended for 
 the young invalids up-stairs, and gave her 
 no peace till she had completely gorged
 
 68 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 herself and nearly brought on a fit. She 
 rather resisted being put in the basket, and 
 got' out several times ; but at last, a little 
 overcome by the heat and her unusual 
 state of satiety, she gave in, and lay down 
 rather uncomfortably and looked about 
 her. But it became evident even to Larry 
 that 
 
 " The burden of an . honor whereunto she was not born," 
 
 was having a very depressing effect upon 
 her. She tried to be contented, but she 
 was visibly in a much disturbed state of 
 mind, fier submission rather touched 
 Larry, and, after consulting with Rosa- 
 mond, the cook, he concluded that it 
 wouldn't hurt her to take a little gentle 
 exercise, if she confined herself to the 
 kitchen ; so he lifted her out of the basket, 
 and then ran and shut all the doors and
 
 ROmWHEARTS. 69 
 
 windows, and got up on the table and 
 watched her. She walked about much as 
 cats usually walk, and at length sat herself 
 down near the door, and mewed a little 
 uneasily. It was possible that the increas- 
 ing heat had something to do with her 
 discomfort, for by that time the thermome- 
 ter would have stood at 96 in the cold- 
 est corner of the kitchen; and the cook, 
 at last aroused to the state of the tem- 
 perature, made a great outcry, and rushed 
 about bursting open doors and windows* 
 and ejaculating that they'd all have been 
 smothered in three minutes more of such 
 heat. Larry jumped down from his tabte 
 and ran after her, imploring her to stop, 
 that Moll would get away.; but the busi- 
 ness was done, and before he could reach 
 the cat she 'had slipped out of the door 
 and was lost ' to sight among the lilac-
 
 yO ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 bushes. .In great consternation the little 
 boy followed and called her, but the only 
 glimpse he caught of her after that, was as 
 she darted from the lilac-bushes to the 
 shelter of the piazza,. Her practised eye 
 had discovered a loose stone that no doubt 
 had admitted many cats before her time to 
 the lofty, dark, "cobwebbed hall under the 
 long piazza, where they were safe from all 
 "" pursuit, and where, also, the pleasures of. 
 the chase were to be enjoyed to some ex- 
 tent. It had long been the favorite ren- 
 dezvous of the mice from the cellar and 
 the mice from the house, and the danger 
 of the meeting-ground only seemed to 
 heighten its attractions for them. Moll 
 sniffed about with interest, and felt very 
 complacent as she sat herself down a few 
 feet from the entrance, quite out of reach 
 of the pole with which Larry was poking
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. Jl 
 
 about for her, and quite out of reach of the 
 anxious pair of eyes he applied to the hole 
 which admitted the only daylight that illu- 
 mined the place. 
 
 Larry did not give up . till the tea-bell 
 rang, and then he went in and whispered 
 low to his mother the misfortune that had 
 befallen him in his capacity of nurse, and 
 the great fears he entertained for Moll's 
 safety. His mother comforted him very 
 much by saying she did not think there 
 was any danger of Moll's taking cold, and 
 that it was probable she enjoyed herself 
 much better under the piazza than by the 
 
 
 
 kitchen fire. She .would no doubt come 
 out when she was hungry ; and if he fed 
 her well she would soon be quite "over all 
 the bad effects of her bath. 
 
 There was very little else talked about 
 at the tea-table besides Jerry's trying to
 
 >j2 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 save Moll, and Roland's saving Jerry. 
 'The patient papa had heard the whole 
 story from each one of the children sepa- 
 rately, and then submitted to hear it in 
 chorus again at the table, for they all 
 talked at once, and all so eagerly that the 
 words and the sense were not much clearer 
 to the listener than the chorus of a new 
 opera is to one who hears it for the first 
 time. 
 
 But in^ such a case as this, ordinary 
 rules must give way ; and the children went 
 to bed twenty minutes later than usual that 
 night, quite worn out with their unaccus- 
 tomed . excitement and. the unaccustomed 
 liberty it had obtained for them. Roland, 
 indeed, could hardly get asleep at all, and 
 muttered " wildly even when he slept all 
 night long. Poor little Jerry's night was 
 even worse than the nurse had feared.
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 73 
 
 She watched beside him till almost day- 
 break, hoping the fever would abate, and 
 that he would get some rest. He was 
 quite delirious and wide awake, though, 
 until dawn, when the medicines he had 
 taken began to affect him, and he fell into 
 an uneasy doze. 
 
 It was towards evening of that day, 
 when, coming suddenly back into the room 
 which she had left about ten minutes be- 
 fore, the nurse found Jerry sitting up in 
 bed, his eyes wide open, staring about him. 
 He had lain all day in a sort of stupor, and 
 this was his first view of the strange place 
 to which his adventure had led him. It 
 was such a very different room, from any 
 he had ever waked up in before, and such 
 a very different bed from any he had ever 
 slept on before ! If was a little room, and 
 an attic - room too ; but very clean and
 
 74 ROUNDHEARTS- 
 
 comfortable, and pleasant-looking ; and the 
 sheets were so white, Jerry felt that he 
 looked like a cockroach or a beetle lying 
 in them. Where was he ; what did it all 
 mean ; who was this coming in to take 
 care of him ? And the thinking made his 
 head swim so that he had to lay it down 
 on the pillow again. 
 
 " Well, my little man," said the nurse, 
 coming up to the bed, " and how do you 
 feel by this time ? " 
 
 " What time ? " returned Jerry, troubled 
 and unsettled in all his ideas of date and 
 place, and looking anxiously up at her. 
 
 " Why, this time," she said, laughing ; 
 "just now. Does your head ache ? ' 
 
 " I believe it does," he answered slowly, 
 putting his hand up to his forehead and 
 half-turning over in bed. " Where where 
 am I ; do you know ? "
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 75 
 
 "Well, yes, I know; and I'll tell you. 
 You know who Mrs. Danforth is, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " Her as comes up to the school ? Oh, 
 yes." 
 
 " Well, you know -she's a very kind lady, 
 and when you were pitched out of the boat 
 the other night, you were brought up to 
 her house ; and here you are now, and here 
 I am, a taking care of you. That's all, 
 ain't it?" 
 
 " Out of the boat ! " and Jerry looked 
 very much bewildered. " What boat ? " 
 
 " Oh, no matter, child, if you don't re- 
 member. 'You fell out of a boat, that's all, 
 and got sick after it. Now lie still like a 
 good boy till I get something for you to 
 eat" 
 
 It all seemed, however, to come back to 
 his recollection like a flash ; for raising
 
 ^5 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 himself up on his elbow and looking wildly 
 in her face, he stammered out : 
 
 " Where where's Moll ? " 
 
 " Oh, she's all right ; there, lie down a 
 minute and you shall see her for yourself." 
 
 She went out of the room, and in a few 
 minutes returned, followed by Larry, holding 
 Moll in his arms, and looking excited and 
 delighted. Moll, however, struggled her- 
 self out of his arms as soon as they entered 
 the room, and with an eager mew, darted 
 across the floor and sprang up on the 
 bed. Jerry's bewildered eyes softened and 
 cleared as they fell on her; and putting 
 his arms around her, his face grew natural 
 and childish-looking as he listened to her 
 affectionate purr. She settled herself com- 
 fortably down on his arm, and he turned 
 his face towards her on the pillow, and 
 seemed quite content to lie still so, and
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 77 
 
 not ask any more questions, or bother his 
 brain about how they both got there, so 
 comfortable and safe, after their frightful 
 parting .out on the bay, at some unknowa 
 period of time past.
 
 78 ROmWEEARTS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DELIVERED FROM EVIL. 
 
 HE evening on which Jerry, 
 dressed in his new suit of 
 clothes, first came in to 
 prayers with the rest of the 
 servants, was an exciting one to the 
 Danforth children. Indeed the 
 younger ones looked at him with 
 much more interest than was consistent 
 with the attention their father expected 
 them to pay to the chapter he read 
 them from the Bible; and when Moll, 
 pushing open the door which had been 
 left ajar, introduced her glossy, improved 
 person into the room, there was a general
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. ' 79 
 
 stir and tittering among them. Jerry, 
 looking infinitely distressed, took her up 
 and put her out ; and the children, from his 
 serious face, caught an apprehension that 
 there wasn't anything funny in it after 
 all, perhaps, and quieted gradually down. 
 Indeed, poor Jerry, though he felt a little 
 queer and awkward in his new clothes, 
 never seemed to lose sight, for a minute, of 
 the new and strange duty that had brought 
 him there, and the soberness and attention 
 required of people saying their prayers 
 to God. 
 
 Perhaps, little as he suspected it, Jerry's 
 example in this, did the children good, and 
 reminded them of that which, by constant 
 familiarity with the duty, they had begun 
 somewhat to neglect ; and his steady, slow, 
 earnest way of going through his daily 
 work, and his constant good temper and
 
 8o ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 willingness to serve them, made him as great 
 a favorite with them as with their elders. 
 Roland taught him reading and writing in 
 the evenings, and helped him learn his 
 Catechism for Sundays ; and felt, in a man- 
 ner, that he was personally responsible for 
 his improvement and good behavior. And 
 Jerry responded in gratitude and affection 
 to the interest and patience of his young 
 preserver. 
 
 A happy, safe, Christian home, indeed, 
 poor Jerry had been rewarded with after 
 all his sufferings and temptations. The 
 recollection of those first years of his 
 miserable childhood only stayed by him to 
 make him see more clearly the mercy ^that 
 had brought him safely out of danger, 
 and the answer that even such imperfect 
 childish prayers as his had obtained. 
 
 Jerry's intellect, to be sure, was none of
 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 8l 
 
 the brightest, and the learning he acquired, 
 with all his patience, never amounted to 
 the requirements even of a decent educa- 
 tion ; but " The fear of the LORD is the 
 beginning of wisdom, and a good under- 
 standing have all they that do thereafter." 
 And remembering that, no one can won- 
 der that Jerry lived to be a respectable, 
 hard-working, prosperous man, long after 
 he had seen his old companions and 
 persecutors fallen into evil ways, and seen 
 them reach the inevitable end of evil 
 ways. 
 
 Doing his duty simply and sincerely, 
 not looking above his station, but being as 
 faithful as he knew how to be in it; the 
 GOD whom he served took kind care of 
 him, and ordered for his good all the 
 
 events of his honest, honorable life. 
 4
 
 THE' CHRISTMAS SISTER.
 
 THE 
 
 CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 HERE was a loud ringing at 
 the door. 
 
 " Some of our presents, 
 I'll bet a cookie," cried Paul, 
 and then stopped short, for he had 
 been told a great many times not to 
 say " I'll bet." 
 " Just supposing it should be," mur- 
 mured little Anita, holding her breath as 
 she listened.
 
