A Dear Little Girl

"She lives to a place in the country. She tol' me my mother was better'n mos'; that she was a lady in the millingnery line, an' made grand bonnets and hats."

"And your mother is not living?"

"No, ma'am. She got consumpted and died, Mis' Ryan said."

Mrs. Ramsey again sat thinking. "Miss Barnes," she said, after a pause, "you were perfectly right; it would not do for you to take the responsibility of this. We must establish our legal claim to this child. I do not imagine it will be difficult. You may leave Maggie with me. It is too late to do anything this evening, but to-morrow I will settle the question." And Maggie found herself the guest of – it seemed to her – the most elegant lady in the land.

"We shall see you again at the Home, Maggie," said Miss Barnes, kindly, as she took her leave. "Be a good girl, and do not give Mrs. Ramsey any trouble. She is more than kind, and you see she trusts you."

"O, Miss Barnes. I wouldn't do nothin' to trouble that beautiful lady for nothin'; no, not for nothin'," promised Maggie.

After Miss Barnes had gone Mrs. Ramsey summoned a maid. "Take this little girl, and give her a good bath," she said. "You can put a cot in your room for her. She is to sleep here to-night, and to-morrow she is to go out with me. We will have to manage some sort of an outfit for her. I think you will have to go out early, Rosa, and do some shopping for her. Are you hungry, Maggie?" she asked, turning to the child.

"No, ma'am. I was, but I had a big bowl of mush and milk, what Mis' Shaw give me."

"You had better give her something more, Rosa. Mush and milk is not a very lasting diet," returned Mrs. Ramsey, smiling. "Now go with Rosa, Maggie," and Mrs. Ramsey turned back to the magazine which she had been reading when Miss Barnes, with Maggie, came in.

Half fearful, half ecstatic, Maggie took her place by the side of Mrs. Ramsey in her fine carriage the next morning. Rosa had clothed her in an entirely new suit of clothes, and had really taken pride in seeing how nice she could make her little charge look. So it was quite a well-appearing little girl who was Mrs. Ramsey's companion. The idea of riding in that beautiful carriage nearly took Maggie's breath away; it seemed as if she must be dreaming; but as she neared the place where Mrs. Hawkins lived, her heart fluttered, and she looked up so appealingly at Mrs. Ramsey, that the eyes of the sweet woman filled. "No one shall hurt you, Maggie dear," she said. And she held the child's hand firmly, as they left the carriage.

"There she is!" cried Maggie, clinging closely to her friend, as a hard-featured woman turned toward them from the sidewalk.

Mrs. Hawkins was no respecter of persons, and Mrs. Ramsey's appearance with Maggie was the signal for a fierce outbreak.

"There ye are, are ye. Callin' yerself a lady, maybe, abductin' children. I'll have the law on ye, sure as me name's Hawkins," she cried.

"The child left you of her own accord," said Mrs. Ramsey, with dignity.

"Then ye've brought her back, have ye?" and Mrs. Hawkins cast a threatening look at Maggie.

"No, I have not," replied Mrs. Ramsey, quietly. "I simply brought her along to identify you."

"Ye think yer honest, don't ye?" shrieked Mrs. Hawkins. "I'll have the child back. I've the law on me side."

"We shall find out if the law permits anyone to retain a child and ill-treat her," returned Mrs. Ramsey.

"Ill-treat, is it? Who says it? If it's that little lyin', whinin' – "

"Hush!" said Mrs. Ramsey, in a tone of command.

The woman was silenced for a moment, then she made a grab at Maggie, who clung to her protector.

At this moment up strode a policeman. "What's all this?" he cried. "What's the trouble? Pardon me, madam," he said, addressing Mrs. Ramsey.

That lady explained.

The policeman looked perplexed. "I am not sure but the woman has some right, madam. I happen to know that the child belongs here, but you can probably settle it if she has been ill-treated. You had better leave the girl here, and consult the proper authorities."

Mrs. Hawkins stood with her arms akimbo, looking on triumphantly.

"If she must stay, so must I," said Mrs. Ramsey, firmly.

"Very well, madam. I will see that you are protected from the woman," said the policeman.

Mrs. Ramsey thanked him, and calling her coachman, she bade him drive directly to her husband's office. Then she took up her place in a little shop, still holding Maggie by the hand.

