The Lamplighter. Maria S. Cummins
head upon her shoulder, and with her handkerchief wiped the tears from her face. Her soothing words and caresses soon quieted the child, and when she was calm, Emily, instead of recurring at once to the cause of her grief, questioned her upon other topics. At last, however, she asked her if she went to school.
"I have been," said Gerty, raising her head from Emily's shoulder; "but I won't ever go again!"
"What!—Why not!"
"Because," said Gerty, angrily, "I hate those girls; yes, I hate 'em! ugly things!"
"Gerty," said Emily, "don't say that; you shouldn't hate anybody."
"Why shouldn't I?" said Gerty.
"Because it's wrong."
"No, it's not wrong; I say it isn't!" said Gerty; "and I do hate 'em; and I hate Nan Grant, and I always shall! Don't you hate anybody?"
"No," answered Emily, "I don't."
"Did anybody ever drown your kitten? Did anybody ever call your father Old Smutty?" said Gerty. "If they had, I know you'd hate 'em just as I do."
"Gerty," said Emily, solemnly, "didn't you tell me, the other day, that you were a naughty child, but that you wished to be good, and would try!"
"Yes," said Gerty.
"If you wish to become good and be forgiven, you must forgive others." Gerty said nothing.
"Do you not wish God to forgive and love you?"
"God, who lives in heaven—who made the stars?" said Gerty.
"Yes."
"Will he love me, and let me some time go to heaven?"
"Yes, if you try to be good and love everybody."
"Miss Emily," said Gerty, after a moment's pause, "I can't do it, so I s'pose I can't go."
Just at this moment a tear fell upon Gerty's forehead. She looked thoughtfully up into Emily's face, then said—
"Dear Miss Emily, are you going there?"
"I am trying."
"I should like to go with you," said Gerty.
Still Emily did not speak. She left the child to the working of her own thoughts.
"Miss Emily," said Gerty, at last, in the lowest whisper, "I mean to try, but I don't think I can."
"God bless you, and help you, my child!" said Emily, laying her hand upon Gerty's head.
For fifteen minutes or more not a word was spoken by either. Gerty lay perfectly still in Emily's lap. By-and-by the latter perceived, by the child's breathing, that, worn out with the fever and excitement of all she had gone through, she had dropped into a quiet sleep. When Mrs. Ellis returned, Emily pointed to the sleeping child, and asked her to place her on the bed. She did so, and turning to Emily, exclaimed, "My word, Miss Emily, that's the same rude, bawling little creature that came so near being the death of us!" Emily smiled at the idea of a child eight years old overthrowing a woman of Mrs. Ellis' inches, but said nothing.
Why did Emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene of the morning? Why did she, on bended knees, wrestle so vehemently with a mighty sorrow? Why did she pray so earnestly for new strength and heavenly aid? Why did she so beseechingly ask of God His blessing on the little child? Because she had felt, in many a year of darkness and bereavement, in many an hour of fearful struggle, in many a pang of despair, how a temper like that of Gerty's might, in one moment of its fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime, and write in fearful lines the mournful requiem of early joy. And so she prayed to heaven for strength to keep her firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying purpose, to cure that child of her dark infirmity.
CHAPTER X.
AN EARTHLY MESSENGER OF PEACE.
The next Sabbath afternoon found Gerty seated on a stool in Emily's room. Her large eyes were fixed on Emily's face, which always seemed to fascinate the little girl; so attentively did she watch her features, the charm of which many an older person than Gerty had felt, but could not describe. It was not beauty; though once her face was illumined by beautiful hazel eyes: nor was it fascination of manner, for Emily's manner and voice were so soft and unassuming that they never took the fancy by storm. It was not compassion for her blindness, though that might well excite sympathy. But it was hard to realise that Emily was blind. It was a fact never forced upon her friend's recollection by any repining or selfish indulgence on the part of the sufferer; and, as there was nothing painful in the appearance of her closed lids, shaded and fringed as they were by her long eyelashes, it was not unusual for persons to converse upon things which could only be evident to the sense of sight, and even direct her attention to one object and another, quite forgetting, for the moment, her sad deprivation: and Emily never sighed, never seemed hurt at their want of consideration, or showed any lack of interest in objects thus shut from her gaze, but quite satisfied with the pictures which she formed in her imagination, would talk pleasantly upon whatever was uppermost in the minds of her companions. Some said that Emily had the sweetest mouth in the world, and they loved to watch its ever varying expression. But true Christians knew the source whence she derived that power by which her face and voice stole into the hearts of young and old, and won their love—they would have said the same as Gerty did, when she sat gazing so earnestly at Emily on the very Sunday afternoon of which we speak, "Miss Emily, I know you've been with God."
Gerty was a strange child; but she had felt Emily's superiority to any being she had ever seen; and she reposed confidence in what she told her, allowed herself to be guided by one whom she felt loved her and sought her good; and, as she sat at her feet, and listened to her gentle voice while she gave her first lesson upon the distinction between right and wrong, Emily, though she could not see the little thoughtful face, knew, by her earnest attention, and by the little hand which had sought hers, and held it tight, that one great point was won.
Gerty had not been to school since the day of her battle with the girls. True's persuasions had failed; she would not go. But Emily understood the child's nature better than True did, and urged upon her more forcible motives than the old man had thought of employing, that she succeeded where he had failed. Gerty considered that her old friend had been insulted, and that was the chief cause of her indignation with her schoolmates; but Emily placed the matter in a different light, and convincing her at last that, if she loved Uncle True, she would show it much better by obeying his wishes than by retaining her foolish anger, she finally obtained Gerty's promise that she would go to school the next morning.
The next morning True, much pleased, went with her, and inquiring for the teacher, stated the case to her in his blunt, honest way, and then left Gerty in her special charge. Miss Browne, who was a young woman of good sense and good feelings, saw the matter in the right light; and taking an opportunity to speak privately to the girls who had excited Gerty's temper by their rudeness, made them so ashamed of their conduct, that they ceased to molest the child.
The winter passed away, and spring days came, when Gerty could sit at the open window, when birds sang in the morning among the trees, and the sun at evening threw bright rays across True's great room, and Gerty could see to read almost until bed-time. She had been to school steadily all winter, and had improved rapidly. She was healthy and well; her clothes were clean and neat, for her wardrobe was well stocked by Emily, and the care of it superintended by Mrs. Sullivan. She was bright and happy too, and tripped round the house so joyously, that True declared his birdie knew not what it was to touch her heel to the ground, but flew about on the tips of her toes.
The old man could not have loved her better