Bertha's Christmas Vision – An Autumn Sheaf. Alger Horatio Jr.

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СКАЧАТЬ that home offered but few attractions to one of her age. Her father’s indignation was extreme. All advances towards reconciliation, on the part of the newly-wedded pair, were received with a bitterness of scorn, which effectually prevented their repetition. From that time, Martin Kendrick settled down into the cold, apathetic, and solitary existence which has been described above. Gradually the love of gain blotted out from his memory the remembrance of his children, whom he never met. They had removed from the city, though he knew it not; and the total amount of interest displayed respecting them discouraged any idea they might have entertained of informing him.

      * * * * *

      “It’s a cold night,” quoth Martin to himself, as he sat before the least glimmering which could decently be called a fire in the apartment which he occupied. He cast a wistful glance towards a pile of wood which lay beside the grate. He lifted one, and poised it for a moment, glancing meanwhile at the fire, as if he was debating in his mind whether he had best place it on. He shook his head, however, as if it were too great a piece of extravagance to be thought of, and softly laid it back. He then moved his chair nearer to the fire as if satisfied that this would produce the additional warmth without the drawback of expense.

      It was, indeed, a cold night. The chill blasts swept with relentless rigor through the streets, sending travellers home with quickened pace, and causing the guardians of the public peace, as they stood at their appointed stations, to wrap their overcoats more closely about them. On many a hearth the fire blazed brightly, in composed defiance of the insidious visitor who shuns the abodes of opulence, but forces his unwelcome entry into the habitations of the poor.

      A child, thinly clad, was roaming through the streets. Every gust, as it swept along, chilled her through and through; and at length, unable to go farther, she sank down at the portal of Martin Kendrick’s dwelling. Extreme cold gave her courage; and, with trembling hand, she lifted the huge knocker. It fell from her nerveless grasp, and the unwonted sound penetrated into the room where Martin sat cowering over his feeble fire. He was startled, terrified even, as that sound came to his ears, echoing through the empty rooms in the old house.

      “Who can it be?—robbers?” thought he, as he walked to the door. “I will wait and see if it be repeated.”

      It was repeated.

      “Who’s there?” he exclaimed, in a somewhat tremulous voice, as he stood with his hand upon the latch.

      “It’s me,” said a low, shivering voice from without.

      “And who’s ‘me’?”

      “Floy—little Floy,” was the answer.

      “And what do you want here at this time of night?”

      “I am freezing. Let me come in and sit by the fire, if only for a moment. I shall die upon your steps.”

      The old man deliberated.

      “You’re sure you’re not trying to get in after my money, what little I have? There isn’t any one with you, is there?”

      “No one. There is only me. Oh, sir, do let me in! I am so cold!”

      The bolt was cautiously withdrawn; and Martin, opening a crack, peered forth suspiciously. But the only object that met his gaze was a little girl, of ten years of age, crouching on the steps in a way to avail herself of all the natural warmth she had.

      “Will you let me come in?” said she, imploringly.

      “You had better go somewhere else. I haven’t much of a fire. I don’t keep much, it burns out fuel so fast. You had better go where they keep better fires.”

      “Oh, sir, the least fire will relieve me so much! and I haven’t strength to go any farther.”

      “Well, you may come in, if you’re sure you haven’t come to steal any thing.”

      “I never steal: it’s wicked.”

      “Umph! Well, I hope you’ll remember it. This is the way.”

      He led her into a little room which he occupied. She sprang to the fire, little inviting as it was, and eagerly spread out both hands before it. She seemed actually to drink in the heat, scanty as it was, so welcome did it prove to her chilled and benumbed limbs.

      A touch of humanity came to the miser, or perhaps his own experience of the cold stimulated him to the act; for, after a few minutes’ deliberation, he took two sticks from the pile of fuel, and threw them upon the fire. They crackled and burnt; diffusing, for a time, a cheerful warmth about the apartment. The little girl looked up gratefully, and thanked him for what she regarded as an act of kindness to herself.

      “Fuel’s high, very high; and it takes a fearful quantity to keep the fire agoing.”

      “But what a pleasant fire it makes!” said the little girl, as she looked at the flames curling aloft.

      “Why, yes,” said Martin, in a soliloquising tone, “it is comfortable; but it would not do to have it burn so bright. It would ruin me completely.”

      “Then you are poor?” said the little girl, looking about the room. The furniture was scanty; consisting only of the most indispensable articles, and those of the cheapest kind. They had all been picked up, at second-hand stores, for little or nothing.

      It was no wonder that little Floy asked the question. Nevertheless, the miser looked suspiciously at her, as if there was some covert meaning in her words. But she looked so openly and frankly at him as quite to disarm any suspicions he might entertain.

      “Poor?” he at length answered. “Yes, I am; or should be, if I plunged into extravagant living and expenses of every kind.” And he looked half regretfully at the sticks which had burned out, and were now smouldering in the grate.

      “Well,” said Floy, “I am poor too, and so were father and mother. But I think I am poorer than you; for I have no home at all, no house to live in, and no fire to keep me warm.”

      “Then where do you live?” asked the miser.

      “I don’t live anywhere,” said the child, simply.

      “But where do you stay?”

      “Where I can. I generally walk about the streets in the daytime; and, when I feel cold, I go into some store to warm myself. They don’t always let me stay long. They call me ragged, and a beggar. I suppose,” she continued, casting a glance at her thin dress, which in some places was torn and dirty from long wearing—“I suppose it’s all true; but I can’t help it.”

      “Where do you think of going to-night?” asked Martin, abruptly.

      “I don’t know. I haven’t any place to go to; and it’s very cold. Won’t you let me stay here?” asked the child, imploringly.

      The miser started.

      “How can you stay here? Here is only one room, and this I occupy.”

      “Let me lie down on the floor, anywhere. It will be better than to go out into the cold streets.”

      The miser paused. Even he, callous as his heart had become, would not willingly thrust out a young girl into the street, where in all probability, unless succor СКАЧАТЬ