Chapter V

A GUILTY CONSCIENCE

It was an all-day matter. Mrs. Ramsey bravely held her place in the shop, gazed at by curious eyes, but she calmly waited the return of her carriage with her husband.

That gentleman's appearance with two officers rather took down Mrs. Hawkins, and although she still persisted in claiming Maggie, after a long parley and a visit to the office of a lawyer, the matter was finally settled, and Maggie was borne triumphantly away, and handed over to Miss Barnes.

"If there ever was a good woman whom riches cannot spoil it is Mrs. Ramsey," said the teacher, when she heard Maggie's account of her day. "You ought to thank God for such a friend, Maggie."

Thus Maggie was established in her new home. She felt the restraint, it must be admitted, and was not by any means a model child, for the life she had been living had not been one that helped her to much goodness; but she had very strong affections and a grateful heart; therefore, to remind her that Mrs. Ramsey or Edna would be disappointed in her, if she were naughty, was the surest means of bringing penitence for a fault, a means which does not always work as well with children brought up in a purer atmosphere.

Edna had occasion to learn more of Maggie, as she was allowed a weekly visit to the Home to see her little friend. One day Maggie confessed to her that she was far from perfect, and told, with tears in her eyes, of obstinate faults. "But I will be good. I'll try harder'n ever," promised the child, "for Miss Barnes told me I didn't love you nor Mrs. Ramsey when I behave bad, for if I did I'd want to show you. Do you care when I'm bad?" she asked, wistfully.

"Of course I do," replied Edna. "What had you been doing to make Miss Barnes say that?"

Maggie was silent for a moment. "There's a little girl here with long curls – she's awful pretty, an' every one says she'll get 'dopted some day 'cause she's so pretty – an' one day she kicked me under the bench when some ladies was here, an' – an' I pinched her, an' the ladies saw me, an' made a fuss about it, so Miss Barnes sent me out of the room."

"Did you tell on her?" asked Edna.

"No, I didn't."

"I like you for that," she replied, sympathizing with the not telling, for her loyal little heart forbade her to tell on Louis many a time when he had done some little mean trick.

Therefore on this evening of her visit to Maggie, her mind was full of such things. "I wouldn't let a poor little Friendlesser be better than I am," she said to herself, "and I'll be twice as nice to Louis now." In consequence she was quite disturbed when she missed her cousin from the supper table that evening.

"Why, where is Louis?" she asked.

"He is in his room," replied Aunt Elizabeth, in a tone which forbade further questioning. Edna glanced at her uncle; he, too, looked stern and unyielding, and no chance was given the little girl that evening to find out the cause of Louis' banishment. She had become very fond of her cousin, although she did not always quite approve of him. He was a gentle, affectionate boy, easily influenced, and being an only child, had been allowed his own way, so that he was very much spoiled. He was, nevertheless, a very agreeable companion for a little girl, for he did not disdain to play with dolls at times, and would dress up and play "lady" when nothing more exciting was suggested. He was very fond of keeping shop, a drug store he usually preferred to have it; this probably on account of the very small pair of scales among his toys. He served Edna and the dolls a certain delectable drink made by filling with sugar and water, bottles in which remained a few drops of vanilla extract; these bottles Ellen bestowed upon the children, and they considered the mixture they prepared something very delicious. The rest of the stock consisted chiefly of sand, slate-pencil dust, dried beans, and bits of broken twigs. Many a happy hour did the two children spend playing together; therefore, when Edna felt that some stern decree had been passed upon Louis, her little tender heart felt it deeply.

At breakfast time no Louis appeared, nor did he take his place in school that day. To his school-fellows' question, "What is the matter with Louis?" Edna was obliged to answer, "I don't know."

After dinner, which seemed a more solemn affair than usual, the little girl could stand it no longer. To her questions Ellen could give no satisfactory answers, so, watching an opportunity, when Uncle Justus was taking his afternoon nap and when Aunt Elizabeth had gone to some meeting, Edna stole up to the storeroom, whose window was diagonally opposite to that of Louis' room. After a moment's hesitation she tapped on the window; there was no response from Louis' room. Then Edna decided to write a note and slip it under his door. This she managed to do. "I am going to the storeroom, open your window," was what she wrote, and the note served its purpose, for when the storeroom window was raised there stood Louis before his window.

