University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
AN ORPHAN GIRL.

Mr. Barlow (Barlow was the stranger's name)
soon revived under the influence of the Aikins
hospitalities. As he himself expressed it, kindness
was the medicine he wanted; and every day
he felt its healing power.

“I am not two shillings out of pocket in a week
for the poor man,” said Aikin; “and I think, Susan,
we take as much pleasure in seeing him refreshed
at our table, as the rich do in their dinner-parties.
To tell the truth, Susan, though I suppose
no one but you would believe it, I never did wish
to change conditions with them.”

“Nor I, I am sure; they must have a great deal
of trouble. I often pity them. Not but that I am
willing to take trouble, but then it must be for
something to be got out of it.”

This remark of Susan's led her husband to suggest
a project which, after various emendations
from her, was soon after carried into effect. They,
like all good parents, rich or poor, were steadfastly
intent on the advancement of their children. It
has been already seen how much our friends were
benefited by their early education—the common
and paramount blessing of New-England. They
felt their children to be the gift of God, and, being
religious and reasoning beings, they fully realized

their responsibility to Him for the use and improvement
of this best of his gifts. They were
sufficiently acquainted with the condition, laws,
institutions, and capabilities of their country, to
know how to train their children to profit by them,
and, when they became men and women, to reflect
honour on them. They sent them to school; but
they well knew that schools could do but a small
part towards their education. Home was the
school in which they were to be taught, from the
first year of their existence, by day and by night,
in sickness and in health, and their parents were
to set them the copies which they were to follow.
Besides instruction in virtues and manners, which,
if not learned at home, are learned nowhere, they
improved every opportunity of adding to their
knowledge. Henry Aikin often devoted a leisure
moment to looking over a book-stall, where valuable
second-hand books are frequently to be obtained
at low prices. He had lately purchased a
work on natural history, with good plates, and he
now proposed that Mr. Barlow, who was well acquainted
with the subject, should give the children
some instruction upon it; which, with the aid of
the books, might be made very atfractive to them.
Susan suggested, that it was a pity such an opportunity
should be confined to their children, and
mentioned two or three worthy families whose
children might be included. This led to an extension
of the plan; and it was finally concluded to
propose a social meeting, to be held successively
at the different families included. Mr. Barlow was
to give a sort of lecture, and, after that was over,
the evening was to be passed socially. “If we
only had that little back room,” said Susan, “we
should want for nothing.” The little back room
was an apartment in a back building, with an entrance
from the landing of the first flight of stairs.
It was neatly finished, had a communication of its
own with the yard, and a closet, large enough for
a bed, attached to it. The Aikins had long wished
to add it to their narrow accommodations, and more
than ever recently, for it had been rented to a
woman who, from her extreme shyness, her being
visited only occasionally by a person who called
himself her husband, and her having a little girl
dressed in tawdry and shabby finery, they deemed
a very undesirable neighbour. Uncle Phil, who
was the kindest-hearted gossip in the world, but
still a gossip, retained his country propensity to
know all about his neighbours' affairs. He was
much puzzled by the tenant of the back parlour,
and day after day repeated to Charlotte and Susan,
“Who can that woman be? I can't get sight of
her face under that dum deep bonnet and veil;
but her walk looks natural, and always puts me in
mind of some of our Essex folks.”

“That's odd, Lottie,” said Susan; “don't you
remember my telling you one day, when she was
calling her little girl, that her voice sounded natural?”

“Yes; but she can't be any one we ever knew.”

“I am sure I hope not.”

“I hope not, too,” said Uncle Phil, “but I do
feel for the little girl; she looks so wishful after
our children, and she's pretty spoken.”

“I feel for her, too,” said Susan, “but I must
know something more about her before I should

feel it to be right to let the children associate with
her.”

