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This was altogether a new experience to Willie, and one of the
most trying he could have been called upon to bear. But he bore it,
and bore it bravely; kept all his worst struggles from his anxious
mother and desponding grandfather, and resolved manfully to hope
against hope. Gerty was now his chief comforter. He told her
all his troubles, and, young as she was, she was a wonderful consoler.
Always looking on the bright side, always prophesying
better luck to-morrow, she did much towards keeping up his hopes,
and strengthening his resolutions. Gerty was so quick, sagacious
and observing, that she knew more than most children of the
various ways in which things are often brought about; and she
sometimes made valuable suggestions to Willie, of which he gladly
availed himself. Among others, she one day asked him if he had
applied at the intelligence-offices. He had never thought of it,—
wondered he had not, but would try the plan the very next
day. He did so, and for a time was buoyed up with the hopes
held out to him; but they proved fleeting, and he was now
almost in despair, when his eye fell upon an advertisement in a
newspaper, which seemed to afford still another chance. He
showed the notice to Gerty. It was just the thing. He had only
to apply; he was the very boy that man wanted;—just fifteen,
smart, capable and trustworthy; and would like, when he had
learned the business, to go into partnership. That was what was
required; and Willie was the very person, she was sure.

Gerty was so sanguine, that Willie presented himself the next

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day at the place specified, with a more eager countenance than he
had ever yet worn. The gentleman, a sharp-looking man, with
very keen eyes, talked with him some time; asked a great many
questions, made the boy very uncomfortable by hinting his doubts
about his capability and honesty, and, finally, wound up by declaring
that, under the most favorable circumstances, and with the
very best recommendations, he could not think of engaging with
any young man, unless his friends were willing to take some
interest in the concern, and invest a small amount on his account.

This, of course, made the place out of the question for Willie,
even if he had liked the man; which he did not, for he felt in his
heart that he was a knave, or not many degrees removed from
one.

Until now, he had never thought of despairing; but when he
went home after this last interview, it was with such a heavy
heart, that it seemed to him utterly impossible to meet his mother,
and so he went directly to True's room. It was the night before
Christmas. True had gone out, and Gerty was alone. There
was a bright fire in the stove, and the room was dimly lighted by
the last rays of the winter sunset, and by the glare of the coals,
seen through one of the open doors of the stove.

Gerty was engaged in stirring up an Indian cake for tea,—one
of the few branches of the cooking department in which she had
acquired some little skill. She was just coming from the pantry,
with a scoop full of meal in her hand, when Willie entered at the
opposite door. The manner in which he tossed his cap upon the
settle, and, seating himself at the table, leaned his head upon both
his hands, betrayed at once to Gerty the defeat the poor boy had
met with in this last encounter with ill-fate. It was so unlike
Willie to come in without even speaking,—it was such a strange
thing to see his bright young head bowed down with care, and his
elastic figure looking tired and old,—that Gerty knew at once his
brave heart had given way. She laid down the scoop, and, walking
softly and slowly up to him, touched his arm with her hand, and
looked up anxiously into his face. Her sympathetic touch and look
were more than he could bear. He laid his head on the table, and
in a minute more Gerty heard great heavy sobs, each one of which

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sank deep into her soul. She often cried herself,—it seemed only
natural; but Willie,—the laughing, happy, light-hearted Willie,—
she had never seen him cry; she did n't know he could. She
crept up on the rounds of his chair, and, putting her arm round
his neck, whispered,

“I should n't mind, Willie, if I did n't get the place; I don't
believe it's à good place.”

“I don't believe it is, either,” said Willie, lifting up his head;
“but what shall I do? I can't get any place, and I can't stay
here, doing nothing.”

“We like to have you at home,” said Gerty.

“It's pleasant enough to be at home. I was always glad
enough to come when I lived at Mr. Bray's, and was earning
something, and could feel as if anybody was glad to see me.”

“Everybody is glad to see you now.”

“But not as they were then,” said Willie, rather impatiently.
“Mother always looks as if she expected to hear I'd got something
to do; and grandfather, I believe, never thought I should
be good for much; and now, just as I was beginning to earn
something, and be a help to them, I've lost my chance!”

“But that an't your fault, Willie; you could n't help Mr.
Bray's dying. I should n't think Mr. Cooper would blame you
for not having anything to do now.”

“He don't blame me; but, if you were in my place, you'd feel
just as I do, to see him sit in his arm-chair, evenings, and groan
and look up at me, as much as to say, `it's you I'm groaning
about.' He thinks this is a dreadful world, and that he's never
seen any good luck in it himself; so I suppose he thinks I never
shall.”