"O, Louis," cried Edna. "Can't you get out?"

"No," was the reply.

"O, dear, I wish you could. I have such a lot to tell you. What are you shut up for? What did you do?"

Louis looked sullen. "I didn't do anything."

"O!" said Edna. "Are you sure? Then why did they shut you up?"

"Just for hatefulness," replied Louis. "I wasn't doing a thing."

This seemed a dreadful state of affairs, and Edna hardly knew what to think. "I wish I could let you out," she said, sympathetically, "but I can't."

Louis stood with downcast eyes, hammering with his knife upon the sill.

"Are you sure you haven't done anything?" persisted Edna.

"Of course I haven't. They just want to show their power over me, and I am half starved, I haven't had anything but bread and water."

Edna's eyes filled. "I wish I had something nice to give you to eat," she said, in distress.

"I wish you had," replied Louis.

"O, I hear some one," cried Edna, suddenly, and she shut down the window, hastily.

But the footsteps proved to be only those of Ellen going through the hall. Edna, nevertheless, did not dare to venture into the storeroom again at once, for Uncle Justus was apt any minute to awaken, and thinking to divert Louis by playing with Moggins in the yard, the little girl went out and tried to display the cat to the boy at the window above, but he stood watching her with such an unsmiling face that Edna was overcome with pity.

"I suppose he is almost starved," she said, to herself. "It isn't likely Ellen would dare to give me anything for him. I wish I had some pennies, but I have given them all to auntie for the fair." She stood pondering over the subject when her eye caught sight of a covered dish standing on a bench by the kitchen door. Edna lifted the cover and saw that the dish was full of baked apples which had been placed there to cool for supper. Without stopping to think, she picked up two of the apples by their stems and thrust them into her little clean handkerchief which, still unfolded, had been lying in her pocket.

Holding the four corners of the handkerchief together, she ran upstairs to the storeroom. She had heard Uncle Justus go out for a walk, and she knew that Aunt Elizabeth would not return till dark.

In response to the raising of the window Louis' window also opened. "I have something for you," said Edna, hastily; "but I don't know how to get it to you. It's in my handkerchief. Wait a minute." She had an idea, for presently out of the window came a rod, on the end of which was tied the handkerchief of baked apples. Exercising much care, Edna managed to direct the pole – which was the handle of the window brush – to Louis' window and the apples were taken in. Then Edna drew back the stick, set it up in its place, and ran up to her room to think about it.

She did not feel comfortable over the matter. Only a short time ago her aunt and uncle had been kinder to her than she had reason to expect they could be, and now to find them so harsh to Louis seemed a contradiction. Perhaps he had been naughty and deserved the punishment. She remembered with regret that Louis did not always speak the truth; once or twice he had screened himself by blaming her for something of which she was innocent. At all events she had no right to take the apples. Why, they didn't belong to her! Of course, they didn't. She wouldn't eat any for supper, and in that way she could replace them. Edna was very fond of baked apples, and the sacrifice decided upon, she felt more comfortable.

So, at supper she did refuse the apples, an unusual proceeding which caused her aunt to look at her so sharply that Edna felt those penetrating eyes were seeing straight into her very heart, and she colored up, taking a very long, slow drink of water to hide her embarrassment.

She was very quiet all during the evening, meekly holding some worsted for her aunt, then taking a very dull book, and trying to read it. But she was very glad when bedtime came.

Usually it was a very few minutes after her head touched the pillow that she was asleep; but this night slumber did not easily come, and the pillow was very damp under the rosy cheek which lay upon it. "O, dear!" sighed the conscience-stricken child. "It didn't do a bit of good to go without the apples; I can't go to sleep, and it's been nearly all night since I came up stairs. O, dear, what shall I do?"

The moments became harder and harder to bear, and, finally, with but one thought in her mind, she slipped out of bed and down stairs. It was not very late, although it seemed so to the child. Uncle Justus and Aunt Elizabeth were still in the sitting-room. They were surprised by the appearance of a little form standing in the doorway.

"Why, Edna, what are you doing here in your night clothes?" exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth. "Are you ill?"

"No," replied Edna, below her breath, while the lump in her throat seemed to grow bigger and bigger.

