The Lamplighter. Maria S. Cummins
she learned with Miss Graham, and acquired by study with Willie at home, formed nearly as important a part of her education. Willie was very fond of study, and was delighted at Gerty's participation in his favourite pursuit. They were a great advantage to each other, for each found encouragement in the other's sympathy and co-operation. After the first year or two of their acquaintance, Willie was in his fifteenth year, and beginning to look quite manly. But Gerty's eagerness for knowledge had all the more influence upon him; for if the little girl of ten years was patient and willing to labour at her books until after nine o'clock, the youth of fifteen must not rub his eyes and plead weariness. When they had reached these ages, they began to study French together. Willie's former teacher continued to feel a kindly interest in the boy who had long been his best scholar, and who would certainly have borne away from his class the first prizes, had not a higher duty called him to inferior labours previous to the public exhibition. Finding that Willie had much spare time, he advised him to learn the French language, which would prove useful to him—and offered to lend him such books as he would need at the commencement.
Willie availed himself of his teacher's advice and his kind offer, and began to study in good earnest. When he was at home in the evening, he came into True's room, partly for the sake of quiet and partly for the sake of being with Gerty, who was at the time occupied with her books. Gerty had a strong desire to learn French too. Willie wished her to try, but thought she would not persevere. But to his surprise, she discovered a wonderful determination, and a decided talent for language; and as Emily furnished her with books like Willie's, she kept pace with him, oftentimes translating more during the week than he could find time to do. On Saturday evening, when they had always had a fine study-time together, True would sit on his old settle watching Willie and Gerty side by side, at the table, with their eyes bent on the page, which to him seemed a labyrinth. Gerty looked out the words with great skill, her bright eyes diving, as if by magic, into the dictionary, and transfixing the right word at a glance, while Willie's province was to make sense. Almost the only occasion when True disturbed them was when he heard Willie talk about making sense. "Making sense, Willie!" said the old man; "is that what ye're after? Well, you couldn't do a better business. I'll warrant you a market for it; there's want enough on't in the world!"
It was but natural that, with Emily to advise and direct, and Willie to aid and encourage, her intellect should rapidly expand and strengthen. But how is it with that little heart of hers, that, at once warm and affectionate, impulsive, sensitive, and passionate, now throbs with love and gratitude, and now again burns as vehemently with the consuming fire that a sense of wrong, a consciousness of injury to herself or her friends, would at any moment enkindle? Has she, in two years of happy childhood, learned self-control? Has she also attained to an enlightened sense of the distinction between right and wrong, truth and falsehood? In short, has Emily been true to her self-imposed trust, her high resolve, to soften the heart and instruct the soul of the little ignorant one? Has Gerty learned religion? Has she found out God, and begun to walk patiently in that path which is lit by a holy light and leads to rest?
She has begun; and though her footsteps often falter, though she sometimes turns aside, and, impatient of the narrow way, gives the rein to her old irritability, she is yet but a child, and there is a foundation for hopefulness in the sincerity of her good intentions, and the depth of her contrition when wrong has had the mastery. Emily has taught her where to place her strong reliance, and Gerty looks to higher aid than Emily's, and she leans on a mightier arm.
How much Gerty had improved in the two years that had passed since she first began to be so carefully instructed and provided for, the course of our story must develop. We cannot pause to dwell upon the trials and struggles, the failures and victories, that she experienced. It is sufficient to say that Miss Graham was satisfied and hopeful, True proud and over-joyed, while Mrs. Sullivan, and even old Mr. Cooper, declared she had improved wonderfully in her behaviour and her looks.
CHAPTER XII.
AN ADVENTURE AND A MISFORTUNE.
One Saturday evening in December Willie came in with his French books under his arm, and, after the first salutations, exclaimed, as he put the grammar and dictionary on the table, "Oh, Gerty! before we begin to study, I must tell you and Uncle True the funniest thing that happened to-day; I have been laughing so at home, as I was telling mother about it!"
"I heard you laugh," said Gerty. "If I had not been so busy, I should have come in to hear what it was that was so very droll. But do tell us!"
"Why, you will not think it's anything like a joke when I begin, and I should not be much amused, if she hadn't been the very queerest old woman that ever I saw in my life."
"Old woman!—You haven't told us about one!"
"But I'm going to," said Willie. "You noticed how everything was covered with ice this morning. How splendidly it looked, didn't it? I declare, when the sun shone on that great elm-tree in front of our shop, I thought I never saw anything so handsome in my life. But, there, that's nothing to do with my old woman—only that the side-walks were just like everything else, a perfect glare."
"I want to hear about your old woman," said Gerty.
"I was standing at the shop-door, about eleven o'clock, looking out, when I saw the strangest-looking figure coming down the street. She had on some kind of a black silk or satin gown, made very scant, and trimmed all round with some brownish-looking lace—black it had been once, but it isn't now—then she had a grey cloak, of silk material, that you certainly would have said came out of the Ark, if it hadn't been for a little cape, of a different colour, that she wore outside of it, and which must have been dated a generation further back. Her bonnet! Oh dear! it was twice as big as anybody's else, and she had a figured lace veil thrown over one side, that reached nearly to her feet. But her goggles crowned all; such immense horrid-looking things I never saw. She had a work-bag made of black silk, with pieces of cloth of all the colours in the rainbow sewed on to it, zigzag: then her pocket-handkerchief was pinned to her bag, and a great feather fan—at this season of the year!—that was pinned on somewhere—by a string, I suppose—and a bundle-handkerchief, and a newspaper! Oh, gracious! I can't think of half the things; but they were all pinned together with great brass pins, and hung in a body on her left arm. Her dress, though, wasn't the strangest thing about her. What made it funny was her way of walking: she looked quite old and infirm, and it was evident she could hardly keep her footing on the ice; and yet she walked with such a consequential little air! Oh, Gerty, it's lucky you didn't see her! you'd have laughed from then till this time."
"Some poor, crazy crittur, wasn't she?" asked True.
"Oh, no!" said Willie, "I don't think she was; though queer enough, but not crazy. Just as she got opposite the shop door her feet slipped, and she fell flat on the pavement. I rushed out, for I thought the fall might have killed the poor little thing; and Mr. Bray, and a gentleman whom he was waiting upon, followed me. She did appear stunned at first; but we carried her into the shop and she came to her senses in a minute or two. Crazy you asked if she were, Uncle True! No, not she! She's as bright as you are! As soon as she opened her eyes, and seemed to know what she was about, she felt for her work-bag and all its appendages; counted them up, to see if the number were right, and then nodded her head very satisfactorily. Mr. Bray poured out a glass of cordial and offered it to her. By this time she had got her airs and graces back again; so when he recommended her to swallow the cordial, she retreated with a little old-fashioned curtsey, and put up both her hands to express her horror at the idea of such a thing. The gentleman standing by smiled, and advised her to take it, as it would do her no harm. She turned round, made another curtsey to him, and asked, in a little cracked voice, 'Can you assure me, sir, as a gentleman of candour and gallantry, that it is not an exhilarating potion?' The gentleman could hardly keep from laughing; but he told her it was nothing that would hurt her. 'Then,' said she, 'I will