University of Virginia Library

18. XVIII.
LITTLE SUNBEAM IN THE CITY.

Dick had secured a very comfortable house for his
mother and sisters, and, for two or three weeks, had
spent all his leisure in arranging it, of course assisted
by the indefatigable Simon. There was a pleasant
little sitting-room, which was to be Emmie's own.
Not that it was designed for the sole use of the little
lady, but Mr. Goldthwaite had insisted on furnishing
it himself, in accordance with his own notions of her
taste. In this undertaking he had met with excellent
success. The room was really charming. The walls
were hung with light, delicate paper, and two or three
paintings were scattered around, bright, sunny landscapes,
with cattle wading knee-deep in limpid
streams, or lying under the trees, in the long grass of
the meadow. In one corner stood a small but sweet
toned piano; in another, a well filled bookcase. There
was a cushioned easy chair for Mabel at one window,
a stand of green-house plants at another, and at the
pleasantest one of all was a little low rocking-chair, a

working-table, and writing-desk, which were evidently
Emmie's own. There was a nook for Mrs. Hereford,
the very picture of comfort, a cosy sofa, and a dozen
graceful, womanly trifles, which no one would have
suspected Simon of having taste enough to select.

They had written to Mrs. Clifford a grateful letter,
returning her house and grounds, and declining
for the future her proffered annuity. It had been
kindly answered, but no allusion had been made to
Warren. Dick had vainly endeavored to persuade
Mr. Goldthwaite to become a member of their family,
but he persisted in remaining in his bachelor quarters,
though he promised to be a frequent visitor.
They were expected on the morning of the middle of
May. They were to come down the Hudson in the
night-boat, so as to have a whole day in which to get
quietly settled in their new home. Dick had secured
leave of absence for the day, and Simon had promised
to make his appearance in the evening.

He had arrayed himself for the occasion in an
entire new suit. It presented, however, the usual appearance
at the wrists and ankles, of having been made
for some one a few inches shorter than himself. He
had inflicted such unparalleled tortures on his obstinate
tresses, that they were, if possible, in a still sterner
state of antagonism than usual. He had never been
known before to manifest such unheard of anxiety
about his personal appearance. He had actually

done his best; though, if the truth must be told, after
all his exertions, he didn't “handsome much.” He
was confident he should know Emmie at the first
glance, and he had thought of several very fine sounding
sentences with which to address her. At precisely
eight o'clock he rung the bell, and Dick himself came
to the door in high spirits. Poor Simon! Never had
he felt more inclined to beat a retreat, and yet he
would not have failed to see Emmie Hereford's sunny
face for a year's salary. In his confusion he quite
forgot to leave his hat in the hall, and hastily put it
down on the sofa, near the door of Emmie's own
room, whither he was ushered. “This is Sunbeam,”
said Dick's cheerful voice. Never was poor bachelor
more bewildered. Sure enough, there she was, right
before him, her brown hair neatly braided, her blue
dress fitting trimly to her light little figure, he brown
eyes overflowing with merriment, and her lips with
smiles. There she was, but what to say to her was
the question; he had forgotten every one of his
speeches. Her plump little hand was extended.
Was it possible that he was permitted to clasp those
white fingers in his own? He could have gone down
on his knees on the spot, from excess of gratitude.
Mrs. Hereford came to his relief with her kind, motherly
welcome, and her cordial gratitude for all his
kindness to her dear boy; and then another tiny hand
was extended, and a voice, musical as those one hears
in dreams, said, gently, “Brother Dick's friend won't
forget Mabel?”

He retreated to the sofa, as soon as the first civilities
were over; but he was somewhat puzzled at Emmie's
very evident attempt to restrain the mirth,
which, in spite of herself, would dimple the corners
of her pretty mouth. “Excuse me, Mr. Goldthwaite,”
she said, quietly, “you are sitting on something.”

“The kitten!” he exclaimed, springing from his
seat in an agony of terror, but it was simply his own
hat, which he had demolished.

“That new beaver!” observed Dick, with a most
lugubrious expression. The poor hat had evidently
come to its end, annihilated “at one fell swoop;”
but the hearty laugh which followed was worth ten
hats, and somehow, in spite of the awkwardness of the
incident, poor Simon felt infinitely more at home.
He spent a delightful evening, and departed with the
promise of seeing them at least once a week.

As the days passed on, Dick declared that he had
never known what home was before. Emmie was
housekeeper, and she carried sunshine with her
wherever she went. She could have “made home and
hold out of four bare walls.” No wonder that Simon
Goldthwaite sighed, as he watched those graceful
household ways, and listened to the love tones that
made every word she spoke sound like a caress.

She came to the store very often in the warm,

pleasant days, it was such a nice walk for Mabel.
Crossing the ferry was a perpetual delight to the
blind girl. She would push back her bonnet for the
sea-breeze to fan her brow, and sit and dream that
she saw great ships in the distance, with all their crews
of bold mariners. The two fair English girls were
objects of great interest to all the clerks; and there
was one, Stephen Montford, who managed never to be
too busy to constitute himself Emmie's messenger to
the little room where her brother sat with his books,
and found a rich reward in her timid smile and word
of quiet thanks.