“I think you will,” said Gerty. “I think you'll be rich,
some time,—and then won't he be astonished?”

“O, Gerty! you're a nice child, and think I can do anything.
If ever I am rich, I promise to go shares with you; but,” added
he, despondingly, “'t an't so easy. I used to think I could make
money when I grew up; but it's pretty slow business.”

Here he was on the point of leaning down upon the table again,
and giving himself up to melancholy; but Gerty caught hold of

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his hands. “Come,” said she, “Willie. Don't think any more
about it. People have troubles always, but they get over 'em;
perhaps next week you'll be in a better shop than Mr. Bray's,
and we shall be as happy as ever. Do you know,” said she, by
way of changing the subject (a species of tact which children
understand as well as grown people), “it's just two years to-night
since I came here?”

“Is it?” said Willie. “Did Uncle True bring you home with
him the night before Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“Why, that was Santa Claus carrying you to good things,
instead of bringing good things to you, was n't it?”

Gerty did not know anything about Santa Claus, that special
friend of children; and Willie, who had only lately read about
him in some book, undertook to tell her what he knew of the
veteran toy-dealer.

Finding the interest of the subject had engaged his thoughts in
spite of himself, Gerty returned to her cooking, listening attentively,
however, to his story, while she stirred up the corn-cake.
When he had finished, she was just putting her cake in the oven;
and, as she sat on her knee by the stove, swinging the handle of
the oven-door in her hand, her eyes twinkled with such a merry.
look that Willie exclaimed, “What are you thinking of, Gerty,
that makes you look so sly?”

“I was thinking that perhaps Santa Claus would come for you
to-night. If he comes for folks that need something. I expect he'll
come for you, and carry you to some place where you'll have a
chance to grow rich.”

“Very likely,” said Willie, “he'll clap me into his bag, and
trudge off with me as a present to somebody,—some old Crœsus,
that will give me a fortune for the asking. I do hope he will;
for, if I don't get something to do before New Year, I shall give
up in despair.”

True now came in, and interrupted the children's conversation
by the display of a fine turkey, a Christmas present from Mr.
Graham. He had also a book for Gerty, a gift from Emily.

“Is n't that queer?” exclaimed Gerty. “Willie was just

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saying you were my Santa Claus, Uncle True; and I do believe you
are.” As she spoke, she opened the book, and in the frontispiece
was a portrait of that individual. “It looks like him,
Willie! I declare it does!” shouted she; “a fur cap, a pipe,
and just such a pleasant face! O! Uncle True, if you only had
a sack full of toys over your shoulder, instead of your lantern
and that great turkey, you would be a complete Santa Claus.
Have n't you got anything for Willie, Uncle True?”

“Yes, I've got a little something; but I'm afeared he won't
think much on't. It's only a bit of a note.”

“A note for me?” inquired Willie. “Who can it be from?”

“Can't say,” said True, fumbling in his great pockets; “only,
just round the corner, I met a man who stopped me to inquire
where Miss Sullivan lived. I told him she lived jist here, and
I'd show him the house. When he saw I belonged here too, he
give me this little scrap o' paper, and asked me to hand it over,
as it was directed to Master William Sullivan. I s'pose that's
you, an't it?”

He now handed Willie the slip of paper; and the boy, taking
True's lantern in his hand, and holding the note up to the light,
read aloud:

“R. H. Clinton would like to see William Sullivan on Thursday
morning, between ten and eleven o'clock, at No. 13—
Wharf.”

Willie looked up in amazement. “What does it mean?” said
he; “I don't know any such person.”

“I know who he is,” said True; “why, it's he as lives in the
great stone house in—street. He's a rich man, and that's
the number of his store—his counting-room, rather,—on—
Wharf.”

“What! father to those pretty children we used to see in the
window?”

“The very same.”

“What can he want of me?”

“Very like he wants your sarvices,” suggested True.

“Then it's a place!” cried Gerty, “a real good one, and Santa
Claus came and brought it! I said he would! O, Willie, I'm
so glad!”

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Willie did not know whether to be glad or not. It was such a
strange message, coming too from an utter stranger. He could
not but hope, as Gerty and True did, that it might prove the
dawning of some good fortune; but he had reasons, of which they
were not aware, for believing that no offer from this quarter
could be available to him, and therefore made them both promise
to give no hint of the matter to his mother or Mr. Cooper.

