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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
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CHAPTER XV.

Whether the day its wonted course renewed,
Or midnight vigils wrapt the world in shade,
Her tender task assiduous she pursued,
To soothe his anguish, or his wants to aid.
Blacklock.

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“I WONDER,” said Miss Peekout, as she leaned both her hands
on the sill of the front-window, and looked up and down the
street,—a habit in which she indulged herself for about ten
minutes, after she had washed up the breakfast things, and before
she trimmed the solar-lamp,—“I wonder who that slender girl
is that walks by here every morning, with that feeble-looking old
man leaning on her arm! I always see them at just about this
time, when the weather and walking are good. She's a nice
child, I know, and seems to be very fond of the old man,—probably
her grandfather. I notice she's careful to leave the best side
of the walk for him, and she watches every step he takes; she
needs to, indeed, for he totters sadly. Poor little thing! she
looks pale and anxious; I wonder if she takes all the care of the
old man!” But they are quite out of sight, and Miss Peekout
turns round to wonder whether the solar-lamp doesn't need a
new wick.

“I wonder,” said old Mrs. Grumble, as she sat at her window,
a little further down the street, “if I should live to be old and
infirm (Mrs. Grumble was over seventy, but as yet suffered from
no infirmity but that of a very irritable temper),—I wonder if
anybody would wait upon me, and take care of me, as that little
girl does of her grandfather! No, I'll warrant not! Who can
the patient little creature be?”

“There, look Belle!” said one young girl to another, as they

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walked up the shady side of the street, on their way to school;
“there's the girl that we meet every day with the old man.
How can you say you don't think she's pretty? I admire her
looks!”

“You always do manage, Kitty, to admire people that everybody
else thinks are horrid-looking.”

“Horrid-looking!” replied Kitty, in a provoked tone; “she's
anything but horrid-looking! Do notice, now, Belle, when we
meet them, she has the sweetest way of looking up in the old man's
face, and talking to him. I wonder what is the matter with him!
Do see how his arm shakes.—the one that's passed through hers.”

The two couples are now close to each other, and they pass in
silence.

Don't you think she has an interesting face?” said Kitty,
eagerly, as soon as they were out of hearing.

“She's got handsome eyes,” answered Belle. “I don't see
anything else that looks interesting about her. I wonder if she
don't hate to have to walk in the street with that old grandfather;
trudging along so slow, with the sun shining right in her face, and
he leaning on her arm, and shaking so he can hardly stand on
his feet! I wouldn't do it for anything.”

“Why, Belle!” exclaimed Kitty, “how can you talk so? I'm
sure I pity that old man dreadfully.”

“Lor!” said Belle, “what's the use of pitying? If you are
going to begin to pity, you'll have to do it all the time. Look,”—
and here Belle touched her companion's elbow,—“there's Willie
Sullivan, father's clerk; an't he a beauty? I want to stop and
speak to him.”

But, before she could address a word to him, Willie, who was
walking very fast, passed her with a bow, and a pleasant “Good-morning,
Miss Isabel;” and, ere she had recovered from the surprise
and disappointment, was some rods down the street.

“Polite!” muttered the pretty Isabel.

“Why, Belle! do see,” said Kitty, who was looking back-over
her shoulder, “he's overtaken the old man and my interesting
little girl. Look,—look! He's put the old man's other

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arm through his, and they are all three walking off together.
Isn't that quite a coincidence?”

“Nothing very remarkable,” replied Belle, who seemed a little
annoyed. “I suppose they are persons he's acquainted with.
Come, make haste; we shall be late at school.”

Reader! Do you wonder who they are, the girl and the old
man? or, have you already conjectured that they are no other
than Gerty and Trueman Flint? True is no longer the brave,
strong, sturdy protector of the feeble, lonely little child. The
cases are quite reversed. True has had a paralytic stroke. His
strength is gone, his power even to walk alone. He sits all day
in his arm-chair, or on the old settle, when he is not out walking
with Gerty. The blow came suddenly; struck down the robust
man, and left him feeble as a child. And the little stranger, the
orphan girl, who, in her weakness, her loneliness and her poverty,
found in him a father and a mother, she now is all the world to
him; his staff, his stay, his comfort and his hope. During four
or five years that he has cherished the frail blossom, she has
been gaining strength for the time when he should be the leaning,
she the sustaining power; and when the time came,—and it came
full soon,—she was ready to respond to the call. With the simplicity
of a child, but a woman's firmness; with the stature of a
child, but a woman's capacity; the earnestness of a child, but a
woman's perseverance,—from morning till night, the faithful little
nurse and housekeeper labors untiringly in the service of her
first, her best friend. Ever at his side, ever attending to his
wants, and yet most wonderfully accomplishing many things
which he never sees her do, she seems, indeed, to the fond old man,
what he once prophesied she would become,—God's embodied
blessing to his latter years, making light his closing days, and
cheering even the pathway to the grave.

