Bertha's Christmas Vision: 20 Holiday Stories. Alger Horatio Jr.
girl, as it were, under his protection, though but for a limited time. He was somewhat bewildered, so unexpectedly had the event happened, and could scarcely, even now, realize that it was so.
But the warning sound of a neighboring church-clock, as it proclaimed midnight, interrupted the train of his reflections, and he prepared for bed; not neglecting, so strongly was the feeling of suspicion implanted in him, to secure the door by means of a bolt. When he awoke, the sun was shining through the window of his room. He had hardly dressed himself, when a faint knock was heard at the door of his room. Opening it a little ways, he saw Floy standing before him.
“What! you here now?” he inquired.
“Yes. Where should I go? Besides, I did not want to unlock the front door without your permission.”
“That is quite right,” said Martin. “Some one, who was ill-disposed, might have entered and stolen—that is, if he could have found any thing worth taking.”
“And now, sir, if you please, I’ll make your bed,” said the child, entering the room. “I’ve made the one I slept in.”
Martin looked on without a word; while Floy, taking his silence for assent, proceeded to roll back the clothes, shake the bed vigorously, and then spread them over again. Espying a broom at one corner of the room, she took it, and swept up the hearth neatly. She then glanced towards the miser, who had been watching her motions, as if to ascertain whether they met with his approval.
“So you can work?” said he, after a pause.
“Oh, yes! mother used to teach me. I wish,” said she, after a while, brightening up, as if struck with a new idea—“I wish you would let me stay here: I would make your bed, take care of your room, and keep every thing nice. Besides, I could get your dinners.”
“Stay with me! Impossible. I don’t have much to do: besides, I couldn’t afford it.”
“It won’t cost you any thing,” said Floy, earnestly. “I know how to sew; and, when I am not doing something for you, I can sew for money, and give it to you.”
This idea seemed to produce some impression upon the old miser’s mind.
“But how do I know,” said he, a portion of his old suspicions returning—“how do I know but you will steal off some day, and carry something with you?”
“I never steal,” said Floy, half indignantly. “Besides, I have no place to go to, if I should leave here.”
This was true; and Martin, considering that it would be against her interest to injure him in any such way—an argument which weighed more heavily than any protestations on her part would have done—at length said—
“Well, you may stay—at least, a while. I suppose you are hungry. There’s a loaf of bread in the closet. You may eat some of it; but don’t eat too much. It’s—it’s hurtful to the health to eat too much.”
“When will you be home to get some dinner?” asked the child.
“About noon. Perhaps I will bring some sewing for you to do.”
“Oh, I hope you will! It will seem so nice not to be obliged to be walking about the streets, but to be seated in a pleasant room, sewing!”
When Martin came home at noon, instead of finding the room cheerless and cold, as had been his wont, the fire was burning brightly, diffusing a pleasant warmth about the apartment. Floy had set the table in the centre of the room—with some difficulty it must be confessed; for it was rickety, and would not stand even, owing to one of the legs being shorter than the rest. This, however, she had remedied by placing a chip under the deficient member. There was no cloth on; for this was an article which Martin did not number among his possessions. Floy had substituted two towels, which, united, covered perhaps half the table.
A portion of the loaf—for there was but one—she had toasted by the fire, and this had been placed on a separate plate from the other. On the whole, therefore, though it was far from being a sumptuous repast, every thing looked clean and neat; and this alone adds increased zest to the appetite. At least, Martin felt more of an appetite than usual; and, between them, the two despatched all that had been provided.
“Is there any more bread in the closet?” asked Martin.
“No,” said Floy: “it is all gone.”
“Then I must bring some home when I return to supper.”
“I have been thinking,” said Floy, hesitatingly, “that, if you would trust me to do it, and would bring home the materials, I would make some bread; and that would be cheaper than buying it; and, besides, it would give me something to do.”
“What!” asked Martin, as he looked, with an air of surprise, at the diminutive form of little Floy, “do you know how to make bread? How came a child like you to learn?”
“Mother used to be sick a good deal,” said Floy, “and was confined to her bed, so that she could do nothing herself. She used to direct me what to do; so that, after a while, I came to know how to cook as well as she.”
“Well, what shall I have to bring home?” asked the miser, whom the hint of its being cheaper had enlisted in favor of the plan.
“Let me see,” said Floy, as she sat down and began to reflect: “there’s flour and saleratus and salt. But we’ve got the salt; so you need only get the first two.”
“Very well; I will attend to it. Oh! I forgot to ask what sewing you knew how to do. Can you make shirts?”
“Yes; I have made a good many.”
“Then I will bring you home some to-night, if I can get any.”
When she had cleared away the dinner-dishes, washed them, and put them in the closet—an operation which the simplicity of the meal rendered but a short one—Floy began to look round her, to see what else she could do. A desire seized her to explore the old house, of which so many rooms had for years remained deserted. They were bare and desolate, inhabited only by spiders and crickets, who occupied them rent free. It might have been years, perhaps, since they had echoed to the steps of a human foot. They looked dark and gloomy enough to have been witness to many a dark deed of midnight assassination. But it was all fancy, doubtless; and in little Floy they produced no other feeling than that of chilliness. She rummaged all the closets with a feeling of curiosity, but found nothing in any one of them to reward her search until she came to the last. There was a large roll of something on the floor, which, on examination, proved to be a small carpet, quite dirty, and somewhat moth-eaten. It had probably been left there inadvertently, and remained undiscovered until the present moment. Floy spread it out, and examined it critically. An idea struck her, which she hastened to put into execution. Threading her way back to the miser’s room, she procured a stout stick which stood in the corner, and, going back, gave the carpet a sound drubbing, which nearly stifled her with dust. Nevertheless, she persevered, and soon got it into quite a respectable state of cleanness. She then managed, by a considerable effort, to lug it to Martin’s room, and, in an hour or so, had spread it out, and finally fastened it by means of some tacks which she found in one corner of the closet. The effect was certainly wonderful. The carpet actually gave the room a very cosy and comfortable appearance; and little Floy took considerable credit to herself for the metamorphosis.
“What will he say?” thought she. “I wonder whether he will be pleased.”
It was but a few minutes after this change had been effected that Martin came in. It was about three o’clock—sooner than Floy expected him; but he had thought she might require the materials early, in order to make preparations for the evening meal.
As he opened the door, he started back in surprise at the changed appearance of the room. It occurred to him, for a moment, that he had strayed into the wrong place; but the sight of Floy, sitting at the window, re-assured him, and he went in.
“What is all this?” he inquired in a bewildered tone.
Floy enjoyed