After the first glance Uncle Justus's eyes did not turn from the newspaper he was reading.

"What is the matter, then?" asked Aunt Elizabeth, with a piercing look. "You are not ill."

"No, I'm not ill, Aunt Elizabeth," replied the child. "I'm wicked. I've stoled."

"What do you mean? What was it you took?" asked Aunt Elizabeth.

"Two baked apples."

"And that is why you refused them at supper. When did you eat them?"

"I didn't eat them," replied Edna, hesitatingly. "O, please, auntie, I won't eat any the next time either. Please shut me up, and feed me on bread and water, like Louis."

"Did you take the apples for Louis?" suddenly asked Uncle Justus.

Edna gave an assenting nod, while she looked up with appealing eyes.

"How did you get them to him?"

"Through the window, on the end of a stick."

A little queer look came into Uncle Justus's face.

"You will take cold standing there," said Aunt Elizabeth, returning to her work. "Go back to bed."

"Won't you please shut me up and let Louis out?" said Edna. "I'll stay two days, one for him and one for me."

"Go to bed," commanded Aunt Elizabeth, "We'll settle it to-morrow."

Chapter VI

THE FAIR

The next morning saw Louis free, and he appeared at the breakfast table wearing a very dogged expression of discontent. Edna trembled in her shoes at what might be awaiting her, and when her aunt called her solemnly to her room the child felt as if she were going before a dreadful court of justice.

She never forgot that talk with Aunt Elizabeth, who, to do her credit, tried to mete out what she considered as light a punishment as would meet the case. It was not the punishment which Edna minded; it was the long talk behind locked doors, which she bore standing in front of her aunt, whose sharp eyes were fixed on the little culprit. "The value of the apples is a very small matter," said Aunt Elizabeth, "and you shall replace them by going without, as your own conscience told you it would be right to do; but the principle of the thing is what I mind, even though you took the fruit for some one else. You were not only breaking the commandment, 'Thou shalt not steal,' but you were not honoring those who stand in the place of your father and mother. And it was not helping Louis; it was harming him, for your uncle and I knew better than you what was best to be done. Now," concluded Aunt Elizabeth, "because you were brave enough to come and confess your fault, and because you are really contrite, I shall not punish you beyond forbidding you all sweets for a week."

Edna accepted her punishment very meekly. She was very fond of sweets, and it was hard to go without anything of that kind for seven whole days. Ellen with all good intentions offered her a slice of bread and butter spread with sugar in the kitchen one day; but the child was too honest to accept it, and it is quite likely that this stanch upholding of her aunt's decree had its effect not only upon Ellen but also upon Louis.

"Say, Edna," said the boy, when he heard the result of the affair, "I'm awfully sorry you got into a fuss on my account."

"O, I don't mind it much," replied his cousin; "I mind having Uncle Justus think me bad."

Louis opened his eyes. "You don't care what that old tyrant thinks, do you?"

"Why, yes," was the reply; "don't you? I don't like anybody to think I am wicked."

"I don't care what some people think," replied Louis, angrily. "I wish my father and mother were here, he'd soon see whether I'd be shut up again just because I chose to play with a boy they didn't know. I'll run away next time, see if I don't."

"Was that it?" returned Edna; "but you know they said we mustn't make friends with strange children."

"Didn't you make friends with Maggie Horn? Answer me that, miss," exclaimed Louis, triumphantly.

Edna was silent. She didn't exactly see the way clear to defend herself, although she knew there was a difference somewhere.

"Maggie Horn is nothing but a dirty little street child," continued Louis; "and I haven't the least doubt but that she tells stories and steals and all that, while Phil Blaney lives in a nice house, and – and – "

"As if that made him good," answered Edna, scornfully. "I just know that he is a great deal worse than Maggie, for she never had anyone to teach her, and Phil has had, so he is much worse."

"He is not," replied Louis, fiercely.

"He is, he is," contradicted Edna, "and you are a horrid, disagreeable boy to talk so about Maggie; I am not going to play with you, so there," and picking up her doll, she stalked away.

"Yah! yah! 'I don't want to play in your yard,'" sang Louis after her.