On Thursday, which was the next day but one, being the day
after Christmas, Willie presented himself at the appointed time
and place. Mr. Clinton, a gentlemanly man, with a friendly
countenance, received him very kindly, asked him but few questions,
and did not even mention such a thing as a recommendation
from his former employer; but, telling him that he was
in want of a young man to fill the place of junior clerk in his
counting-room, offered him the situation. Willie hesitated; for,
though the offer was most encouraging to his future prospects,
Mr. Clinton made no mention of any salary; and that was a thing
the youth could not dispense with. Seeing that he was undecided,
Mr. Clinton said, “Perhaps you do not like my proposal,
or have already made some other engagement.”

“No, indeed,” answered Willie, quickly. “You are very kind
to feel so much confidence in a stranger as to be willing to receive
me, and your offer is a most unexpected and welcome one; but
I have been in a retail store, where I obtained regular earnings,
which were very important to my mother and grandfather. I
had far rather be in a counting-room, like yours, sir, and I think
I might learn to be of use; but I know there are numbers of boys,
sons of rich men, who would be glad to be employed by you, and
would ask no compensation for their services; so that I could not
expect any salary, at least for some years. I should, indeed, be
well repaid, at the end of that time, by the knowledge I might
gain of mercantile affairs; but unfortunately, sir, I can no more
afford it than I could afford to go to college.”

The gentleman smiled. “How did you know so much of these
matters, my young friend?”

“I have heard, sir, from boys who were at school with me,
and are now clerks in mercantile houses, that they received no

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pay, and I always considered it a perfectly fair arrangement;
but it was the reason why I felt bound to content myself with the
position I held in an apothecary's shop, which, though it was not
suited to my taste, enabled me to support myself, and to relieve
my mother, who is a widow, and my grandfather, who is old and
poor.”

“Your grandfather is—”

“Mr. Cooper, sexton of Mr. Arnold's church.”

“Aha! said Mr. Clinton; “I know him.”

“What you say, William,” added he, after a moment's pause,
“is perfectly true. We are not in the habit of paying any salary
to our young clerks, and are overrun with applications at
that rate; but I have heard good accounts of you, my boy (I
shan't tell you where I had my information, though I see you look
very curious), and, moreover, I like your countenance, and believe
you will serve me faithfully. So, if you will tell me what
you received from Mr. Bray, I will pay you the same next year,
and, after that, increase your salary, if I find you deserve it; and,
if you please, you shall commence with me the first of January.”

Willie thanked Mr. Clinton in the fewest possible words, and
hastened away.

The senior clerk, who, as he leaned over his accounts, listened
to the conversation, thought the boy did not express much gratitude,
considering the unusual generosity of the merchant's offer.
But the merchant himself, who was watching the boy's countenance,
while despondency gave place to surprise, and surprise
again was superseded by hope, joy, and a most sincere thankfulness,
saw there a gratitude too deep to express itself in words,
and remembered the time when he too, the only son of his mother,
and she a widow, had come alone to the city, sought long for
employment, and, finding it at last, had sat down to write and
tell her how he hoped soon to earn enough for himself and her.

The grass had been growing on that parent's grave, far back in
the country, more than twenty years, and the merchant's face
was furrowed with the lines of care; but, as he returned slowly
to his desk, and unconsciously traced, on a blank sheet of paper,
and with a dry pen, the words “Dear mother,” she for the time

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became a living image; he, a boy again; and those invisible words
were the commencement of the very letter that carried her the
news of his good fortune.

No. The boy was not ungrateful, or the merchant would not
thus have been reminded of the time when his own heart had
been so deeply stirred.

And the spirits of those mothers who have wept, prayed, and
thanked God over similar communications from much-loved sons,
may know how to rejoice and sympathize with good little Mrs.
Sullivan, when she heard from Willie the joyful tidings. Mr.
Cooper and Gerty also have their prototypes in many an old
man, whose dim and world-worn eye lights up occasionally with
the hope that, disappointed as he has been himself, he cannot help
cherishing for his grandson; and in many a proud little sister,
who now sees her noble brother appreciated by others, as he has
always been by her. Nor, on such an occasion, is the band of
rejoicing ones complete, without some such hearty friend as True
to come in unexpectedly, tap the boy on the shoulder, and exclaim,
“Ah! Master Willie, they need n't have worried about
you, need they? I've told your grandfather, more than once, that
I was of the 'pinion 't would all come out right, at last.”

The great mystery of the whole matter was Mr. Clinton's ever
having heard of Willie at all. Mrs. Sullivan thought over all
her small circle of acquaintances, and suggested a great many
impossible ways. But as, with much conjecturing, they came no
nearer to the truth, they finally concluded to do as Gerty did,
set it all down to the agency of Santa Claus.

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