 86 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 The two children were alone in the par- 
 lor, and it was Christmas Eve. Do little 
 children ever think of anything but pre- 
 sents on Christmas Eve, I wonder? Anita, 
 and Paul her older brother, were pretty 
 good children,- and very apt to be pleased 
 with whatever came to them. They were 
 never disappointed in their stockings, 
 though they imagined so many things be- 
 forehand, that it would have taken a much 
 larger house than the one they lived in, to 
 have held them all, if they had come. 
 
 The ring proved to be only a man with 
 brooms for sale, and the servant slammed 
 the door after him, as if she thought nobody 
 had any business to bring her up-stairs"on 
 such an errand ; and the children fell back 
 to their places by the window, as if they 
 thought nobody had any business to be 
 selling brooms on Christmas Eve.
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 87 
 
 " Who does he suppose wants his old 
 brooms ! " said Paul, sulkily. 
 
 " Oh, well, never mind ! There's plenty 
 of time for the presents to come yet. Look, 
 it's only seven o'clock." 
 
 " I wish it were nine, and I were fast 
 
 
 
 asleep," said Paul. " I wish it weren't so 
 dreadful long till morning ! " 
 
 " Oh, no," said Anita ; " it's a pity to wish 
 it all over. Make believe we weren't in 
 any hurry." 
 
 So the wise little woman cuddled herself 
 up in the arm-chair by the fire, and patted 
 her doll's hard head, and whispered to her 
 that to-morrow was Christmas-Day. 
 
 " Oh, dolly ! " she whispered with a sigh, 
 "if you only understood what I said to you, 
 and if your head was not so very hard ! " 
 
 Poor little Anita! She longed so to have 
 a doll with warm little hands and soft hair
 
 gg THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 that curled, and was not put on with glue. 
 She always felt like covering her dolls' eyes 
 up, when they stared directly at her without 
 any sense in them, and she thought they 
 looked worse still, when she pulled the wire 
 and shut them up. She loved her doll, but 
 she was not satisfied with her; and it was 
 not safe to tell Paul how she felt, for Paul 
 always laughed at " Rosalind," and would 
 do so a great deal more, if she told him her 
 own little discontents about her. 
 
 The only person she dared to talk to was 
 dear mamma, who seemed to understand 
 better than anybody. Mamma was sick 
 now, too sick to be talked to very much; 
 but Anita, as she sat nursing her stiff pet 
 before the fire, felt such a desire to have a 
 little comfort about it, that she made up 
 her mind to go and try if she could get in 
 at her mother's door. So slipping down
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER, 89 
 
 off her chair, she tucked " Rosalind" under 
 her arm, and said to Paul : 
 
 " I'm going to mamma's room for awhile. 
 You call me if any presents come." 
 
 " No," said Paul ; " I shall go too. It's 
 so tiresome waiting here alone." 
 
 Anita gave a little sigh. She did not 
 want Paul to come. She liked her talks 
 with her mother best alone, but she was too 
 good a little girl to be cross and say he 
 shouldn't. She knew he had a right to 
 come if he pleased, and she only said : 
 
 " Well, we must be very quiet" 
 
 Their mother's door was ajar, and Anita 
 pushed it a little further open, and said, 
 " Can we come in ? " in such a dear little 
 gentle voice, that she could not have said 
 "no," even if she had not wanted them. 
 They went in, while their father shook his 
 head and said he feared they would disturb
 
 THE CHEISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 her. She was sitting up in a large chair 
 by the fire, which was blazing very brightly, 
 and which made her look better than she 
 looked by daylight. Their father was sit- 
 ting by her holding one of her hands, but 
 he made a place for Paul on his knee, while 
 Anita nestled herself down on the footstool 
 at her mother's feet. 
 
 " How's Rosalind ? " said mamma, in her 
 low, tired voice. 
 
 "Oh, much as usual," answered Anita 
 with a sigh, laying her down on the floor 
 beside her. 
 
 Mamma smiled. She knew all about 
 her little girl's thoughts just from that. 
 
 " It would be nice if her hair grew out 
 of her head, wouldn't it ? " she whispered, 
 too low for Paul to hear. 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! " exclaimed Anita, with 
 another sigh.
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 91 
 
 "And if her nose weren't so hard and 
 pointed when you struck against it ? " 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " And if her little feet were pink and soft, 
 and if she kicked them up in your face and 
 laughed when you laid her on your lap 
 and put her night-clothes on ! " 
 
 "And if her arms moved without a 
 creak, mamma ! " 
 
 " And if you could put her in the bath- 
 tub and sponge all around her little neck 
 and cheeks, without having any of the 
 paint come off ! " 
 
 " And if, oh mamma, if she could shut 
 her eyes, without making herself look so 
 very nasty ! " 
 
 " And if she could put her arms around 
 your neck, Anita, and cuddle ' up close, 
 close to you, dear ! " 
 
 " Oh don't, mamma ; please don't," cried
 
 g 2 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 Anita, sinking back. " There's no. use talk- 
 ing anything about it. I've thought so much 
 about it, I'm tired of thinking and wishing 
 any more ! I don't care a bit about my 
 presents to-morrow. I'd rather have a doll 
 like that, than all 'the toy-shops in the town." 
 
 " Oh no, Anita," said mamma. " Think 
 of the nice games and books that may be 
 coming. And who knows but there may 
 be a globe of gold-fish, and a toy village, 
 and possibly a set of china, blue and gold, 
 and all complete ! " 
 
 But Anita shook her head again. 
 
 " I don't care sixpence for them all, if I 
 could only have a live baby to take care of 
 and to love." 
 
 " But, Anita ! you don't know how much 
 trouble it would be, and how it would cry 
 and worry, and have to be patted and 
 trotted, and put to sleep."
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 93 
 
 "Just what I want to do for it, mamma," 
 cried Nita, putting her hands together 
 eagerly. " Then I should feel -as if I were 
 being useful, and as if it couldn't get on 
 without me, and as if it were my very own, 
 and it would be fun to get tired that way. 
 Oh dear!" 
 
 " It wouldn't lie still like Rosalind for 
 hours, while you went off to play with 
 Paul, you know." 
 
 " I shouldn't want to play with Paul, 
 mamma. That is only because Rosalind 
 
 is tiresome and doesn't take any interest in 
 
 . 
 
 what I do for her." 
 
 Mamma smiled again, and passed her 
 hand gently over her little girl's hair, and 
 then leaned back in her chair, seeming too 
 tired to talk any more. Papa noticed that 
 very quickly, for he was always watching 
 her, and drew Anita away, from her, and
 
 94 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 took her on his other knee and began to 
 tell a story, so that they should not talk. 
 The story was an interesting one, but it 
 did not put out of Anita's head the things 
 she had been whispering about with 
 mamma. So that when papa at length 
 put them down and told them to give their 
 good-night kiss and run away, she put her 
 lips up to her mother's ear and said softly : 
 
 " Do you think, mamma, there is any 
 chance of my ever having a better baby 
 than Rosalind to play with ? " 
 
 "Why, yes perhaps some time you 
 may, my child," her mother answered, 
 hesitatingly. " Yes, perhaps, if you are 
 very good." 
 
 " Mamma," and her voice sunk, " do you 
 think I might possibly possibly have it 
 for to-morrow, if I gave up all the other 
 things?"
 
 TEE CHRISTMAS. SISTER. 95 
 
 " Oh, as to that, dear, don't think any- 
 thing about it. Enjoy whatever comes." 
 
 " I wonder that is mamma, just tell 
 me Does God have anything to do with 
 such things? Does He know what we 
 want for Christmas, and all that ? " 
 
 "Yes, darling, He knows all we want, 
 and all that will be good for us." 
 
 "And there is no harm in asking Him 
 for things ? " 
 
 " None, Anita." 
 
 " Then, mamma, I'll tell you what I mean 
 to do to-night when I say my prayers. I 
 mean to ask Him to send all my toys to 
 the poor children in the lane, and to send a 
 live baby to this house a live, good, darling 
 baby! Oh, mamma, wouldn't that be a 
 Christmas ! Oh, mamma ! how I shall 
 pray for it! Good-night, dear, sweet 
 mamma!"
 
 96 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 Anita thought that there were tears on 
 her mother's cheeks as she kis.sed her, and 
 stroked her hair, and held her close to her 
 before she let her go. But lately there had 
 been tears so often in her mother's eyes, 
 that she did not wonder very much about 
 it ; only felt a little solemn as she went away. 
 
 When Anita said her prayers, she did 
 not forget to ask for a live Christmas baby ; 
 indeed she stayed so long on her knees, 
 that Paul, from his little room, began to 
 whistle and hum and thump on the head 
 of the bed, by way of hurrying her up and 
 getting somebody to talk to. 
 
 " I should think you would be frozen, 
 saying such long prayers," he said, when he 
 saw her cross the room to put out the light. 
 
 " Well, I am not," she answered, as she 
 went back to bed. " And I should like to 
 be let alone sometimes."
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 97 
 
 " Oh, you would, would you ? " remarked 
 Paul. " Well, that's natural. I do myself, 
 generally. But you see it's plaguy lone- 
 some lying here in the dark, and I want 
 somebody to talk to." 
 
 " If mamma had asked me not to say 
 plaguy, I don't think I should have done 
 it Christmas Eve, at all events." 
 
 "Why not Christmas Eve, more'n any 
 other time, I'd like to know ? " asked Paul, 
 in rather a gruff way. 
 
 Anita could not tell exactly, so she did 
 not say anything. She had a sort of feeling 
 that on Christmas Eve people ought to be 
 better and more careful to do right than on 
 ordinary days. She felt as if the Great 
 
 
 
 Birthday was a time when it seemed very 
 wicked not to t}e quieter and more thought- 
 ful than usual, but she did not feel sure that 
 she could make Paul understand her. So 
 
 5
 
 98 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER 
 
 she let him talk on about his presents and 
 his plans for play till he made her feel very 
 sleepy and stupid, and till he dropped asleep 
 himself. Soon the starlight, faint and soft, 
 shone into the two silent rooms where the 
 two children were lying, hands tucked 
 under cheeks, fast and happily asleep. 
 
 Visions of sugar-plums ! Oh, more than 
 that went dancing through their heads. 
 Through Paul's there passed, harnessed 
 and equipped, unnumbered pairs of hobby- 
 horses, troops of grocery carts and milk- 
 men's wagons, and trains upon trains of 
 railroad cars and engines. Tops, kites, 
 balls, paint-boxes, and picture-books ; while 
 through simple Anita's there was the one 
 
 t 
 
 only thought of the little prayed-for baby 
 that she had talked about vdth her mother 
 before she came to bed. 
 