Edna was very angry, the more so that she did not know how to defend Maggie. It was quite likely, she thought, that Maggie might do all sorts of wrong things, and it was also quite true that she had, herself, made friends with a strange girl. She could not puzzle it out, and she went down stairs to the sitting-room where Uncle Justus was. She sat down on a hassock by the fire, looking very thoughtful. Once or twice she glanced up at her uncle.

After a while he noticed the questioning look on her face. "What is it, little girl?" he asked.

"Uncle Justus," she said, "was I very bad when I talked to Maggie Horn, and got 'quainted with her? Louis says it was just as bad as for him to talk to Phil Blaney."

"Why did you talk to Maggie and make her acquaintance?"

"'Cause I was so sorry for her," replied Edna, simply.

"And why did Louis become intimate with Phil; was it to do him good?"

"No," replied Edna, "I don't believe he thought of that. I think it was because he thought Phil was fun."

"And did you think about disobeying when you met Maggie?"

"O, no, of course not; Uncle Justus, you don't think I meant to, do you? We bumped into each other, and when I saw how poor and thin she was I felt so sorry. You don't think I talked to her because I wanted not to mind Aunt Elizabeth, do you?"

"No, I do not think so; I believe all your thought was to help Maggie. It was not willful disobedience, so you see there is a difference between the two cases."

Edna was thoughtful. "Yes, I see," she answered. But somehow that "feeling sorry for people" made her get over her anger against Louis, and she went up stairs singing a little song to herself. And a half hour later the two might have been heard laughing merrily over their play, and planning what they were going to do at the fair which was to be held the next week.

Before then Edna found out more of Louis' misbehavior. It seems that he had, more than once, gone out the back gate when he was supposed to be studying his lessons in the afternoon, climbing the fence and creeping in the house again just at dusk, being encouraged in this by Phil Blaney. Uncle Justus coming home later than usual one evening caught sight of Louis with a crowd of bad boys and grimly marched his nephew home.

Phil Blaney was a wild, uncontrolled boy, who spent most of his time in the street, played truant three days out of five, was a great boaster, and sneered at anything like goodness. He was vastly amusing, however, and generally was surrounded by a crowd of admiring lads who thought him quite a hero. He had completely fascinated Louis, who was blind to his faults and attached great weight to every word he uttered. Phil encouraged the younger boy to be as defiant as possible, telling him he was a coward to stand being badgered by old "goggle-eyes," as he called Professor Horner. So Louis was under a very bad influence, the real danger of which neither he nor Edna could realize.

The next week, however, the fair was the great matter of interest. Aunt Elizabeth had a table and allowed the children to go as helpers, if not every day, at least quite often. Louis being the elder was sometimes allowed to return in the evening, and Edna's great desire was to be allowed also to go at that time.

"It is much more fun at night," Louis had told her. "There are so many people there, and it is all lighted up, and there is always music, singing, or something." But Aunt Elizabeth had not hinted at there being a possibility of Edna's being allowed to sit up after eight o'clock, and Edna was so very eager to go "just one evening."

Finally she summoned up courage to take her longing to Uncle Justus. There appeared to be a very good understanding between the grave, dignified man and the honest little girl, and the confidences between the two grew more and more frequent.

Uncle Justus was in the large schoolroom looking over some papers when Edna peeped in. Seeing him so busy she crept away and went to her desk in the adjoining room to wait till he should be free.

After a while she heard him get up and clear his throat in a little way that he had. So she left her desk and reached him as he stood looking thoughtfully out of the window. "Uncle Justus," she said, "if you were a little girl my size, and there were a fair going on, don't you think you'd want very much to go in the evening?"

The queer little look which came into Uncle Justus's face when such questions were put to him appeared as he said, "I do not believe I could imagine the feelings of a little girl, for it is a long time since I was even a little boy."

For a moment Edna's imagination tried to picture Uncle Justus as a little boy, but it was such a very difficult thing that she gave it up almost immediately.

"You see," Edna went on, "I don't believe I should mind about most fairs, but this is such a particular fair. You know it is to get a new house for Maggie and the rest of the little Friendlesses, and then I helped to make some of the pretty things, and I do want to hear the singing, and see how it looks lighted up."

Uncle Justus smiled; it was not a very fascinating place to him, but it was fairyland to the little girl. "What does your aunt say?" he asked.

"She doesn't say anything about it," replied Edna; "only she never lets me sit up after eight-o'clock, you know."