“I was standing at the shop-door, about eleven o'clock, looking
out, when I saw the strangest-looking figure that you ever imagined,
coming down the street. I must tell you how she was
dressed. She did look so ridiculous! 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, I suppose it had
been once, but it is n't now); then she had a gray cloak, of some
sort of silk material, that you certainly would have said came out
of the ark, if it had n't been for a little cape, of a different color,
that she wore outside of it, and which must have dated a generation
further back. I would not undertake to describe her bonnet;
only I know 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 were the crowner; such immense,
horrid-looking things, I never saw! She had a work-bag, made
of black silk, with pieces of cloth of all the colors in the rainbow
sewed on to it, zigzag; then her pocket-handkerchief was pinned
to her bag, and a great feather fan (only think, at this season of
the year!), that was pinned on somewhere (by a string, I suppose),
and a bundle-handkerchief and a newspaper! O, 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, all
depending on the strength of the bag-string. Her dress, though,
wasn't the strangest thing about her. What made it too funny
was to see 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 smirk, such a consequential little
air! O, Gerty, it's lucky you did n't see her; you'd have
laughed from then till this time.”

“Some poor crazy crittur', was n't she?” asked True.

“O, no!” said Willie, “I don't think she was; queer enough,
to be sure, but not crazy. Just as she got opposite the shop-door
her feet slipped, and, the first thing I knew, she fell flat on
the side-walk. I rushed out, for I thought the fall might have
killed the poor little thing; and Mr. Bray, and a gentleman
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

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in a minute or two. Crazy, you asked if she were, Uncle True!
No, not she! She's as bright as a dollar. 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 to her to swallow the cordial, she retreated,
with a little old-fashioned curtsey, and put up both hands
to express her herror at the idea of such a thing. The gentleman
that was standing by smiled, and advised her to take it,
telling her it would do her no harm. Upon that, she turned
round, made another curtsey to him, and answered, in a little,
cracked voice, `Can you assure me, sir, as a gentleman of candor
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 venture
to sip the beverage; it has a most aromatic fragrance.' She
seemed to like the taste, as well as the smell, for she drank every
drop of it; and, when she had set the glass down on the counter,
she turned to me and said, `Except upon this gentleman's assurance
of the harmlessness of the liquid, I would not have swallowed
it in your presence, my young master, if it were only for the
example. I have set my seal to no temperance-pledge, but I am
abstemious because it becomes a lady;—it is with me a matter
of choice—a matter of taste. She now seemed quite restored,
and talked of starting again on her walk; but it really was not
safe for her to go alone on the ice, and I rather think Mr. Bray
thought so, for he asked her where she was going. She told him,
in her roundabout way, that she was proceeding to pass the day
with Mistress somebody, that lived in the neighborhood of the
Common. I touched Mr. Bray's arm, and said, in a low voice,
that, if he could spare me, I'd go with her. He said he shouldn't
want me for an hour; so I offered her my arm, and told her I
should be happy to wait upon her. You ought to have seen her
then! If I had been a grown-up man, and she a young lady, she
could n't have tossed her head or giggled more. But she took

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my arm, and we started off. I knew Mr. Bray and the gentleman
were laughing to see us, but I did n't care; I pitied the old
lady, and I did not mean she should get another tumble.

“Every person we met stared at us; and it's no wonder they
did, for we must have been a most absurd-looking couple. She
not only accepted my offered crook, but clasped her hands together
round it, making a complete handle of her two arms; and so she
hung on with all her might.—But, there, I ought not to laugh at
the poor thing; for she neede somebody to help her along, and
I'm sure she was n't heavy enough to tire me out, if she did make
the most of herself. I wonder who she belongs to. I should n't
think her friends would let her go about the streets so, especially
such walking as it is to-day.”

“What's her name?” inquired Gerty. “Did n't you find out?”

“No,” answered Willie; “she would n't tell me. I asked her;
but she only said, in her little, cracked voice (and here Willie
began to laugh immoderately), that she was the incognito, and
that it was the part of a true and gallant knight to discover the
name of his fair lady. O, I promise you, she was a case! Why,
you never heard any one talk so ridiculously as she did! I
asked her how old she was.—Mother says that was very impolite,
but it's the only uncivil thing I did, or said, as the old lady
would testify herself, if she were here.”

“How old is she?” said Gerty.

“Sixteen.”

“Why, Willie, what do you mean?”

“That's what she told me,” returned Willie; “and a true and
gallant knight is bound to believe his fair lady.”