 The night was not very far gone, "mid-
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. gg 
 
 night scarcely passed and over," when 
 Anita awoke with a little start, and sitting 
 up in bed, rubbed her eyes and listened. 
 Oh, perhaps it was a dream ! but what 
 made her wake up? A 'little faint baby- 
 cry, and then a- silence. Anita's heart beat 
 quickj and she strained her ears to listen. 
 Could it be possible she had her wish so 
 soon ! She had expected to have it, to be 
 sure, and had felt certain GOD would hear 
 her ; but she felt a great wonder that it was 
 so soon. The cry did not come again, 
 though she listened long and could not lie 
 down and forget it. She began to feel as 
 if she should cry, herself, from disappoint- 
 ment ; the room was so still, and trfe idea 
 that it was all a dream was so very much 
 more sensible than any other idea. She 
 felt very chilly, too, and her shoulders ached 
 with being uncovered ; but she would not
 
 !OO THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 lie down and cover them under the bed- 
 clothes. That was too much like giving 
 up. 
 
 After awhile, a long while it seemed to 
 her, there was a little stir down-stairs, and 
 steps in the hall, and then the hall-door 
 opened and shut, and presently a carriage 
 drove away from the gate, and all was 
 silent again. Anita hardly breathed. Oh, 
 if some one would only come up-stairs and 
 tell her what it was all about. 
 
 Ten minutes after, ' some one did come 
 up-stairs very quietly, as if not meaning to 
 waken her and Paul. Her father came 
 into the -room and passed quietly on 
 through it, to a large closet that opened 
 out of it, where linen and medicines were 
 put away. He held a candle which he 
 shaded with his hand, and Anita saw his 
 face was rather pale. She did not dare to
 
 THE CHBISTMAS SISTER. . IOI 
 
 speak to him, and he did not glance at the 
 bed as he passed through the room and* 
 stood within the closet door, very intent 
 upon what he had come to look for. When 
 he had found it, and had silently closed 
 the door, and had just reached the hall, 
 Anita's courage came desperately back. 
 She stretched out her arms anH said : 
 
 " Oh, dear papa ! listen a minute ! " 
 
 Her father gave a start upon hearing 
 her voice, and came back saying in sur- 
 prise : 
 
 " Why, Nita ! what are you doing awake 
 at this time of night ? " 
 
 She looked so white and odd, sitting up 
 in bed in her white night-clothes, and her 
 eyes were so large and eager, that her 
 father felt sure she was ill, or had been 
 frightened 
 
 "What is it, my little girl?" he said
 
 IO2 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 again, sitting down on the bed, and put- 
 ting his arm around her. 
 
 "Tell me," she whispered, "has it come? 
 I thought I heard it." 
 
 " Has what come ? " he said, inquir- 
 ingly. 
 
 " My baby, papa. Oh, I thought I 
 heard it cry." 
 
 And the tears came into her eyes as she 
 turned away her face. 
 
 The father gave a half-smile, and was 
 silent a moment, and then whispered : 
 " Come and see." 
 
 He lifted herein his arms, and wrapping she 
 bare feet up in the folds of her night-gown, 
 carried her through the dark and silent 
 house. Anita felt as if her breath would 
 .never come again; she clung around her 
 father's neck, and almost wished she had 
 not waked up at all.
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 103 
 
 * He pushed softly open the door of her 
 mother's room. There was a very dim 
 light in it, but she caught sight of her 
 mother on the bed, lying very quiet, and 
 some one else by the fire, she did not 
 know who, or care. For while her father 
 said hush, in a very low whisper, he car- 
 
 * 
 
 ried her to a little crib the crib thsft used 
 to stand in the nursery, now all fresh with 
 light, white drapery and pulling the cur- 
 tains softly back, he held her down to kiss 
 a soft, pink, sleeping baby ! Anita gave a 
 gasp of amazement and delight, and clasp- 
 ed her hands together- as she bent down 
 and laid her cheek against its warm face. 
 She could have screamed and laughed with 
 delight, only she shook so, and felt more 
 like hiding her face on the pillow and 
 crying with happiness. Oh, how wonder- 
 ful GOD wasl Oh, what a Christmas!
 
 IO4 TEE CHRISTMAS SISTER. fc 
 
 Oh, what a good girl she was going to be ! 
 She would never say a cross word to any 
 one after this! She would love every- 
 body ; she would be just like mamma, and 
 mend Paul's mittens for him every day 
 if he wore holes in them for ever. 
 
 She gave the baby another kiss as silent 
 as the* first, and then her father lifted her 
 up and carried her back to her room in a 
 sort of dream. 
 
 He laid her down on the bed, and gave 
 her a good-night kiss, and smiled at her 
 expression of perfect satisfaction. She did 
 not want to be anything but awake after 
 that; she lay still and happy till it was 
 almost dawn, and then fell asleep with the 
 soft, warm feel of the baby's cheek still on 
 her lips, and the happiest love filling her 
 innocent heart. 
 
 Dear little Anita ! The Christmas bells
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SISTER. 
 
 105 
 
 never wakened a better nor a happier 
 child than she; and the little Christmas 
 sister was a gift of which she never tired, 
 a plaything, and a pleasure that never wore 
 
 out nor faded. 
 
 S*
 
 THE BOY-REGIMENT.
 
 THE 
 
 BOY-REGIMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DRILL-ROOM. 
 
 " Where two or three are gathered together in My name, 
 there am I in the midst of them." 
 
 KING, noble and powerful, 
 and feared of all his enemies, 
 once sent a commission to 
 some of his officers to recruit, 
 for his service, a new regiment to be 
 added to the ranks of his great army. 
 Not a regiment of men, well-grown 
 and hardy, but a regiment of boys of all 
 ages and conditions. The officers very
 
 I xo THE BOY-REGIMENT. 
 
 likely wondered what the king wanted of 
 children, encumbering the movements of 
 the army, and in need of so much drill- 
 ing; but they were too well-trained and 
 faithful servants to express their wonder, 
 or allow it to hinder their obedience. But 
 when they heard this little army were to be 
 the chosen attendants of the king, were to 
 surround his person and stand continually 
 in his presence, their amazement grew much 
 greater,- and they thought : " We must be 
 careful indeed in the' training of these boys, 
 and must seek out from all quarters the 
 strongest and best-grown lads that can be 
 found." 
 
 But on reading the commission again, 
 they discovered the choice did not lie with 
 
 * 
 
 them. They must summon all the children 
 of high and low, rich and poor, the youngest 
 and weakest as well as the best-grown and
 
 THE BOY-REGIMENT. * III 
 
 strongest and give them the clearest in- 
 structions they could, and the most faithful 
 training, and the king himself would watch 
 their progress, and select from all the host 
 the ones who pleased him most. 
 
 Great interest all the parents felt in this 
 announcement-, and they very eagerly 
 brought their children forward, and had 
 their names enlisted among the candidates 
 for the royal favor. " There, children," 
 some of them said, " we have done our part ; 
 we have given you the chance. It will be 
 your own fault if the king rejects you." 
 
 But the wiser parents knew their part 
 was not done ivhen they had enlisted their 
 children under the king's banner; they 
 knew they must assist and enforce the 
 teaching of the officers, and daily keep 
 alive the ambition they had kindled. 
 
 On a certain day in every week the
 
 112 THE BOY-REGIMENT. 
 
 children w.ere told they must assemble at a 
 certain place and receive the instructions 
 of their officers, and be drilled in all sol- 
 dierly exercises, and be made ready for the 
 Grand Review that at some unknown, 
 though not distant day, the king would 
 hold in person, when from 'their ranks he 
 would select his favorites. 
 
 But strangest, most exciting of all, was 
 the intelligence that, in the great drill-room 
 where they were to meet, the king himself 
 had- promised to be present, observing and 
 overlooking them, seeing all .they did, and 
 noting their obedience or disobedience to 
 the officers placed over them, and judging 
 by their every-day behavior whether they 
 would in time be fit for his attendants. 
 Though he was to see them, however, they 
 were not to see him; hidden from their 
 sight, he was to watch them silently, and
 
 THE BOY-REGIMENT. i i 3 
 
 they never were to stand face to face before 
 him till the day of the Grand Review. 
 
 And from cottage, hall, and hovel the 
 children flocked, jostling each other in . 
 their eagerness, and pressing forward very 
 manfully into the service. 
 
 At first; but it is very easy to be in 
 earnest at first, every child and man and 
 
 * 
 
 woman knows. It is quite another part of 
 speech, being in earnest about a thing when 
 the thing has got to be an old story, and 
 has lost the spice of novelty. Persevering, 
 going straight on, whether the duty has got 
 to be tiresome or not, just because it is 
 a duty that is the test of real earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 The drill-room was a great dark building, 
 with an echoing stone floor and a vast 
 carved roof, so far above their heads that it 
 made the little children who came from low,
 
 THE BOY - REG1MENT - * 
 
 thatched cottages and dingy cabins dizzy 
 to look up at it. 
 
 At one end of this building, in a space 
 railed off from the rest, the officer or offi- 
 cers of the king stood, and read to the 
 children the message of the king out of a 
 great book that contained the record of 
 what the noble army they were to join had 
 
 9 
 
 already done, and what the king's will was, 
 and what kind of service pleased him best. 
 On entering the building, the children 
 were taught to make a deep reverence or 
 salutation, just as if they really saw the 
 king, who saw them, and to take their places 
 among their comrades silently and in order, 
 and to listen reverently and obediently to 
 all their officers read to them out oT the 
 book of records, and to regard all they com- 
 manded them to do, just as if the king him- 
 self spoke ; for the king had placed them
 
 THE BOY-REGIMENT. 1 1 5' 
 
 over the children, instead of training them 
 himself; and any disobedience or disrespect 
 to them, was disobedience and disrespect 
 to him. 
 
 The place too, considering he was in it, 
 though they did not see him, it became 
 their duty to regard with reve'rence and to 
 occupy with decorum and silence. 
 
 At first, this seemed easy and natural 
 enough. The children held their breath 
 with awe, and trod on tiptoe down the 
 echoing pavement, and hardly moved a 
 muscle from the time they came till they 
 went away, when they first began their 
 services. The idea that the great king of 
 whom they had heard so much, was look- 
 ing down upon them, and watching every 
 * glance and movement, made them fearful 
 lest they should displease him with care- 
 lessness or haste ; and their conduct was so
 
 1 1 6 TEE BO 7-REOIMENT. 
 
 orderly, and their discipline so promising, 
 the officers began to hope there would be 
 very few rejected when the Day of Review 
 should come. 
 
 But week after week passed, and the king 
 did not summon them to the court to be 
 reviewed; and week after week the drill 
 was gone through, and the orders read, and 
 the children disciplined. 
 
 And a great change since the first as- 
 sembling seemed .to have come over the 
 little multitude. There was not much 
 eagerness or enthusiasm now about being 
 early on the ground ; there were very lag- 
 ging steps in going to the drill, and much 
 loitering by the way; and when entering 
 the building, some forgot their reverence 
 altogether, and pushed on carelessly into 
 their places, and some made it thoughtlessly 
 and hastily, and jostled their companions,
 
 TEE BO Y-REGIMENT. 117 
 
 and whispered when the reading was going 
 on, and seemed to fo'get there was any 
 presence more august than that of their 
 officers among them, and anything more 
 serious to be feared than their displeasure. 
 