About this time there was a new comer to the store,
a young man named Harry Cunningham, who had
been recommended to the firm as a superior salesman.
There was something in his pleasant smile, and his
frank, open face, that attracted Dick at once, and a
few days sufficed to make them friends. He had been
there about two weeks, when one evening Dick came
home earlier than usual. “Mr. Goldthwaite is coming
over,” he said, cheerfully. “He will have to take my
place to-night, for I've promised to go over to Cunningham's.
He wants me to give him lessons in penmanship;
he writes a wretched hand now, and he is
trying to improve it, so he can get copying from the
lawyers to do out of hours. He has a sister, and they
two keep house over in Williamsburgh. Their mother
died when they were mere children, and they lost their

father a few months since. He had lived beyond his
income, and left them poor; but up to that time the
sister had been accustomed to every luxury, and it
cuts Harry to the heart to see her suffer privations
now. I hope he will get on with the copying, for his
salary is only five hundred a year.”

The humble lodgings where the brother and sister
lived together, had an air of taste and refinement, in
spite of their simplicity. You could see every where
the graceful feminine touches, from the fall of the
curtains to the moss vases they had preserved as
relics of their country home. And Kate Cunningham
shone upon her brother's friend as a revelation. She
was such a type of the sweet woman nature as he had
never before met. Not purer or truer than his
sisters, for that would have been impossible; but very
different. One of those women, such as we read of
in stories and legends, whom you might expect to do
and dare all for the beloved one. She could not have
been more than seventeen, but her figure was very full
in its outline, and displayed to excellent advantage by
the closely fitting mourning dress of black bombazine.
She was a brunette. Her dark and glossy tresses fell
in natural curls almost to her waist. Her features
were any thing but regular, yet her face was singularly
expressive, with the broad, low brow, the intelligent
hazel eyes full of fire and passion, and the crimson
cheeks. Dick's female acquaintances had never extended

very far beyond his own roof-tree, and the
young and lovely girl thrilled his heart, as when
one sees for the first time a beautiful picture. But it
was a nobler face than painter ever limned. You
could read there quick scorn for wrong, strong love,
and woman's holiest heritage of unsoiled purity.
Young Cunningham's voice had an intonation of pride
when he said—“My sister Kate,” which Dick thought
extremely pardonable.

The lesson in penmanship was very successful; the
scholar was quick, and the teacher both patient and
persevering, with those dark hazel eyes furtively
watching him from the sewing-chair over opposite.

Indeed he must have taken a very praiseworthy
interest in his friend's progress, for he became a frequent
visitor. Miss Cunningham was soon desirous
of sharing in the benefit of his instructions. Dick
thought, in his secret heart, nothing else could possibly
be so charming as that light, graceful chirography,
looking as if the little hand had skimmed the paper
as daintily as the wing of a humming-bird. But he
wouldn't have expressed this opinion for the world.
It was such a pleasure to teach her. It gave him
such excellent opportunities to prison the little fingers
in his own, now and then, and look across the copy
book into the hazel eyes. There was a kind of proud,
defiant grace about her, an evident superiority to her
circumstances, which was one of her chiefest charms.

Had she been a princess of the realm, she could not
have kept herself more charily.

He had urged the point for weeks, before he succeeded
in persuading her to accompany her brother,
and spend an evening with his mother and sisters.
But when once she came among them, she appeared
very happy. She seemed to love Mrs. Hereford from
the first glance, and the kind-hearted Englishwoman
could not fail to be charmed with her frank innocence.
They were a picture for a painter—Dick's mother
sitting in her high-backed chair, her silver-gray hair
put smoothly back under her widow's cap, and her
muslin kerchief folded, with quaker-like precision, over
her black silk dress, and the young girl sitting on a
low stool at her feet, with the lamplight falling on her
flushed cheeks, her waving curls, and her sparkling
eyes. It was a pretty sight too, at least Simon Goldthwaite
seemed to think so, to see the little Emmie
flitting here and there, busied in her gentle, housewifely
cares, for her guests' comfort. “You will
come very often,” said Mrs. Hereford, kindly, as they
parted. “You have no mother, and I shall call you
one of my children.” A quick flush crimsoned Kate
Cunningham's neck and brow, and then her dark eyes
filled with tears. She bent reverently over the hand
that clasped her own and pressed it to her lips. “You
could not make a motherless girl so happy,” she said,
in a low whisper.

That night, after his mother and Mabel had retired,
Dick stood before the mantle for a few moments in
silence, with his arm thrown around Emmie's waist.
“Well, Sunbeam,” he said, after a time, drawing her
closer to him, “what do you think of Harry Cunningham's
sister?”

“Oh, she is charming, lovely. I wish she was
mine.”

He lifted her little round face in both his hands,
and as he bent forward to give her a good-night kiss,
whispered, earnestly—“So do I!”