“Poor body!” said True; “she's childish!”

“No, she isn't, Uncle True,” said Willie; “you'd think so,
part of the time, to hear her run on with her nonsense; and then,
the next minute, she'd speak as sensibly as anybody, and say
how much obliged she was to me for showing such a spirit of conformity
as to be willing to put myself to so much trouble for the
sake of an old woman like her. Just as we turned into Beaconstreet,
we met a whole school of girls, blooming beauties, handsome
enough to kill, my old lady called them; and, from the

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instant they came in sight, she seemed to take it for granted I
should try to get away from her, and run after some of them. But
she held on with a vengeance! It's lucky I had no idea of forsaking
her, for it would have been impossible. Some of them
stopped and stared at us,—of course, I did n't care how much
they stared; but she seemed to think I should be terribly mortified;
and when we had passed them all, she complimented me again
and again on my spirit of conformity,—her favorite expression.”

Here Willie paused, quite out of breath. True clapped him
upon the shoulder. “Good boy, Willie!” said he; “clever
boy! You always look out for the old folks; and that's right.
Respect for the aged is a good thing; though your grandfather
says it's very much out of fashion.”

“I don't know much about fashion, Uncle True; but I should
think it was a pretty mean sort of a boy that would see an old
lady get one fall on the ice, and not save her from another by
seeing her safe home.”

“Willie's always kind to everybody,” said Gerty.

“Willie's either a hero,” said the boy, “or else he has got
two pretty good friends,—I rather think it's the latter. But,
come, Gerty; Charles the XII. is waiting for us, and we must
study as much as we can to-night. We may not have another
chance very soon; for Mr. Bray is n't well this evening; he
seems threatened with a fever, and I promised to go back to the
shop after dinner to-morrow. If he should be sick, I shall have
plenty to do, without coming home at all.”

“O, I hope Mr. Bray is not going to have a fever,” said True
and Gerty, in the same breath.

“He's such a clever man!” said True.

“He's so good to you, Willie!” added Gerty.

Willie hoped not, too; but his hopes gave place to his fears,
when he found, on the following day, that his kind master was
not able to leave his bed, and the doctor pronounced his symptoms
alarming.

A typhoid fever set in, which in a few days terminated the
life of the excellent apotheeary.

The death of Mr. Bray was so sudden and dreadful a blow to

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Willie, that he did not at first realize the important bearing the
event had upon his own fortunes. The shop was closed, the
widow having determined to dispose of the stock and remove into
the country as soon as possible.

Willie was thus left without employment, and deprived of Mr.
Bray's valuable recommendation and assistance. His earnings
during the past year had been very considerable, and had added
essentially to the comfort of his mother and grandfather, who had
thus been enabled to relax the severity of their own labors. The
thought of being a burden to them, even for a day, was intolerable
to the independent and energetic spirit of the boy; and he earnestly
set himself to work to obtain another place. He commenced by
applying to the different apothecaries in the city. But none of
them wanted a youth of his age, and one day was spent in fruitless
inquiries.

He returned home at night, disappointed, but not by any means
discouraged. If he could not obtain employment with an apothecary,
he would do something else.

But what should he do? That was the question. He had long
talks with his mother about it. She felt that his talents and education
entitled him to fill a position equal, certainly, to that he had
already occupied; and could not endure the thought of his descending
to more menial service. Willie, without too much selfesteem,
thought so too. He knew, indeed, that he was capable
of giving satisfaction in a station which required more business talent
than his situation at Mr. Bray's had ever given scope to. But,
if he could not obtain such a place as he desired, he would take
what he could get. So he made every possible inquiry; but he
had no one to speak a good word for him, and he could not
expect people to feel confidence in a boy concerning whom they
knew nothing.

So he met with no success, and day after day returned home
silent and depressed. He dreaded to meet his mother and grandfather,
after every fresh failure. The care-worn, patient face of
the former turned towards him so hopefully, that he could not bear
to sadden it by the recital of any new disappointment; and his
grandfather's incredulity in the possibility of his ever having

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anything to do again was equally tantalizing, so long as he saw no
hope of convincing him to the contrary. After a week or two,
Mrs. Sullivan avoided asking him any questions concerning the
occurrences of the day; for her watchful eye saw how much such
inquiries pained him, and therefore she waited for him to make
his communications, if he had any.

Sometimes nothing was said, on either side, of the manner in
which Willie had passed his day. And many an application did
he make for employment, many a mortifying rebuff did he receive,
of which his mother never knew.

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