 For, in truth, it is a difficult thing to be- 
 lieve in what we cannot see, and the king 
 knew this beforehand ; and knew the surest 
 way of testing his little servants' faith and 
 obedience, would be by obliging them to 
 serve a king they could not see, and prom- 
 ising them a reward, of which his promise 
 was the only security they had. 
 
 And after awhile some of them began 
 to doubt in their hearts whether the king 
 were there at all ; and some of them, not 
 seeing him, grew forgetful altogether tha* 
 they had ever been told he would be there ; 
 and others, finding he did not punish them 
 or take any notice of their negligences
 
 1 1 g THE BO Y-REGIMENT. 
 
 began not to care whether he were there 
 or not, and to think it made no difference 
 whether he saw them or not, or whether 
 they behaved well or ill. 
 
 While a few alas ! that it was but a few 
 kept their king's promise and presence 
 always before their eyes, and never forgot 
 what he had said, and what they would lose 
 by their irreverence, and came as early and 
 obeyed as faithfully, and felt as reverently 
 the last day as the first ; they had a good 
 deal of ridicule to bear for this, and very 
 little reward from their officers, but quiet 
 approval and silent encouragement, for it 
 was the king's command that in the drill- 
 ing of the boys there should be no pun- 
 ishments inflicted, and no rewards held 
 -out. The honor of serving him, the fear 
 of displeasing him, were to be their only 
 stimulants and warnings.
 
 THE B 7-REGIMENT. 1 1 g 
 
 The kind and faithful officers had a 
 weary task ; the insubordination, the care- 
 lessness, the irreverence the boys dis- 
 played, made them tremble for the wrath 
 they were bringing on trffeir thoughtless 
 heads. " Oh, that they were wise ; that they 
 knew the things that would profit them," 
 they thought despairingly, as they warned 
 and exhorted and counselled them in vain. 
 The headstrong little rebels, one encour- 
 aging the other, turned a deaf ear to all 
 their warnings ; and fearing only, and 
 caring only, for the things that are seen, 
 forgot and scorned the things that are 
 unseen, but are eternal. Why should they 
 care any more for that building than for 
 any other ? Why should they be more 
 careful of their looks and gestures there, 
 than when they were at home? If the 
 king saw them, his silence proved: he did
 
 1 20 THE B0 Y-REGIMENT. 
 
 not care ; and if he did not see them, they 
 were foolish to be so much in awe. It 
 would be time enough to grow more or- 
 derly and learn the discipline prescribed, 
 when the Day of Review was near at hand. 
 So the souls of the foolish children grew 
 hardened and more full of folly ; and the 
 souls of the faithful children grew gentler 
 and more full of reverence ; and the Great 
 Day drew on, and dawned, when they 
 looked least for it
 
 ZEE* BO Y-REGWENT. 1 2 J 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE GRAND REVIEW. 
 
 " Ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the 
 Son of Man -cometh." 
 
 HEN the sudden summons 
 to appear before the king 
 came, it took all, officers as 
 well as children, by surprise. 
 There was not a moment to prepare, 
 not an instant to glance over the 
 order-book and snatch another read- 
 ing of the neglected regulations ; no time 
 to compose their fears or recall their in- 
 structions ; but from the ill-spent hours in 
 6
 
 122 THE 
 
 the drill-room, they were to march to the 
 court of the king, and appear, unprepared, 
 before his august majesty. 
 
 With beating hearts and white faces 
 and faltering steps they took up their 
 march ; no loitering, no jostling, no trifling 
 this time on their way to the king's pre- 
 sence. One would have thought they had 
 never been- in it before, they were so startled 
 at the prospect of meeting him. It was 
 difficult to realize, these were the same 
 children who had come before him every 
 week for such a long, long time. Their 
 terror now showed they had not believed 
 that they "had indeed been' in his presence 
 in the drill-room. 
 
 But how the scales seemed turned ! 
 The boys who had always been so fearful 
 and so silent in the house of discipline, 
 now seemed bright and full of hope. This
 
 THE BO Y-REGIHENT. 123 
 
 summons, indeed, was anything but dread-, 
 ful to them. They had looked for it so . 
 
 long, and thought of it so often, it was not 
 
 
 startling when it came. They were not 
 
 sure, of course, they would be chosen ; they 
 were humble and full of wonder at the 
 king's goodness in even letting them try 
 but their desire to see him, and to hear his 
 gracious voice, overcame and subdued 
 their doubts and fears, and with firm tread, 
 
 . . 
 
 and earnest, erect carriage, they followed 
 their half-sad leaders to the royal presence. 
 Ah ! when they entered that glorious 
 court, it was only eyes that had no shame 
 in them, that could bear the blaze of splen- 
 dor that streamed upon them. Confused, 
 blinded, terrified, the bewildered and undis- 
 ciplined of the ranks faltered, held back, and 
 fell into disorder, till, drawn on by mortal 
 terror, they crept trembling into the pre-
 
 I 2 4 THE BO Y-REGIMENT 
 
 sence they had so long scorned and 
 slighted. 
 
 No fear that the reverences this time 
 would not be deep enough ; down to the 
 very pavement of the glittering court the 
 astounded children bent; the careless, 
 wandering eyes that before had been so 
 busy with all things that concerned them 
 not, were fastened in awful penitence and 
 Unavailing anguish on the ground; there 
 was no need to caution them, to warn them 
 where they were. 
 
 They dared not look up and see the vast 
 army, drawn up on each side of the Great 
 White Throne before them nor the white- 
 robed throng who watched their slow ad- 
 vance ; and the king whom they had not 
 believed in, was a terror they could not 
 face. Oh if they could fly, if they could 
 hide themselves from the sight of all that
 
 THE BOY-REGIMENT. 125 
 
 glory the glory they might have won and 
 would not, and that now was worse than 
 the blackest darkness to them. What ter- 
 ror smote them when they called to mind 
 the wasted hours of inattention and sloth 
 and disrespect that they had passed in the 
 .drill-room. What would they not have 
 
 
 
 given to have lived them over again. 
 With what shame they remembered their 
 careless gestures, their inattentive indiffer- 
 ence to the reading of the law, in the very 
 presence of the king before whose open 
 glory they now fell humbled and undone. 
 If they had only believed; if they had 
 only reflected. 
 
 It needed not that the troops should be 
 drilled and marshalled before the eye of 
 the attentive, all-seeing king. One glance 
 down their ranks would have told the 
 story to an eye less wise than his. The
 
 126 THE BOT-REGIMENT: 
 
 bowed heads, tne stammering lips, the 
 faltering steps of some, and 'the clear, 
 bright look of the upturned faces of the 
 others, that seemed already to have caught 
 the glory shining from the throne, marked 
 who had earned his favor, and who had 
 scorned to earn it. 
 
 And, in the glory of that place, their 
 perfected love had cast out fear ; their eyes 
 grew accustomed to the brightness, their 
 feeble, childish pulses beat with a new 
 strength and vigor ; what had been begun 
 in weakness they could now pursue with 
 more than human power. They had be- 
 gun, to serve him with fear and trembling ; 
 they would go on serving him through all 
 eternity with 'certain joy and still increasing 
 love. 
 
 And out of his presence, out of the 
 sight of their happy comrades, the wretch-
 
 THE BO Y-REGIMENT. 12 J 
 
 ed loiterers were driven. With no guides., 
 no leaders now, but drawn on by -their 
 doom, they left the splendor of the royal 
 court and crept trembling away into the 
 darkness and chill that was falling without , 
 and, numb and hopeless, wandered through 
 the dismal night that never changed to day 
 with them.
 
 WILLY COLLINS.
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 ILLY'S so cross, there's no 
 sitting near him," muttered 
 Johnny Otley, in great dis- 
 gust, slamming down the lid of 
 his desk, and thrusting out both 
 elbows as he bent over his book. 
 Willy tried to keep from crying as 
 he withdrew out of the reach of the tattered 
 elbow entrenching on his desk, and leaned 
 against the wall (his was the corner seat), 
 and held his spelling-book up before his 
 face, and didn't say a word as long as he 
 could stand it. But he couldn't stand it
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 long. Leaning against the wall made his 
 shoulder ache, and sitting on the edge of 
 the chair made his lame hip ache, and his 
 
 I 
 
 head had been aching so all day he hadn't 
 learned his lesson ; and he knew he should 
 be kept in; and altogether he was so 
 wretched he had to give up ; and upon the 
 low, monotonous buzz of the school-room 
 there rose a distinct s*ob. The children 
 dropped their books and looked around to 
 see where the sound came from. 
 
 "Why, Willy!" cried Mrs. Johnson, 
 getting up and going over to his corner, 
 " why, what's' the matter with you ; why 
 are you crying, child ? " 
 
 Now poor little Willy didn't exactly 
 know why he was crying, except that he 
 couldn't help it; and as Johnny Otley's 
 outrage on his feelings had been the drop 
 that had made his cup of wretchedness
 
 WILL T COLLINS. 133 
 
 overflow, he naturally felt as if that was 
 the whole cause of his trouble ; and, after 
 a moment of sobbing, stammered out : 
 "John Johnny's ugly to me." 
 " John," Mrs. Johnson said, .very se 
 verely, " I am ashamed of you if you are 
 unkind to a poor lame boy like Willy, who 
 can't defend himself. I should think you 
 would be gentle to him, and do everything 
 to help him." 
 
 Now Johnny, in the .main, was a very 
 good-natured boy ; and except that he was 
 so well and strong and loud that he almost 
 drove his little neighbor wild with his spi- 
 rits and his restlessness, he was never par- 
 ticularly unkind to him indeed, till to-day, 
 had rather supposed that he had done 
 enough for him, to make him very grateful. 
 But Willy had been extremely trying all 
 day ; could neither sit still nor let anybody
 
 134 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 else move; could not bear a word said to 
 him, and had fretted at nothing, so Johnny 
 thought ; and at last he had been provoked 
 into pushing him off his desk in the very 
 questionable way described above. Johnny, 
 with much spirit, blazed out into a defence 
 -of his conduct ; denied emphatically the 
 " ugliness " he was accused of, and darted 
 many angry glances at his accuser. Willy 
 sobbed afresh ; several of the children, with 
 officious zeal, entered their testimony on 
 the subject, which, as uncalled-for as it was 
 undesirable, added much to the disturb- 
 ance; and Mrs. Johnson, in despair, was 
 fain to cry " hush,", and taking Willy 
 by the hand, to lead him over to her 
 desk and try to ascertain, by a confiden- 
 tial talk with him, what was the true state 
 of the case. 
 