Uncle Phil was determined, as far as in him
lay, to remove this objection, and to make the
most of the first opportunity of finding out something
about the litle stranger; so, the first mild
sunny day, he stationed himself at the street door,
with the baby in his arms, sure that the little girl,
who frequently passed in and out, would be attracted
by the natural affinities of childhood. She
soon appeared, with a pitcher in her hand, on her
way to the pump. She would have been extremely
pretty, but that she wanted the foundation of all
childhood's beauty—health. Her eye was sunken;
her cheeks pale, and lips blue; and she
looked peaked and cold. Her dress was thin and
shabby. She had a soiled silk frock; slippers
down at the heel; a faded silk bonnet, with artificial
flowers; a carnelian necklace and ear-rings,
and a ragged French shawl. A sad contrast was
she to Anne and Ruth Aikin, who, in their schooldress,
with a pail between them, were preceding
her at the pump. They were dressed in factory
frocks, and aprons with pockets; gingham hoods;
warm gray cloaks; calf-skin shoes, and nice woollen
stockings, of Aunt Lottie's knitting. On they
ran, chattering and giggling, while the little shivering
stranger lagged alone behind them. “I
know very well, Mary,” said Anne, in reply to
something from her sister, “mother don't like us
to keep company with girls she don't know; but,
then, I know mother would not object to our just
speaking kindly to her: I'll tell mother about it.
Little girl,” raising her voice, “we've filled our

pail—hold up your pitcher, and I'll pump that full.”
The courtesies of childhood have more expression
than form. The stranger held up the pitcher till
the water ran over it, and followed the little girls
back with a lighter step. As she reached the
door-step, an impatient voice called, “Juliet! Juliet!”
She ran up the stairs, set her pitcher within
the door, and eagerly returned, apparently in the hope of again seeing the little Aikins; but they
had gone in, and no one was at the door but Uncle
Phil and the baby. “So, your name is Juliet, is
it?” he asked, eagerly seizing on a starting-point
to begin his acquaintance.

“Yes, sir,” replied Juliet, gently taking the hand
the baby had stretched to snatch her ear-ring.

“Juliet what?” pursued Uncle Phil.

“Juliet Smith, sir.”

“Smith?” ejaculated Uncle Phil, disappointed
at hearing a name that afforded no clew.

“Yes, Smith—at least mother's name is Smith.”

“Then yours is, sartin.”

“No, it is not, sir—she is not my real mother.”

“Is not? do tell! what is your real mother's
name?”

“My own mother is dead, sir.”

“Well, what was her name, child?”

“I don't know, sir; take care, baby, don't pull
my ear so.”

“Be done, Phil—poor little captain, he never
sees such notions—our gals don't wear them. But
did you never ask your own mother's name?”

“Yes, sir; and she says she'll tell me all about
her one of these days.”

“Are you sure she is dead?”

“Sure, sir!—I saw her buried up in the ground.”
The tears poured down the child's cheeks.

“I declare,” said Uncle Phil, brushing his hand
across his own eyes, and then drawing Juliet close
to him—“is that person you call mother kind to
you?” he asked.

“Sir!—almost always she is—sometimes she is
dreadful sleepy—and sometimes she—she don't feel
well—and then she gets angry very easy.”

“Was your own mother kind to you?”

“My own mother!—indeed, indeed she was—
always.”

“Poor little child! I feel for you. How long
since she died?”

“I don't know; I know it was winter-time, and
we had not any wood, when Mrs. Smith came into
our room—but it was not last winter—and I don't
know when it was.”

“Was this woman up stairs any kin to you?”

“No, she did not even know mother before that
time—she was angry about something when she
came in; but, when she saw how sick mother was,
and that I was lying close to her to warm her, for
I told you we had not any wood, sir, she seemed
very sorry for mother, and she cried—and mother
sent me out of the room—and she took care of
mother almost all the time till she died—it was not
long, though—for I remember there was a bit of
the loaf of bread she brought lying by mother when
she died. Now I am afraid she is getting sick
just as mother was, for she coughs all night.”