Though disease had robbed True's limbs of all their power,
the blast had happily spared his mind, which was clear and
tranquil as ever; while his pious heart was fixed in humble trust
on that God whose presence and love he had ever acknowledged,
and on whom he so fully relied, that even in this bitter trial
he was able to say, in perfect submission, “Thy will, not mine,

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be done!” Little did those who wondered, as day after day they
watched the invalid and his childish guardian, at the patience
and self-sacrifice of the devoted girl, little did they understand
the emotions of Gerty's loving, grateful heart. Little did they
realize the joy it was to her to sustain and support her beloved
friend. Little did she, who would have been too proud to walk
with the old paralytic, know what Gerty's pride was made of.
She would have wondered, had she been told that the heart of
the girl, whom she would have pitied, could she have spared time
to pity any one, had never swelled with so fervent and noble a
satisfaction as when, with the trembling old man leaning on her
arm, she gloried in the burden.

The outward world was nothing at all to her. She cared not
for the conjectures of the idle, the curious or the vain. She
lived for True now; she might almost be said to live in him, so
wholly were her thoughts bent on promoting his happiness, prolonging
and blessing his days.

It had not long been thus. Only about two months previous
to the morning of which we have been speaking had True been
stricken down with this weighty affliction. He had been in failing
health, but had still been able to attend to all his duties and
labors, until one day in the month of June, when Gerty went
into his room, and found, to her surprise, that he had not risen,
although it was much later than his usual hour. On going to
the bed-side and speaking to him, she perceived that he looked
strangely, and had lost the power of replying to her questions.
Bewildered and frightened, she ran to call Mrs. Sullivan. A
physician was summoned, the case pronounced one of paralysis,
and for a time there seemed reason to fear that it would prove
fatal. He soon, however, began to amend, recovered his speech,
and in a week or two was well enough to walk about, with Gerty's
assistance.

The doctor had recommended as much gentle exercise as possible;
and every pleasant morning, before the day grew warm,
Gerty presented herself bonneted and equipped for those walks,
which, unknown to her, excited so much observation. She usually
took advantage of this opportunity to make such little household

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purchases as were necessary, that she might not be compelled to
go out again and leave True alone; that being a thing she as
much as possible avoided doing.

On the occasion already alluded to, Willie accompanied them
as far as the provision-shop, which was their destination; and,
having seen True comfortably seated, proceeded to—Wharf,
while Gerty stepped up to the counter to bargain for the dinner.
She purchased a bit of veal suitable for broth, gazed wishfully
at some tempting summer vegetables, turned away and sighed.
She held in her hand the wallet which contained all their money;
it had now been in her keeping for some weeks, and was growing
light, so she knew it was no use to think about the vegetables;
and she sighed, because she remembered how much Uncle True
enjoyed the green peas last year.

“How much is the meat?” asked she of the rosy-cheeked
butcher, who was wrapping it up in a paper.

He named the sum. It was very little; so little that it almost
seemed to Gerty as if he had seen into her purse, and her thoughts
too, and knew how glad she would be that it did not cost any
more. As he handed her the change, he leaned over the counter,
and asked, in an under tone, what kind of nourishment Mr. Flint
was able to take.

“The doctor said any wholesome food,” replied Gerty.

“Don't you think he'd relish some green peas? I've got some
first-rate ones, fresh from the country; and, if you think he'd eat'
em, I should like to send you some. My boy shall take round
half a peck or so, and I'll put the meat right in the same
basket.”

“Thank you,” said Gerty; “he likes green peas.”

“Very well, very well! Then I'll send him some beauties;”
and he turned away to wait upon another customer, so quick that
Gerty thought he did not see how the color came into her face
and the tears into her eyes. But he did see, and that was the
reason he turned away so quickly. He was a clever fellow, that
rosy-cheeked butcher!