 But Willy was in just that condition of
 
 WILLY COLLINS. ' 135 
 
 mind through which it is hardest to sift 
 any, disputed truth. He was so worked up 
 and intensely nervous that he could do 
 nothing more satisfactory than to sob and 
 protest incoherently about Johnny's cruel 
 usage ; and Mrs. Johnson at length had to 
 give up all idea of finding out who was in 
 the wrong, and to give to Willy the be- 
 ne'fit of the doubt existing in her mind. 
 She saw that he was at least sick and 
 nervous enough to require very gentle 
 treatment ; so she said : 
 
 " Well, Willy, you may go home. I 
 know you're tired. Here's your cap and 
 your crutch. You needn't stay for the 
 singing and afternoon service." 
 
 " I don't want to go," sobbed Willy. " I 
 want to stay to the singing." 
 
 " Oh, you little perverse," thought Mrs. 
 Johnson.
 
 136 WILL 7 COLLINS. 
 
 " Why, Willy," she said aloud, " it's only 
 just three o'clock, and Mr. Sutherland 
 doesn't come till half-past, and church 
 doesn't begin till four. You'll have an hour 
 and a half to wait, if you don't go now." 
 
 Willy shook his head. " I don't want to 
 go home." 
 
 " Well, then, you may go out and sit in 
 the church till Mr. Sutherland comes, or 
 you may go out and play till then. Just as 
 you please. Here is your crutch." 
 
 Willy looked rather bewildered as he 
 grasped his crutch and took his cap in his 
 hand. Where should he go'? He didn't 
 care. One of the girls opened the door for 
 him, so he went out at it instead of going 
 through the other door into the church; 
 and the children heard trie thump of his 
 crutch moving slowly down the alley that 
 led out into the street
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 137 
 
 It was a soft, warm day early in April"; 
 the Tuesday in Passion Week. It had 
 been a cold, dreary Lent, and the mild 
 weather had come suddenly and debili- 
 tatingly. Kittle Willy felt as if his. life and 
 strength had all gone with the strong winter 
 weather; he felt so languid and miserable, 
 he only wanted to lie down and cry. The 
 sky was so blue and bright it made his eyes 
 ache to look up at it; the sounds of the 
 street, when he got out into it, were so ' 
 dreadful, that he wished himself back again 
 into the quiet alley, .where the grey walls 
 of the church stretched ' up as far as he 
 could see, and where the sounds from the 
 outside world came in muffled and merci- 
 fully dulled. He stood leaning on his 
 crutch by the church gate, looking listlessly 
 out into the street, when a troop of boys 
 came shouting past from the great school
 
 138 WILL T COLLINS. 
 
 below. Willy naturally shrank back from 
 their approach, and tried to push the- gate 
 shut before they reached him ; he had an 
 instinctive dread of big boys and of boys 
 who wore nice- clothes and looked like rich 
 people's children. Even when they did 
 not molest him, they had a hateful way of 
 looking down at him, and taking in his 
 tattered clothes and unfortunate deformity. 
 He always knew " for certain" they were 
 turning round to look back at him, even 
 when he did not -turn his head to see.; they 
 always did; and it made him hot all over, 
 and weak and sick with apprehension, when 
 he saw them coming towards him. 
 
 The crowd of boys, however, had some 
 other fun in view to-day ; they did not take 
 much notice of the cripple. Only one, a 
 great bully and notorious coward, peered 
 over at him, and made a horrid face, and
 
 WILL T COLLINS. 1 39 
 
 the.n ran yelping on and vaulted over the 
 nearest post, and waited for his comrades 
 to come up, thinking probably he had done 
 enough to show the little invalid what boys 
 with two strong legs have it in their power 
 to do. . 
 
 Now, the thing of being looked at is not 
 a killing thing ; and a " horrid face" is more 
 unbecoming to the maker than injurious to 
 the one at whom the face is made, under 
 ordinary circumstances. But Willy's cir- 
 cumstances, perhaps, were not ordinary 
 circumstances ; his nerves, at least, were not 
 ordinary nerves ; and for several minutes 
 after the boys ran past, he stood leaning 
 against the railing, too sick and weak to go 
 home, or to go back into the alley even. 
 
 " Why, my little boy, what's the .matter ? 
 What are you doing out of school ? " Mr 
 Sutherland said, coming in at the gate.
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 Willy started, for he had not seen him 
 coming, and hung his head and stammered 
 some inaudible reply. 
 
 " What is it ? " said the clergyman, laying 
 his hand kindly on his head, and stooping 
 down to listen. " Mrs. Johnson told you 
 you might go home? Well, why didn't 
 you go, then ? " 
 
 " I didn't want to," Willy whispered, 
 hanging his head still lower. 
 
 Mr. Sutherland thought he had never 
 before heard of a child who would not 
 accept a holiday ; and contrasted, in his 
 mind, little Willy hanging around the 
 church gate listlessly, with the whoop and 
 shout with which he used to hail his eman- 
 cipation from the school-room, and the 
 quick way in which he was wont to dispatch 
 the distance between that point and home. 
 " But perhaps poor Willy's home is differ-
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 ent from the one that attracted me so 
 strongly," he thought, looking down at the 
 little cripple's heavy eyes and flushed 
 cheeks. 
 
 " You're too tired to stand any longer. 
 Come with me, won't you ? " Willy said, 
 " Yes, sir," and took his hand, and followed 
 him into the vestibule. 
 
 " Will you come with me into the school- 
 room, or will you go and sit in the church ? " 
 asked Mr. Sutherland. 
 
 " I'd rather go into the church," said Willy. 
 
 Mr. Sutherland opened the church door, 
 and let him pass in; then closed it and 
 went himself into the vestry-room. 
 
 How still and solemn the church was! 
 The roar of the street, and all the hateful 
 city sounds, in that silent sanctuary, were 
 heard only as a faint and distant hum. 
 And a soft, mellow light shone in through
 
 142 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 the rich windows, not glaring and bright 
 like the sunshine outside, but so subdued 
 and soothing, Willy's aching eyes were grate- 
 ful for the change the moment he came in. 
 Ah! it was better than all the brightness, 
 outside for a sad little heart like his. He 
 loved every stone in that church ; he felt 
 more at home in it than anywhere else on 
 earth. It was his city of refuge, his haven 
 of rest ; the only place where he was sure 
 of being let alone ; the only place where he 
 would neither be jostled nor worried nor 
 bullied. He often came ' early to school, 
 long before service began, for the sake 
 of sitting there alone, looking at the 
 pictures in Mrs. Johnson's prayer-book, or 
 spelling out the text around the font, or 
 more frequently leaning dreamily back 
 against the cushions, and gazing up at the 
 great north window, and wondering faintly
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 143 
 
 whether God made it, or whether people 
 made it, and whether they didn't get it 
 out of " Revelation," if they did. 
 
 If anybody had asked Willy suddenly 
 who wrote the Book of Revelation, or 
 whether it was in the Old Testament or 
 the New, he could not probably have 
 done anything more satisfactory than to 
 stamnler and blunder, and look as if he 
 wanted to cry; for he was very far from 
 being a bright boy, and. understanding 
 quickly what was taught him. He had 
 spent too much of his short life moaning 
 and tossing with pain, to have made much 
 progress in his studies ; and his over-exeit- 
 able imagination and over-sensitive nerves 
 retarded rather than aided the development 
 of his intellect. 
 
 " He is such a trying child to manage, 
 sir," said Mrs. Johnson to the clergyman.
 
 1 44 WILL T COLLINS. 
 
 " He's too cross for anything," muttered 
 his companions. 
 
 ".Yes, I know it," thought the young 
 deacon. " And yet, for all that, I take 
 strangely to the boy. I think I like him 
 better than all the rest of the children put 
 together, strong and handsome and happy 
 as most of them seem. I must know more 
 of him. I must see where he lives." 
 
 Mr. Sutherland had come into the 
 parish only a month before, and was but 
 just getting acquainted with his duties. 
 He had taken them up in such earnest, 
 however, very prudent people said he 
 would use himself up upon them before 
 many years were over ; he Would find that 
 burrn'ng the candle of life at both ends was 
 a very doubtful policy. Perhaps because 
 the extinction of that candle suggested no 
 terror to his mind, the young clergyman
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 145 
 
 did not heed their warnings, and worked 
 on with unfainting spirit and undying 
 devotion. Tw.o services a day, two ser- 
 mons a week, an hour every afternoon in 
 the parish school, personal and diligent 
 visiting of and care for the poor of the con-' 
 gregation, left him little spare time or 
 strength, or interest to spend on the world 
 that condemned him ; and though, at the 
 end of that long Lent, his cheek was paler, 
 his eye heavier, and his step slower, than 
 if he had followed the counsels of worldly 
 wise and prudent people, he had gained 
 perhaps as much upon them as they 
 thought he had lost. The fasting, which 
 their wisdom rejected, was " angels' food " 
 to his soul ; the time that they looked 
 upon as wasted was enriching him with a 
 knowledge and a clearness of soul that 
 nothing but personal ministry among
 
 146 WILLY COLLINS.' 
 
 "Christ's poor can give; the talents that 
 seemed to them thrown away, were spent 
 upon the very work that' his Master came 
 to work, and which His servants should 
 not dare despise ; nor will they despise its 
 rewards in that day when the Lord makes 
 up His jewels. . 
 
 It did not seem to them as worthy and 
 effective an investment of time, to spend an 
 hour in the school-room teaching the chil- 
 dren to sing, and telling them the sad story 
 of Passion Week, as to pass that hour 
 before a great and silent crowd, using the 
 eloquence with which he had been gifted, to 
 the glory of God and the advancement of . 
 Christianity ; as well as to the glory of his 
 o\vn intellect and the advancement of him- 
 self. But as the souls of the children were 
 placed in his charge, and the souls of the 
 crowd had many ministers, perhaps he did
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 147 
 
 as wisely in foregoing the probable glory, 
 and the possible snare, and accepting 
 silently the lo.west work as the meetest 
 work for him. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson thought it was a very 
 pretty sight to see the young minister with 
 the children around him ; and she tied her 
 bonnet-strings rather slowly and went 
 home rather reluctantly in the afternoon 
 when he came to take her place. They 
 never sang with, so much spirit as when 
 . he led them, and they never were so quiet 
 as when he told them stories. Why were 
 they so different with her, thought good 
 commonplace Mrs. Johnson. Why, but. 
 that the eloquence that would have fired 
 the sensation sermon, fired the children's 
 story, in its way, and made it so much 
 more striking than Mrs. Johnson's story, 
 as the sermon would have been more strik-
 
 I ,| 8 WILLY COLLINS. . 
 
 ing than the sermon of the Reverend Dr 
 Drawl. 
 
 When the bell began to- ring for after- 
 noon service, Mr. Sutherland left the chil- 
 dren, and put on his surplice ; then calling 
 them around him again, he knelt down 
 and read a preparatory prayer, and, sobered, 
 and in order when the bell stopped, they 
 . followed him into the church. 
 