Before Uncle Phil had time for any more interrogatories,
Juliet was again called, and he went

into his daughter's room to enjoy the next best
pleasure to hearing news, viz.—telling it.

“So, you see,” he said, concluding his story,
“it was not strange I felt a kind of yearning towards
that poor child; and since she's turned to
be an orphan-like, neglected little body, I hope,
gals (to Charlotte and Mrs. Aikin), you'll take her
by the hand.”

Never were persons more ready to listen to
such counsel. Mrs. Aikin had forbidden all intercourse
with the forlorn little stranger, but the case
now assumed a new aspect; and, when Aikin came
home to dinner, their duty to the child was discussed
in a committee of the whole family; Uncle
Phil, as was his wont, spoke first. His thoughts
were all on the surface, and, as soft substances easily
melt, they naturally ran into words.

“It's my firm opinion,” he said, “that this Miss
Smith is not a great deal better than she should be
—I always suspect your people that ain't sociable
and open-hearted; and what kind of a husband is
that she's got, that comes slinking in, his face
buried in the cape of his cloak? They'll just bring
up that child—and she's a capital child, I tell you
—to destruction. I feel as if you ought to do
something about it.”

“What can we do, Susan?” said Aikin, appealing
to his wife.

“I don't know; but, as father says, I feel as if
it would be a comfort to do something.”

“I have two pairs of nice warm stockings that
would about fit her,” said Aunt Lottie, “and our
children are supplied for the winter.”

“Oh, mother!” said Anne, “mayn't she have

one of my warm frocks?—I can do with one, and
she looks so shivery!”

“And, father,” said William, “if you will only
give her the rest, I will give her my four shillings
towards a pair of good shoes. I saw her coming
in the other day, with her feet so wet and cold
that she could not help crying.”

“Mother,” said little Ruth, “can't you and
Aunt Lottie contrive her such a petticoat as you
made for me, of old pieces, with cotton quilted
between them? you may take my patchwork for
the lining.”

“My friends,” said Mr. Barlow, who sat listening
with extreme interest to these promptings of
the heart, “may I put in my mite? Cannot the
little girl come into our evening class? She may
gain something from my instructions, and she cannot
fail to profit by intercourse with your children.”

The Aikins most cheerfully acquiesced in this
suggestion. “The warm garments,” Susan said,
“would only be a present comfort, but a good done
to her mind would be lasting; and she feared no
evil to arise to her children while their intercourse
with the little stranger was under her own eye.”

Blessed are those families who call within their
fold some of the wandering lambs of the flock!
One more point was to be gained. The insuperable
obstacle to conferring a benefit often arises
from the party to be benefited. Mrs. Aikin was
desirous to see Juliet's present protector. Some
curiosity, we do not deny, she felt to see, face to
face, the person whose gait and voice had struck
her father and herself as familiar; but she was
mainly anxious to ascertain the child's condition

and prospects. She therefore intercepted Juliet
in the entry, and asked her to tell her mother she
wished to speak with her. Juliet returned immediately,
saying, “Her mother was too busy.”

“Come down, then, Juliet, and let me know as
soon as she is at leisure.” Juliet smiled, bowed
her head assentingly, and was seen no more that
day. The next, a similar effort was baffled by a
like evasion. On the third, Mrs. Aikin went herself
to the door, knocked, and, after some bustle,
Juliet opened a crack, just enough to show her
face, which was died with blushes, as she said,
“Mother says she don't wish at any time to see
strangers.”

“Then let the door remain ajar, Juliet, while I
speak to her.” She concisely communicated her
plan, and requested that Juliet might regularly attend
with the class. When she had finished,
“Oh, please—please, ma'am,” said Juliet, “wait
one minute!”

Again the door was shut, and there were earnest
whisperings within; the latch was then lifted, and
Juliet most joyfully cried—“I may come, I may
come!”

There is one thing more delightful than to make
a child happy—the expectation that the happiness
will lead to permanent good.