True had an excellent appetite, enjoyed and praised the dinner
exceedingly, and, after eating heartily of it, fell asleep in his chair.

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The moment he awoke, Gerty sprung to his side, exclaiming,
“Uncle True, here's Miss Emily!—here's dear Miss Emily
come to see you!”

“The Lord bless you, my dear, dear young lady!” said True,
trying to rise from his chair and go towards her.

“Don't rise, Mr. Flint, I beg you will not,” exclaimed Emily,
whose quick ear perceived the motion. “From what Gerty tells
me, I fear you are not able. Please give me a chair, Gerty,
nearer to Mr. Flint.”

She drew near, took True's hand, but looked inexpressibly
shocked as she observed how tremulous it had become.

“Ah, Miss Emily!” said he; “I'm not the same man as when
I saw you last; the Lord has given me a warnin', and I shan't
be here long!”

“I'm so sorry I did not know of this!” said Emily. “I
should have come to see you before, but I never heard of your
illness until to-day. George, my father's man, saw you and Gertrude
at a shop this morning, and mentioned it to me as soon as
he came out of town. I have been telling this little girl that she
should have sent me word.”

Gerty was standing by True's chair, smoothing his gray locks
with her slender fingers. As Emily mentioned her name, he
turned and looked at her. O, what a look of love he gave her!
Gerty never forgot it.

“Miss Emily,” said he, “'t was no need for anybody to be
troubled. The Lord provided for me, his own self. All the doctors
and nurses in the land couldn't have done half as much for
me as this little gal o' mine. It wan't at all in my mind, some
four or five years gone,—when I brought the little barefoot mite
of a thing to my home, and when she was sick and e'en-a-'most
dyin' in this very room, and I carried her in my arms night and
day,—that her turn would come so soon. Ah! I little thought
then, Miss Emily, how the Lord would lay me low,—how those
very same feet would run about in my service, how her bit of a
hand would come in the dark nights to smooth my pillow, and I'd
go about daytimes leaning on her little arm. Truly God's ways
are not like our ways, nor his thoughts like our thoughts.”

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“O, Uncle True!” said Gerty, “I don't do much for you; I
wish I could do a great deal more. I wish I could make you
strong again.”

“I daresay you do, my darlin', but that can't be in this world;
you've given me what's far better than strength o' body. Yes,
Miss Emily,” added he, turning again towards the blind girl, “it's
you we have to thank for all the comfort we enjoy. I loved my
little birdie; but I was a foolish man, and I should ha' spiled her.
You knew better what was for her good, and mine too. You
made her what she is now, one of the lambs of Christ, a handmaiden
of the Lord. If anybody 'd told me, six months ago,
that I should become a poor cripple, and sit in my chair all day,
and not know who was going to furnish a livin' for me or birdie
either, I should ha' said I never could bear my lot with patience,
or keep up any heart at all. But I've learned a lesson from this
little one. When I first got so I could speak, after the shock, and
tell what was in my mind, I was so mightily troubled a' thinkin'
of my sad case, and Gerty with nobody to work or do anything
for her, that I took on bad enough, and said, `What shall we do
now?—what shall we do now?' And then she whispered in my
ear, `God will take care of us, Uncle True!' And when I forgot
the sayin', and asked, `Who will feed and clothe us now?'
she said again, `The Lord will provide.' And, in my deepest
distress of all, when one night I was full of anxious thoughts
about my child, I said aloud, `If I die, who will take care of
Gerty?' the little thing, that I supposed was sound asleep in her
bed, laid her head down beside me and said, `Uncle True, when I
was turned out into the dark street all alone, and had no friends
nor any home, my Heavenly Father sent you to me; and now, if he
wants you to come to him, and is not ready to take me too, he
will send somebody else to take care of me the rest of the time I
stay.' After that, Miss Emily, I gave up worryin' any more.
Her words, and the blessed teachin's of the Holy Book that she
reads me every day, have sunk deep into my heart, and I'm at
peace.