 The congregation were assembled, the 
 children had taken their seats, and Mr. . 
 Sutherland was just entering the chancel, 
 when, glancing down, he saw Willy lying 
 fast asleep on the cold stone pavement, with 
 his head on the chancel step. The bright 
 red spot on his cheek, and his heavy 
 abandoned, weary- attitude, told plainly 
 enough that it would be a fatal rest to him 
 if it were a much longer rest ; and shrink- 
 ing only a second from the wonder of the
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 149 
 
 congregation, the young man stooped 
 down, and lifting the sleeping child in his 
 arms, carried him over to the transept 
 where the children sat, and laid him down 
 so tenderly on the cushions that he did 
 not wake. It was a very simple act of 
 charity, very simply done ; but there was - 
 something in the doing of it . that struck a 
 chord in the heart of every one that saw 
 it ; a chord deeper down and truer than 
 the curiosity-chord, and the conventional 
 chord that threatened to vibrate at the 
 unusual sight; and a great many people 
 said, as they went out of church : " Who 
 is the poor little cripple? How did he 
 come to be asleep on the chancel steps ? " 
 
 And several kind ladies lingered, wish- 
 ing to see him when he came out; but 
 Willy, waking much bewildered as the 
 children rose from their knees, and cover-
 
 150 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 ed with confusion when they told him 
 what had happened, seized his crutch, and 
 the moment Mr. Sutherland left the 
 chancel, hurried down the aisle and out 
 the furthest, door. Mr. Sutherland was 
 somewhat disappointed when he came out 
 of- the vestry-room to find him gone; but 
 resolving to follow him in the course of 
 ah hour, he dismissed the children, and 
 went . to read the Evening Lessons to a 
 bedridden old woman in a remote part of 
 the rather extended parish. 
 
 When he had accomplished his task, 
 and received the half-querulous thanks 
 of the exacting old woman, he referred to 
 his memorandum-book for the number of 
 his little protege's house, and started in 
 search of it. It proved to be a long way 
 off, through tangled and narrow streets, 
 quite unfamiliar to him ; full of squalid
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 children, shameless women, brutal men; 
 full of the thousand sickening sights and 
 " dreary noises " of a great city's by-ways 
 and alleys. 
 
 " What boots it gathering one lost leaf 
 Out of yon sere and withered heap ? " 
 
 he thought, disheartened and weary, as 
 the littleness of his own power , and the 
 vastness of the work around him came 
 Into his mind. 
 
 " So much to do, 
 So little done, such things to be." 
 
 It required all his faith not to turn away 
 in despair from what was so stupendous 
 and so overwhelming. But then, again,- 
 out of all this multitude, if he saved one 
 soul, might it not, in the just sight of Him 
 who made it, be a work worth his whole 
 life; how much more, the self-denial and
 
 152 WILL T COLLINS. 
 
 discouragement and sadness of an hour 
 He must be content -with doing the little 
 GOD put it in his power to do ; the burden 
 of what he had not power to do did not 
 rest on him. 
 
 It was almost dusk when he paused 
 before the number he was in search of. It 
 was a tenement-house, with a narrow, dark 
 do'or that swung to with a bang, as a thick- 
 set, ill-dressed man stepped out into the 
 street. 
 
 " Can you tell me whether there is a 
 family named Collins living in this house ? " 
 asked Mr. Sutherland. 
 
 "Well, I expect there is," said the man, 
 with an insolent look at the unmistakably 
 clerical dress of the inquirer. 
 
 " Then can you tell me what floor I can 
 find them on ? " said Mr. Sutherland, with 
 just enough sharpness in his voice to
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 153 
 
 indicate the man under the clergyman, and 
 to recall his hearer to a more respe'ctful 
 bearing. 
 
 " You won't go amiss if you go up till 
 you can't go no further," returned the man 
 in an -improved tone, moving off. By 
 which Mr. Sutherland inferred that the 
 Collins .family lived on the top floor of the 
 building, and -accordingly he entered it; 
 and the bad-tempered door banged shut 
 upon him in its ill-mannered way ; and he 
 began the ascent of the narrow stairs in 
 total darkness. Stumbling up that crazy 
 staircase in broad day would have been 
 uncertain and unpleasant work ; for all the 
 light that ever came upon it, came from 
 the snappish door below, or the capricious 
 opening of the dark little rooms on the 
 successive floors ; but stumbling up it in 
 the dusky twilight of an early spring even- 
 
 7*
 
 154 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 ing, was just as far from pleasant as was 
 possible. The baluster shook as he laid 
 his hand upon it ; the steps creaked omi- 
 nously as he advanced; the atmosphere 
 was close and stifling; low sounds of 
 people moving and talking within the 
 closed rooms met his ear; but no door 
 opened, and no ray of light helped him 
 
 
 
 on. 
 
 " I don't blame Willy for liking the 
 church best," he thought, as on the third 
 floor he stopped to recover breath. The 
 man's general .direction, " to go till he 
 could go no further," induced him to per- 
 severe ; and groping along, he ascertained 
 that the baluster took another winding, 
 and went up another pair of stairs. Just 
 at the foot of them, however, he stopped 
 suddenly, for a low moaning struck his ear. 
 Some one, from the sound, must be lying
 
 WILL T COLLINS. 155 
 
 * 
 
 on the steps, not many feet from where he 
 stood. 
 
 " Who is it," he said, pausing. " Is any- 
 thing the matter ? " 
 
 No answer, however, but a continued 
 
 .crying. By this time he knew it was a 
 
 child's voice; and softening his own to suit 
 
 it, he repeated his inquiries, and listened 
 
 very attentively for the reply. 
 
 Nothing in the way of a reply came, 
 however; only a half fretful, half de- 
 spairing reiteration of, " Mother, mother, 
 mother ! " 
 
 "Shall I go and call her?" said Mr. 
 Sutherland. " Do you want her to come 
 to you ? " 
 
 A sobbing, " Yes, I want her ; I've been 
 a wantin' her all this time," sounded so 
 like poor little Willy's pain-pitched voice, 
 that he exclaimed :
 
 156 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 "Why, Willy! Is it Willy?" 
 
 " I want mother ; I want her right 
 away." 
 
 " But why don't you go up-stairs, my 
 little man? Does your mother live up- 
 stairs ? " 
 
 " I can't get up there ; I'm so tired ; my 
 * leg hurts so ; I've been a callin' her, and a 
 
 callin' her and she won't come." 
 
 
 
 " She don't hear you, Willy ; I'll carry 
 you up to her ; shan't I ? " 
 
 At that moment a door beside them 
 opened, and a dim light showed Willy 
 lying with his head on his arms, about 
 half-way .up the stairs. 
 
 "What's the wean chaffin' about," said 
 the plump Scotchwoman, who had opened 
 the door, after a moment's pause of curious 
 staring at the clergyman's prompt measures. 
 1 Ah, but he's a' used to childer ! How
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 157 
 
 douce he hauds him ! " she added, in admi- 
 ration ; then in answer to his questions, she 
 confirmed the intelligence of his first in- 
 formant, and stood gaping after him as he- 
 went up the stairs. 
 
 " Another pair? " he asked softly of Willy, 
 and there was a sob in the affirmative from 
 the head on his shoulder. " Which door? " 
 he asked again, when they had reached the 
 last landing-place. And Willy indicated 
 with a languid hand and choked voice the 
 door in the rear. 
 
 " There, my man, we're home at last ! " he 
 said in a cheerful tone, as he knocked at 
 the door ; but what a hollow, ghastly sound 
 the word home had in that connection. 
 Could it be possible this was home to any 
 one? There came no answer, so he 
 knocked again. Again none, and he raised 
 the latch of the door and pushed it open.
 
 .158 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 " Mother ! I've been a callin' you this 
 ever such a time," murmured Willy, raising ' 
 up his head as the light appeared. . That 
 Alight showed a strange scene. 
 
 The room was a low, scantily furnished, 
 but tolerably neat one. There was a stove 
 in it-, and a deal table and a bed. In the 
 only chair- a broken rocking-chair a baby 
 was tied, whose ghastly white face and heavy 
 eyes gave miserable pathos to its constant 
 wailing. It stretched out its tiny lean arms 
 to the new-comers, and welcomed Willy 
 home with a cry that went to Mr. Suther- 
 land's heart. Some one was lying on the 
 bed, a woman apparently ; and a little girl, 
 standing on a chair beside it, was stooping 
 over her with a perplexed and frightened 
 look. The child was not more than five 
 years old, very much like Willy, but health- 
 ier and .prettier. " There was a candle
 
 WILL Y COLLINS. 
 
 burning on the shelf above that she had 
 
 
 
 evidently just climbed up to light. 
 
 " Oh," said the little girl, with a half-de- 
 precating, alarmed look towards the clergy, 
 man, as she leaned over the bed, " I don't 
 know what ails mother ; I've been a good 
 girl all day; I've been quiet all day long, 
 and rocked baby, and swept up the hearth, 
 and haven't cried a time, and she won't 
 speak to me ; she lies there a lookin' at the 
 window, and she won't speak a word to me 
 mother ! " 
 
 And the child pulled her sleeve again, 
 and looked with fear into her rigid face. 
 Mr. Sutherland put Willy down quickly 
 beside the baby and approached the bed. 
 
 " My little girl," he said, soothingly, " I 
 am so glad you have been good. I don't 
 believe your mother's angry with you. 
 How long is it since she talked to you? "
 
 l6o WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 " I don't know," the child said, begini.ing 
 to cry. " This ever such a time. Take me 
 away ; I'm so tired." 
 
 " Yes, I'll take you away, poor baby," he 
 murmured, turning with a chill of horror 
 from the touch of the icy hand upon the 
 coverlet, and taking the terrified child in his 
 arms. Her teeth were chattering, and her 
 eyes were shining with the unnatural ex- 
 citement of her dreadful vigil. How many 
 hours she had been watching beside her dead 
 mother, it was impossible to tell not less 
 than three or four perhaps since morning. 
 
 " What's the matter with you now, Ellie, 
 that you're cryin' so," faltered Willy, trying 
 to make his way across the room, but 
 * stumbling and nearly falling in his uncer- 
 tainty and alarm. 
 
 "Wait, Willy," said Mr. Sutherland; 
 "don't go to the bed; come with me a
 
 WILLY COLLINS. l6l 
 
 moment. Come down for a little while to 
 that good Scotchwoman's room, and I will 
 tell you what makes Ellie cry. Come, I 
 know you will do as I ask you." 
 
 He extended his hand to the child ; but 
 with a vehement gesture he refused it, and 
 turned towards the bed. 
 
