The Lamplighter. Maria S. Cummins
his own child; and he sat by her side on the wide settle, which, in warm weather, was moved outside the door, and listened patiently and attentively while she read various pleasing stories. The old man's interest in the story-books was as keen as if he had been a child himself.
Emily, who gave these books, knew their influence on the hearts of children, and most judiciously did she select them. Gerty's life was now as happy as it had been wretched and miserable. All the days in the week were joyous; but Saturday and Sunday were marked days; for Saturday brought Willie home to hear her recite her lessons, walk, laugh, and play with her. He had so many pleasant things to tell, was so full of life, so ready to enter into all her plans, and promote her amusement, that on Monday morning she began to count the days until Saturday would come again.
Sunday afternoon Gerty always spent with Emily, listening to her sweet voice, and imbibing a portion of her sweet spirit. Emily preached no sermons, nor did she weary the child with precepts. It did not occur to Gerty that she went there to be taught anything; but gradually the blind girl imparted light to the child's dark soul, and the lessons that are divine were implanted in her so naturally, that she realized not the work that was going on, but long after—when goodness had grown strong within her, and her first feeble resistance of evil, her first attempts to keep her childish resolves, had matured into deeply-rooted principles—she felt, as she looked back, that on those blessed Sabbaths, sitting at Emily's knee, she had received into her heart the first beams of that immortal light that never could be quenched.
It was a grievous trial to Gerty to learn that the Graham's were about to go into the country for the summer. Mr. Graham had a pleasant residence about six miles from Boston, to which he resorted as soon as the planting season commenced; for though devoted to business during the winter, he had of late years allowed himself much relaxation during the summer; and ledgers and day-books were to be supplanted by the delights of gardening. Emily promised Gerty that she should pass a day with her when the weather was fine; a visit which Gerty enjoyed three months in anticipation, and more than three in retrospection.
It was some compensation for Emily's absence that, as the days got long, Willie was often able to leave the shop and come home for an hour or two in the evening; and Willie's visits always tended to comfort Gerty.
CHAPTER XI.
PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE.
It was one pleasant evening in April that Gerty, who had been to see Miss Graham and bid her good-bye, before her departure for the country, stood at the back part of the yard, weeping bitterly. She held in her hand a book and a new slate, Emily's parting gifts; but she had not removed the wrapper from the one, and the other was bedewed with tears. She was so full of grief that she did not hear any one approach, until a hand was placed upon each of her shoulders; and, as she turned round, she found herself encircled by Willie's arms, and face to face with Willie's sunny countenance. "Why, Gerty!" said he, "this is no welcome, when I've come home on a week-night to stay with you all the evening. Mother and grandfather are gone out, and when I come to look for you, you're crying so I can't see your face for tears. Come, come! do leave off; you don't know how you look!"
"Willie!", sobbed she, "do you know Miss Emily's gone?"
"Gone where?"
"Way off, six miles, to stay all summer!"
But Willie only laughed. "Six miles!" said he; "that's a terrible way, certainly!"
"But I can't see her any more!" said Gerty.
"You can see her next winter," rejoined Willie.
"Oh, but that's so long!" said the child.
"What makes you think so much of her?"
"She thinks much of me; she can't see me, and she likes me better than anybody, but Uncle True."
"I don't believe it; I don't believe she likes you half as well as I do. I know she don't! How can she, when she's blind, and never saw you in her life, and I see you all the time, and love you better than I do anybody in the world, except my mother."
"Do you really, Willie?"
"Yes, I do. I always think, when I come home—Now I'm going to see Gerty; and everything that happens all the week, I think to myself—I shall tell Gerty that."
"I shouldn't think you'd like me so well."
"Why not?"
"Oh, because you're so handsome, and I an't handsome a bit. I heard Ellen Chase tell Lucretia Davis, the other day, that she thought Gerty Flint was the worst-looking girl in the school."
"Then she ought to be ashamed of herself," said Willie, "I guess she an't very good-looking. I should hate the looks of her or any other girl that said that."
"Oh, Willie!" exclaimed Gerty, "it's true."
"No, it an't true," said Willie. "To be sure, you haven't got long curls, and a round face, and blue eyes, like Belle Clinton's, and nobody'd think of setting you up for a beauty; but when you've been running, and have rosy cheeks, and your great black eyes shine, and you laugh so heartily, I often think you're the brightest-looking girl I ever saw in my life: and I don't care what other folks think, as long as I like your looks. I feel just as bad when you cry, or anything's the matter with you, as if it were myself, and worse."
Such professions of affection by Willie were frequent, and always responded to by a like declaration from Gerty. Nor were they mere professions. The two children loved each other dearly. That they loved each other there could be no doubt; and if in the spring the bond between them was already strong, autumn found it cemented by still firmer ties; for, during Emily's absence, Willie filled her place, and his own too; and though Gerty did not forget her blind friend, she passed a most happy summer, and made such progress in her studies at school that, when Emily returned in October, she could hardly understand how so much had been accomplished in so short a time.
Miss Graham's kindly feeling towards her little protégé had increased by time and absence, and Gerty's visits to Emily became more frequent than ever. The profit derived from these visits was not all on Gerty's part. Emily had, during the previous winter, heard her read occasionally, that she might judge of her proficiency; now she had discovered that the little girl had attained to a much greater degree of excellence. She read understandingly, and her accent and intonations were so admirable that Emily found rare pleasure in listening to her.
For the child's benefit, and for her own gratification, she proposed that Gerty should come every day and read to her for an hour. Gerty was only too happy to oblige her dear Miss Emily, who, in making the proposal, represented it as a personal favour to herself, and a plan by which Gerty's eyes could serve for them both. It was agreed that when True started on his lamplighting expeditions he should take Gerty to Mr. Graham's, and call for her on his return. Thus Gerty was punctual in her attendance at the appointed time; and none but those who have tried it are aware what a large amount of reading may be effected in six months, if an hour is devoted to it each day. Emily, in her choice of books, did not confine herself to such as came strictly within a child's comprehension. She judged that a girl of such keen intelligence as Gerty was naturally endowed with would be benefited by what was beyond her comprehension; but that, in the effort she would be called upon to make, would enlarge her capacity, and be an incentive to her genius. So history, biography, and books of travels were perused by Gerty at an age when most children's literary pursuits are confined to stories and pictures. The child gave the preference to this comparatively solid reading; and, aided by Emily's explanations, she stored up in her mind much useful information.
From the time Gerty was first admitted until she was twelve years old, she attended the public schools, and was rapidly