“I used to think that, if I lived and had my strength spared
me, Gerty would be able to go to school and get a sight o' larnin',

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for she has a nateral lurch for it, and it comes easy to her. She's
but a slender child, and I never could bear the thought of her
bein' driv to hard work for a livin'; she don't seem made for it,
somehow. I hoped, when she grew up, to see her a schoolmistress,
like Miss Browne, or somethin' in that line; but I've done bein'
vexed about it now. I know, as she says, it's all for the best, or
it wouldn't be.”

When he finished speaking, Gerty, whose face had been hid
against his shoulder, looked up and said, bravely, “O, Uncle
True, I'm sure I can do almost any kind of work. Mrs. Sullivan
says I sew very well, and I can learn to be a milliner or a
dressmaker; that is n't hard work.”

“Mr. Flint,” said Emily, “would you be willing to trust your
child with me? If you should be taken from her, would you feel
as if she were safe in my charge?”

“Miss Emily,” said True, “would I think her safe in angelkeepin'?
I should believe her in little short o' that, if she could
have you to watch over her.”

“O, do not say that,” said Miss Emily, “or I shall be afraid
to undertake so solemn a trust. I know too well that my want
of sight, my ill-health and my inexperience, almost unfit me for
the care of a child like Gerty. But, since you approve of the
teaching I have already given her, and are so kind as to think a
great deal better of me than I deserve, I know you will at least
believe in the sincerity of my wish to be of use to her; and, if it
will be any comfort to you to know that in case of your death I
will gladly take Gerty to my home, see that she is well educated,
and, as long as I live, provide for and take care of her, you
have my solemn assurance (and here she laid her hand on his),
that it shall be done, and that to the best of my ability I will try
to make her happy.”

Gerty's first impulse was to rush towards Emily, and fling her
arms around her neck; but she was arrested in the act, for she
observed that True was weeping like an infant. In an instant his
feeble head was resting upon her bosom; her hand was wiping
away the great tears that had rushed to his eyes. It was an easy

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task, for they were tears of joy,—of a joy that had quite unnerved
him in his present state of prostration and weakness.

The proposal was so utterly foreign to his thoughts or expectations,
that it seemed to him a hope too bright to be relied upon;
and, after a moment's pause, an idea occurring to him which
seemed to increase his doubts, he gave utterance to it in the
words, “But your father, Miss Emily!—Mr. Graham!—he's
partickler, and not over-young now. I'm afeared he wouldn't
like a little gal in the house.”

“My father is indulgent to me,” replied Emily; “he would
not object to any plan I had at heart, and I have become so much
attached to Gertrude that she would be of great use and comfort
to me. I trust, Mr. Flint, that you will recover a portion at
least of your health and strength, and be spared to her for many
a year yet; but, in order that you may in no case feel any anxiety
on her account, I take this opportunity to tell you that, if I
should outlive you, she will be sure of a home with me.”

“Ah, Miss Emily!” said the old man, “my time's about out,
I feel right sure o' that; and, since you're willin', you'll soon be
called to take charge on her. I haven't forgot how tossed I was
in my mind, the day after I brought her home with me, with
thinkin' that p'raps I wasn't fit to undertake the care of such a
little thing, and hadn't ways to make her comfortable; and then,
Miss Emily, do you remember you said to me, `You've done
quite right; the Lord will bless and reward you'? I've thought
many a time since that you was a true prophet, and that your
words were, what I thought 'em then, a whisper right from
heaven! And now you talk o' doin' the same thing yourself;
and I, that am just goin' home to God, and feel as if I read his
ways clearer than ever afore, I tell you, Miss Emily, that you're
doin' right, too; and, if the Lord rewards you as he has done
me, there'll come a time when this child will pay you back in
love and care all you ever do for her.—Gerty?”

“She's not here,” said Emily; “I heard her run into her own
room.”

“Poor birdie!” said True, “she doesn't like to hear o' my
leavin' her; I'm sad to think how some day soon she'll almost

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sob her heart away over her old uncle. Never mind now! I was
goin' to bid her be a good child to you; but I think she will,
without biddin'; and I can say my say to her another time. Good-by,
my dear young lady;”—for Emily had risen to go, and
George, the man-servant, was waiting at the door for her,—“if
I never see you again, remember that you've made an old man
so happy that he's nothing in this world left to wish for; and
that you carry with you a dyin' man's best blessin', and his
prayer that God may grant such perfect peace to your last days
as now He does to mine.”