 " Let me go to mother," he said, almost 
 in a whisper, with a face perfectly bloodless 
 and terror-struck ; u let me go ; what makes 
 her lie so still ? Oh, I will speak to her ; 
 I will go to her. Oh, why -won't she .wake 
 up mother ! " 
 
 But shrinking terrified from the touch 
 of her hand, burying his face in the cover- 
 let, the child broke into violent sobs. Ellie 
 renewed her cries at this, arid clung around 
 Mr. Sutherland's neck, and begged him to 
 take her away. 
 
 " Yes, if Willy will only come," he said,
 
 1 62 WILL 7 COLLINS. 
 
 but feeling very hopeless about his coming, 
 save by main force. He was in a perfect 
 ecstasy of terror and grief sobbing, catch- 
 ing his breath, shaking hysterically all 
 through his little frame. " It will kill him," 
 thought the clergyman, infinitely distressed, 
 remembering the feverish and excited state 
 he had so lately been in, and his extreme 
 fragility at all times. He tried to put Ellie 
 down, but she clung to him vehemently, 
 and only cried the more. And the shrill, 
 plaintive moan of the miserable baby in the 
 chair, mixing with this scarcely more intel- 
 ligent, but more violent s grief, seemed to 
 him. the most dreary wail. of orphanhood he 
 had ever heard. He pressed his hand for 
 a moment before his eyes, then sinking 
 down on a chair beside the bed, he put Ellie 
 on his knee, and leaning forward, passed 
 one arm round Willy's shoulder.
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 163 
 
 " My. boy," he said, " is this the fLst time 
 you have ever seen any dead person, any 
 body out of which the soul or life hacT gone 
 away ? " 
 
 The child shook his head and sobbed 
 out something unintelligibly, of which the 
 clergyman could only catch, " Father last 
 summer " 
 
 " Then," he said, " if you saw him 
 dead, you know, I suppose, that your 
 mother cannot hear you speak, or see you 
 any more than he could, after the life had 
 gone away from him. Now, I know you 
 are dreadfully unhappy to think you can- 
 not 'make her hear, nor see her rise and 
 smile again. And I do not wonder that 
 you cry so hard. We all cry when GOD 
 takes those we love away from us, and for 
 a while we feel very lonesome and miser- 
 able without them ; but GOD takes care that
 
 1 64 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 we do not feel so always. By and by He 
 begins to make us think how much better 
 off tKey are than when they were here, and 
 how soon we shall go to them in the plea- 
 sant place where He has put them; and 
 then we begin to wonder that we cried so 
 at first. Ah! my poor little Willy," the 
 young man said with a strange thrill of 
 tenderness and pathos in his voice, " you are 
 not the first who has refused comfort, and 
 cried on. Would you ever think, Willy; 
 that I, grown man as I am, had ever cried 
 like you, only more hopelessly and more des- 
 perately ? That only a year 'ago, I had sob- 
 bed just as you are sobbing now, and thought 
 I should never be happy again ? Would 
 you believe it if I told you all about it ? " 
 
 The boy subdued the violence of his 
 grief for a moment, and seemed to listen. 
 
 " Come to my knee and I will tell you.'
 
 WILL T COLLINS. 165 
 
 He suffered the clergyman to draw him 
 towards him, and his sobs grew gradually 
 fainter as he became absorbed in listening ; 
 and Ellie, the tears standing on her cheeks, 
 looked wondering and silent up into his 
 face. 
 
 " You thought it was a long way home 
 this afternoon, did you not, Willy; it 
 seemed as if you would never, never come 
 in sight of the house you wanted most to 
 see? Well, 'it was a longer way / had to 
 go, one weary night that I am going to 
 tell you about ; and I was more tired than 
 you were, even. I had been travelling all 
 day, since morning light ; and now, I found, 
 it was growing dark and there was a long 
 way yet to go, a mile and more, along a 
 dreary, lonely shore, where the waves were 
 beating up, and over which the wind was 
 sweeping cold and sharp. Sometimes it
 
 1 66 . WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 came so strong it took my breath away 
 and I could hardly struggle on against.it 
 I had almost lost my courage and gone 
 back to wait for morning to c<5me before I 
 crossed the beach; when passing around 
 the foot of the high cliffs I had just 
 reached, I caught the glimmer of a light. 
 Ah! children, think how glad I felt; for .that 
 light streamed from the windows of a 
 cottage that was more than home to me. 
 I did not mind the wind, nor the spray, 
 nor the waves after that. I forgot I had 
 been tired, or had thought of going back ; 
 you don't know how much shorter the way 
 seemed to be. And when the light was 
 just above me, and I sprang up the rocks 
 and reached out my hand 'to lift the 
 latchet of the little gate, and the dog came 
 bounding down to meet me, and the door 
 opejied. to receive me, I am sure I thought
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 1 67 
 
 I was safely through the darkness and the . 
 storm and the weariness, and that only 
 happiness waited for me within. But oh ! 
 my children, GOD'S angels had been there 
 before me, and had taken the soul of her 
 I loved best in that home away^my dar- 
 ling mother, and left only her still, pale 
 body, that could not speak to me nor 
 answer me. She could not welcome me, 
 nor kiss me, nor look at me she was dead ! 
 and Willy, I cried as bitterly at her bed- 
 side as you have cried to-night or as ever 
 you will cry while you live. God help you ! 
 But it didn't last always; I learned to 
 think more about the place she'd gone to 
 than the place she'd left."' 
 
 " Where had she gone to ? " Ellie asked. 
 
 " Where your mother has gone, we trust, 
 my little girl ; to that quiet, holy Paradise 
 the Bible tells us of, where there isn't any
 
 I 6 8 'WILL T COLLINS. 
 
 trouble or pain, and where it is all peace 
 and pleasure ; and they're . waiting there 
 for us. They love us just the same, -and 
 we must be careful to do always right, so 
 that we may go "and be with them in that 
 'blessed -home,' when GOD calls us to meet 
 them. They are so happy, you see, we 
 must not pain them by doing anything 
 that's wrong. We'd better always be think- 
 ing of that " 
 
 " But didn't she ever come back?" mur- 
 mured Willy, who had wistfully waited for 
 that hope. 
 
 " No, child, she never came back ; but I 
 am going to her, and that is. far better, as 
 you'll think by and by." 
 
 w But I can't wait," he began hysteri- 
 cally to sob again ; " I want mother ; I want 
 her right away." 
 
 Another burst of grief seemed inevita-
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 169 
 
 ble; but Mr. Sutherland, following up the 
 influence he had gained, at length won the 
 children to comply with his desires, and 
 let him carry them down-stairs. He went 
 with them directly to the Scotchwoman's 
 
 * 
 
 door; and having amazed her beyond ex- 
 pression by depositing them 'on^ the bed, 
 he called her to follow him back into the 
 hall, and there told her of the sad scene he 
 had found up-stairs. No cautions, how- 
 ever, could stifle the lively expressions of 
 her astonishment and condolence, which 
 instantly brought half a dozen of their 
 fellow-lodgers into council, and they 
 eagerly hurried up to the chamber of 
 death. Their loud lamentations and most 
 inconsiderate expressions of astonishment 
 made the young pastor doubly thankful he 
 had succeeded in getting the children out 
 of hearing before they were told of the
 
 I 70 WILL Y COLLINS 
 
 calamity. It was long before he oould 
 subdue their wonder and speculation 
 enough to obtain from them any particu- 
 lars of the circumstances and former his- 
 tory of the bereaved little family. 
 
 Very meagre accounts of their mode of 
 life, however, could their fellow-lodgers 
 give. They had come there to live some 
 eighteen months before ; it was under- 
 stood they had moved in from the country, 
 and to all appearance the parents were a 
 well-to-do and hard-working pair. They 
 mixed little with their neighbors in the 
 house, however; and it was only known 
 from casual circumstances that, in the 
 course of a few months, times had grown 
 less prosperous with them, and work had 
 failed. Then came sickness and pinching 
 distress, and then the father died. Poor 
 Mrs. Collins had struggled on, still keep-
 
 WILL T COLLINS. 171 
 
 ing aloof from the rest of the lodgers, and 
 still keeping up an appearance of decency 
 whenever she went abroad, or sent her 
 children out. Of late she had been ill, 
 they acknowledged to have known; but 
 never having been encouraged to offer 
 their assistance, they had not supposed it 
 needed then ; indeed, it was not difficult to 
 see, a sort of suppressed hostility had existed 
 between the reserved countrywoman and 
 her fellow-lodgers, and Mr. Sutherland was 
 quite prepared for . hearing many insinua- 
 tions to her discredit. But to do the 
 women justice, they did not have the heart 
 to carry thejr petty jealousies and suspi- 
 cions beyond the boundary of death. They 
 acknowledged, with some remorse, they 
 knew no ill of her ; the only thing they had 
 against her was, she felt herself too good 
 to mix with them, and kept her children
 
 172 WILL T COLLINS. 
 
 mewed up in her room rather than let 
 them play with those about the house. 
 She was decent and peaceable ; they 
 hadn't anything against her but her pride. 
 And ah ! they murmured, with doleful and 
 wondering glances towards the bed, there 
 was the end of all of it. She little thought 
 eighteen months ago she would die in a 
 strange garret, without a friendly hand 
 to close her eyes or to hear her dying 
 words. 
 
 " The poor bairn watched by her all 
 day," said the Scotchwoman, brushing 
 away a tear. " Think o' that, and she 
 not five years auld." 
 
 " But had she no relatives in the city ; 
 no one upon whom she could have 
 called ? " 
 
 No ; the women had good authority 
 about that ; for at the time her husband
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 173 
 
 died, she had told Mrs. Lesly, who went 
 in to see her, that she had no friends 
 within a thousand miles, and no kin at all 
 to whom she had a right to look for help. 
 
 ''Then what is to become of these ba- 
 bies?" Mr. Sutherland exclaimed. 
 
 The woman muttered something about 
 the Almshouse, and the city being obliged 
 to provide for them ; but thinking, with a 
 shudder, of sujch care for poor Willy's 
 sensitive nerves, the young clergyman said 
 quickly : 
 
 " I think it will not be necessary to ap- 
 ply to the public charity just yet. Is tnere 
 no one among you who will take charge 
 of them for a few days, till something can 
 be decided upon ? " 
 
 The women looked doubtfully from one 
 to the other, and did not make any direct 
 answer to the question, only muttered
 
 174 WILLY COLLfflS. 
 
 something about having their hands full 
 of their own children, and not having the 
 time to spare to look after three babies 
 that wanted so much done for them as 
 these of Mrs. Collins did. Evidently they 
 did not understand the young man meant 
 to pay them liberally for their board ; and 
 their coldness and inhospitality struck him 
 with so much disgust, he resolved he would 
 not make them any more explicit offer. 
 " If they have not humanity enough to 
 shelter the poor orphans till their mother 
 is buried, they are not fit guardians for 
 them at any time, and I will not bribe 
 them to be Christians. There must be 
 some one else found to take care of them." 
 Nothing strikes a person of habitual 
 and extended charity with so much pain as 
 contact with selfishness and calculation ; 
 and the young minister, perhaps, did not
 
 WILL Y COLLINS. 175 
 
 make sufficient allowance for the wsary, 
 toilsome lives of those to whom he had 
 appealed. They had, many of them, a 
 daily struggle to fill their own children's 
 hungry mouths ; and were worn down, past 
 tenderness and gentleness, by the grinding, 
 laborious cares pressing constantly upon 
 j them. They were ignorant, too, in a great 
 degree, of the elevating and cheering mes- 
 sage of the Gospel, which softens and en- 
 larges the hearts alike of rich and poor; 
 and, in a moment of more deliberation, Mr. 
 Sutherland would probably have remem- 
 bered their slowness of charity had much 
 to excuse it. But now he was intent only 
 on getting the poor babies into some 
 more generous and kindly atmosphere, 
 and could not pause to shqw their faults to 
 them, or to excuse them to himself. . 
 " Then there is no objection," he said,
 
 I 76 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 " to my taking them with me ? The boy 
 belongs to my school, and the woman 
 probably was a member of .the church of 
 which I now have charge; so that J do not 
 see any one has a nearer claim to them." 
 
