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It was growing dark in the city. Out in the open country it
would be light for half an hour or more; but within the close
streets where my story leads me it was already dusk. Upon the
wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking
house, sat a little girl, who was gazing up the street with much
earnestness. The house-door, which was open behind her, was
close to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was so low
that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a
chilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow, which had made
everything look bright and clean in the pleasant open squares,
near which the fine houses of the city were built, had only served
to render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless
than ever; for, mixed with the mud and filth which abound
in those neighborhoods where the poor are crowded together, the
beautiful snow had lost all its purity.

A great many people were passing to and fro, bent on their
various errands of duty or of pleasure; but no one noticed the
little girl, for there was no one in the world who cared for her.
She was seantily clad, in garments of the poorest description.
Her hair was long and very thick; uncombed and unbecoming,
if anything could be said to be unbecoming to a set of features

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which, to a casual observer, had not a single attraction,—being
thin and sharp, while her complexion was sallow, and her whole
appearance unhealthy.

She had, to be sure, fine, dark eyes; but so unnaturally large
did they seem, in contrast to her thin, puny face, that they only
increased the peculiarity of it, without enhancing its beauty. Had
any one felt any interest in her (which nobody did), had she had a
mother (which, alas! she had not), those friendly and partial eyes
would perhaps have found something in her to praise. As it was,
however, the poor little thing was told, a dozen times a day, that
she was the worst-looking child in the world; and, what was more,
the worst-behaved. No one loved her, and she loved no one; no
one treated her kindly; no one tried to make her happy, or cared
whether she were so. She was but eight years old, and all alone
in the world.

There was one thing, and one only, which she found pleasure in.
She loved to watch for the coming of the old man who lit the
street-lamp in front of the house where she lived; to see the bright
torch he carried flicker in the wind; and then, when he ran up his
ladder, lit the lamp so quickly and easily, and made the whole
place seem cheerful, one gleam of joy was shed on a little desolate
heart, to which gladness was a stranger; and, though he had
never seemed to see, and certainly had never spoken to her, she
almost felt, as she watched for the old lamplighter, as if he were
a friend.

“Gerty,” exclaimed a harsh voice within, “have you been for
the milk?”

The child made no answer, but, gliding off the door-step, ran
quickly round the corner of the house, and hid a little out of sight.

“What's become of that child?” said the woman from whom
the voice proceeded, and who now showed herself at the door.

A boy who was passing, and had seen Gerty run,—a boy who
had caught the tone of the whole neighborhood, and looked upon her
as a sort of imp, or spirit of evil,—laughed aloud, pointed to the
corner which concealed her, and, walking off with his head over
his shoulder, to see what would happen next, exclaimed to himself,
as he went, “She'll catch it! Nan Grant 'll fix her!”

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In a moment more, Gerty was dragged from her hiding-place,
and, with one blow for her ugliness and another for her impudence
(for she was making up faces at Nan Grant with all her
might), she was despatched down a neighboring alley with a kettle
for the milk.

She ran fast, for she feared the lamplighter would come and
go in her absence, and was rejoiced, on her return, to catch
sight of him, as she drew near the house, just going up his ladder.
She stationed herself at the foot of it, and was so engaged
in watching the bright flame, that she did not observe when the
man began to descend; and, as she was directly in his way, he hit
against her, as he sprang to the ground, and she fell upon the
pavement. “Hollo, my little one!” exclaimed he, “how's this?”
as he stooped to lift her up.

She was upon her feet in an instant; for she was used to hard
knocks, and did not much mind a few bruises. But the milk!—
it was all spilt.

“Well! now, I declare!” said the man, “that's too bad!—
what'll mammy say?” and, for the first time looking full in
Gerty's face, he here interrupted himself with, “My! what an oddfaced
child!—looks like a witch!” Then, seeing that she looked
apprehensively at the spilt milk, and gave a sudden glance up at
the house, he added, kindly, “She won't be hard on such a mite
of a thing as you are, will she? Cheer up, my ducky! never
mind if she does scold you a little. I'll bring you something, to-morrow,
that I think you'll like, may be; you're such a lonesome
sort of a looking thing. And, mind, if the old woman makes a
row, tell her I did it.—But did n't I hurt you? What was you
doing with my ladder?”

“I was seeing you light the lamp,” said Gerty, “and I an't
hurt a bit; but I wish I had n't spilt the milk.”

At this moment Nan Grant came to the door, saw what had
happened, and commenced pulling the child into the house, amidst
blows, threats, and profane and brutal language. The lamplighter
tried to appease her; but she shut the door in his face. Gerty
was scolded, beaten, deprived of the crust which she usually got
for her supper, and shut up in her dark attic for the night. Poor
little child! Her mother had died in Nan Grant's house, five years

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before; and she had been tolerated there since, not so much because
when Ben Grant went to sea he bade his wife be sure and
keep the child until his return (for he had been gone so long that
no one thought he would ever come back), but because Nan had
reasons of her own for doing so; and, though she considered Gerty
a dead weight upon her hands, she did not care to excite inquiries
by trying to dispose of her elsewhere.

When Gerty first found herself locked up for the night in the
dark garret (Gerty hated and feared the dark), she stood for a
minute perfectly still; then suddenly began to stamp and scream,
tried to beat open the door, and shouted, “I hate you, Nan Grant!
Old Nan Grant, I hate you!” But nobody came near her; and,
after a while, she grew more quiet, went and threw herself down
on her miserable bed, covered her face with her little thin hands,
and sobbed and cried as if her heart would break. She wept until
she was utterly exhausted; and then gradually, with only now and
then a low sob and catching of the breath, she grew quite still.
By and by she took away her hands from her face, clasped them
together in a convulsive manner, and looked up at a little glazed
window by the side of the bed. It was but three panes of glass
unevenly stuck together, and was the only chance of light the room
had. There was no moon; but, as Gerty looked up, she saw
through the window shining down upon her one bright star. She
thought she had never seen anything half so beautiful. She had
often been out of doors when the sky was full of stars, and had
not noticed them much; but this one, all alone, so large, so bright,
and yet so soft and pleasant-looking, seemed to speak to her;
it seemed to say, “Gerty! Gerty! poor little Gerty!” She
thought it seemed like a kind face, such as she had a long time
ago seen or dreamt about. Suddenly it flashed through her mind,
“Who lit it? Somebody lit it! Some good person, I know!
O! how could he get up so high!” And Gerty fell asleep, wondering
who lit the star.

Poor little, untaught, benighted soul! Who shall enlightenthee?
Thou art God's child, little one! Christ died for thee.
Will he not send man or angel to light up the darkness within, to
kindle a light that shall never go out, the light that shall shine
through all eternity!

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