That evening, when True had already retired to rest, and
Gerty had finished reading aloud in her little Bible, as she
always did at bed-time, True called her to him, and asked her,
as he had often done of late, to repeat his favorite prayer for
the sick. She knelt at his bed-side, and with a solemn and
touching earnestness fulfilled his request.

“Now, darlin,' the prayer for the dyin';—isn't there such a one
in your little book?”

Gerty trembled. There was such a prayer, a beautiful one; and
the thoughtful child, to whom the idea of death was familiar,
knew it by heart,—but could she repeat the words? Could she
command her voice? Her whole frame shook with agitation;
but Uncle True wished to hear it, it would be a comfort to
him, and she would try. Concentrating all her energy and self-command,
she began, and, gaining strength as she proceeded, went
on to the end. Once or twice her voice faltered, but with new
effort she succeeded, in spite of the great bunches in her throat;
and her voice sounded so clear and calm that Uncle True's devotional
spirit was not once disturbed by the thought of the girl's
sufferings; for, fortunately, he could not hear how her heart beat
and throbbed, and threatened to burst.

She did not rise at the conclusion of the prayer,—she could
not,—but remained kneeling, her head buried in the bed-clothes.
For a few moments there was a solemn stillness in the room; then
the old man laid his hand upon her head.

She looked up.

“You love Miss Emily, don't you, birdie?”

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“Yes, indeed.”

“You'll be a good child to her, when I'm gone?”

“O, Uncle True!” sobbed Gerty, “you must n't leave me! I
can't live without you, dear Uncle True!”

“It is God's will to take me, Gerty; he has always been good
to us, and we mustn't doubt him now. Miss Emily can do more
for you than I could, and you'll be very happy with her.”

“No, I shan't!—I shan't ever be happy again in this world!
I never was happy until I came to you; and now, if you die, I
wish I could die too!”

“You mustn't wish that, darlin'; you are young, and must try
to do good in the world, and bide your time. I'm an old man,
and only a trouble now.”

“No, no, Uncle True!” said Gerty, earnestly; “You are not
a trouble, you never could be a trouble! I wish I'd never been
so much trouble to you.

“So far from that, birdie, God knows you've long been my
heart's delight! It only pains me now to think that you're a
spendin' all your time, and slavin' here at home, instead of goin'
to school, as you used to; but, O! we all depend on each other
so!—first on God, and then on each other! And that 'minds me,
Gerty, of what I was goin' to say. I feel as if the Lord would
call me soon, sooner than you think for now; and, at first, you'll
cry, and be sore vexed, no doubt; but Miss Emily will take you
with her, and she'll tell you blessed things to comfort you;—how
we shall all meet again and be happy in that world where there's
no partin's; and Willie'll do everything he can to help you in your
sorrer; and in time you'll be able to smile again. At first, and
p'raps for a long time, Gerty, you'll be a care to Miss Emily,
and she'll have to do a deal for you in the way o' schoolin',
clothin', and so on; and what I want to tell you is, that Uncle
True expects you'll be as good as can be, and do just what Miss
Emily says; and, by and by, may be, when you're bigger and
older, you'll be able to do somethin' for her. She's blind, you
know, and you must be eyes for her; and she's not over strong,
and you must lend a helpin' hand to her weakness, just as you do
to mine; and, if you're good and patient, God will make your

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heart light at last, while you're only tryin' to make other folks
happy; and when you're sad and troubled (for everybody is, sometimes),
then think of old Uncle True, and how he used to say,
`Cheer up, birdie, for I'm of the 'pinion 't will all come out
right, at last.' There, don't feel bad about it; go to bed, darlin',
and to-morrow we'll have a nice walk,—and Willie's goin' with
us, you know.”

Gerty tried to cheer up, for True's sake, and went to bed. She
did not sleep for some hours; but when, at last, she did fall into
a quiet slumber, it continued unbroken until morning.

She dreamed that morning was already come; that she and
Uncle True and Willie were taking a pleasant walk; that
Uncle True was strong and well again,—his eye bright, his step
firm, and Willie and herself laughing and happy.

And, while she dreamed the beautiful dream, little thinking
that her first friend and she should no longer tread life's paths
together, the messenger came,—a gentle, noiseless messenger,—
and, in the still night, while the world was asleep, took the soul
of good old True, and carried it home to God!

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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
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