 No one, certainly, the women all agreed ; 
 there* was considerable alacrity in the re- 
 sponse, and Mr. Sutherland had less ad- 
 
 i 
 
 miration for them than ever. Mrs. Lesly, 
 the Scotchwoman, struck perhaps with some 
 compunction at imposing all on him, who 
 was more a stranger to the poor friendless 
 
 t 
 
 woman than themselves, said she would 
 see that all was. done that was necessary 
 that night, and that she would watch 
 beside the corpse if some one of the others 
 would stay with her. There were many 
 voices eager in acquiescence ; and Mr. 
 Sutherland, handing some money to Mrs. 
 Lesly, told her he would come in the
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 1 77 
 
 morning and attend to whatever else was 
 necessary. 
 
 " The gude young men ! " she murmur- 
 ed, following him down-stairs. Her lad, 
 Sandy by name and by complexion, was dis- 
 patched to call a carriage, while his mother 
 bundled the little orphans up in what- 
 ever remnants of garments she could find 
 about their desolate apartment, and over- 
 whelmed them with lamentations and ca- . 
 resses. The baby mercifully had fallen 
 asleep; so that when the carriage came, 
 Mrs. Lesly took it down, and laid it, a 
 limp, inanimate bundle, on a pillow upon 
 the forward seat, while Mr. Sutherland fol- 
 lowing, with Willy in his arms and Ellie 
 by the hand, got in and shut the door. 
 
 " Where shall I go, sir ? " coachee asked, 
 with his hand upon the latch. 
 
 " Aye, that's the question , where, in- 
 
 8*
 
 I 7 8 WILL 7 COLLINS. 
 
 deed ! " thought Mr. Sutherland, with an 
 inward groan, but audibly he said : " Wait 
 a moment, my good man," and with great 
 appearance of composure took out his 
 memorandum-book and turned over the 
 leaves in the desperate hope of lighting on 
 something that would guide him. His 
 house-keeper might manage one, nay, pos- 
 sibly, the two elder children ; but the baby 
 was not at all in her line, and the thought 
 of keeping it over night would, he was cer- 
 tain, quite upset her. Besides, poor Willy 
 wanted instant and discriminating care; 
 every glance at him added to the young 
 clergyman's uneasiness. There was not 
 any one, among his congregation, upon 
 whose assistance he could surely count in 
 such a case as this. Many were still 
 strangers to him; and among the few 
 whom he reviewed as possible coadjutors,
 
 WILLY COLLINS. 179 
 
 there were some who had sick children of 
 their own, and others who had neither 
 strength nor experience sufficient for the 
 undertaking; some who had large heart, 
 > but little house-room ; and a few who Had 
 plenty of house-room, but whose hearts, he 
 judged, he might find less commodious. 
 
 In the meanwhile time pressed; the 
 coachman's face, by the light of the street 
 lamp under which he stood, showed signs 
 of wonder and a slight impatience. 
 
 " I don't want to shake his faith in me as 
 a sane man," thought Mr. Sutherland ; " but 
 if I do not hurry, he'll soon conclude I 
 don't know where I want to go any more 
 than the poor baby on the pillow does." 
 
 A gleam of hope, 'however, at that mo- 
 ment lighted up his face ; the little memo- 
 randum-book had proved a faithful coun- 
 sellor. On a stray leaf there was written
 
 I So WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 an address that set all his doubts at rest , 
 and he turned to coachee with such anima- 
 tion, and gave him the direction with such 
 a changed expression, that the man's mind 
 misgave him about the propriety of follow- 
 ing it. As he assumed his, place on the 
 box, he shook his head, muttering : 
 
 " Something wrong ; something wrong, 
 it's plain. I must keep my eye upon him. 
 He'll be flying out-o' the window, mor'n 
 likely, and I shan't see a penny o' my 
 fare." 
 
 The suspected lunatic, meantime, was 
 endeavoring to inspire his young friends 
 with some of his own good spirits. 
 
 " In a few minutes, children," he said 
 encouragingly, " we shall be in such a com- 
 fortable place, where Willy' and Ellie shall 
 each have a little white bed, and where 
 there will be a kind nurse to take care. of
 
 WILL T COLLJNS. \ g 1 
 
 poor little baby. And you must be hungry, 
 too; you have had no supper?"" 
 
 No, nor any dinner either, for the matter 
 of that ; but the excitement of driving, the 
 wonder of the change, was sufficient to sus- 
 tain and pacify them for the present; and 
 when the carriage stopped, they were a most 
 silent little trio. Mr. Sutherland left them 
 for a few moments in the care of the driver, 
 who looked strangely unwilling to be left, 
 and went up the steps and rang the bell. 
 He disappeared behind the door, which 
 closed after him ; but in a very short time 
 reappeared again, accompanied by a lady 
 in a white cap and grey dress, who took 
 the baby kindly in her arms and went back 
 again into the house. Mr. Sutherland paid 
 the driver, who seemed much relieved, and 
 drove off as if he were glad to be well 
 through with the undertaking ; then taking
 
 1 82 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 Ellie in his arms, and leading Willy, he 
 ascended the steps and went into the house. 
 -The lady was already unwrapping the baby 
 from its many and tattered envelopes, and 
 looking at it pitifully. 
 
 " Poor child ! " she said, with a sigh. 
 " And this is the little girl ?" 
 
 Ellie hung back frightened, and began to 
 feel desolate and strange. But the lady was 
 so kind and gentle, they soon grew recon- 
 ciled. They were taken into a room where 
 some twenty other children were at supper ; 
 and queer and strange as Ellie felt, she yet 
 succeeded in eating more than Willy. 
 
 Poor Willy ! He had a dreadful night, 
 and the kind lady watched beside him till 
 nearly morning. His limbs ached so ; his 
 head throbbed so ; he was so burning hot ! 
 And the next day, when Mr. Sutherland 
 came, he found his little favorite in an
 
 WILL Y COLLINS. I g 3 
 
 alarming state perfectly delirious, and 
 with a high fever. For several weeks it 
 seemed uncertain whether the poor boy 
 would ever be brought out of it. The most 
 careful nursing and the most skilful doctor- 
 ing alone could have conquered such an at- 
 tack as his. But in his new home he had 
 both ; and when at length he rallied, and 
 began again to look about him, and notice 
 where he was, he asked for Ellie and for 
 " mother." 
 
 Poor boy! It cost the kind lady who 
 had nursed him many a pang to say the 
 truth to him ; and his silent crying, with 
 his face down in the pillow, made her heart 
 ache more than the most vehement burst 
 of sorrow could have done. At last she 
 said: 
 
 " Shall I bring you Ellie and the baby ? " 
 But Willy shook his head ; he did not
 
 184 WILLY COLLINS. 
 
 want to see them now. The next day when 
 he sat up in his bed, for a little while, again 
 the lady said the same, and Willy nodded. 
 
 When Ellie came in, in her brown 
 gingham frock and long blue apron, looking 
 rosy and healthy as a country girl, Willy 
 hardly knew her. And the baby, though still 
 a peaked and sad-faced thing, was wonder- 
 fully changed since the night Mr. Suther- 
 land found her tied up in the rocking-chair. 
 The hospital had saved her, as it is saving 
 many others ; and poor little Willy had to 
 thank it, under Heaven, for his continued 
 life. 
 
 Mr. Sutherland, from the time that he 
 found it such a welcome home -for his poor 
 little deserted flock,' devoted himself to its 
 enlargement and extension. Some time of 
 every day he gave to it; and Willy and 
 Ellie looked for him with longing every
 
 WILL T COLLINS. 1 8 5 
 
 day. Willy learned to love the hospital 
 chapel very much, but the clear old church 
 was still his home ; and sometimes on Sun- 
 day afternoons, Mr. Sutherland would get 
 leave for him to come down there with 
 Ellie, and sit in the pew with the children. 
 It made him feel strange and sad to look at 
 the great north window that he had gazed 
 at so wistfully in the dark, unhappy time 
 that seemed so long ago ; but he loved it 
 still, and never forgot it through all his 
 life. 
 
 Healthy, happy little Ellie had not so 
 much to forget as her brother had ; but 
 both of them soon lost the recollection, as 
 far as it was really painful, of their miser- 
 able infancy, and became contented, simple- 
 hearted, and religious children, under the 
 safe, cheerful, and holy influences of their 
 new home.
 
 A NEW NOVEL 
 
 .BY THE AUTHOR OF " RUTLEDGE." 
 
 RICHARD VANDERMARCK 
 
 BY MRS. S. S. HARRIS, 
 
 Author of " Rutledge," " The Sutherland!," " Louie's Last Term," "Round- 
 hearts," " A Rosary for Lent" &*c., &>c. 
 
 i vol. 121110, cloth, $1.50. 
 
 The author of " Rutledge" breaks a silence of seven years with 
 a story quite as bright and vivacious in style, as dramatic in its 
 situations, and as thoroughly true to life as anything she has pre- 
 viously written. A clever girl with the " dangerous gift," and with 
 no end of faults and weaknesses, pretty, selfish, unstable, 
 womanly, tells her own story, and in a way entirely feminine, and 
 so true to life that she seems to be talking, instead of writing, 
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 plot not at all involved, the situations and incidents always graphic, 
 and often told with real dramatic power and a genuine pathos 
 which combine to make the story one that will be universally read 
 with thorough satisfaction and pleasure. 
 
 ALSO NEW EDITIONS, IN HANDSOME STYLES, 
 
 RUTLEDGE. 
 
 FRANK WARRINGTON. 
 
 LOUIE'S LAST TERM. 
 
 THE SUTHERLANDS. 
 ST. PHILIPS. 
 ROUNDHEARTS. 
 
 A ROSARY FOR LENT.
 
 3 
 
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