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A few weeks after the date of this letter, Gerty learned
through George, who went daily to the city to attend to the
marketing, that Mrs. Sullivan had left word at the shop of our
old acquaintance, the rosy-cheeked butcher, that she had received
a letter from Willie, and wanted Gerty to come into town and
see it. Emily was willing to let her go, but afraid it would be
impossible to arrange it, as Charlie, the only horse Mr. Graham
kept, was in use, and she saw no way of sending her.

“Why don't you let her go in the omnibus?” asked Mrs.
Ellis.

Gerty looked gratefully at Mrs. Ellis; it was the first time
that lady had ever seemed anxious to promote her views.

“I don't think it's safe for her to go alone in the coach,” said
Emily.

“Safe!—What, for that great girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Ellis,
whose position in the family was such that there were no forms
of restraint in her intercourse with Miss Graham.

“Do you think it is?” inquired Emily. “She seems a child
to me, to be sure; but, as you say, she is almost grown up, and
I daresay is capable of taking care of herself. Gertrude, are
you sure you know the way from the omnibus-office in Boston
to Mrs. Sullivan's?”

“Perfectly well, Miss Emily.”

Without further hesitation, two tickets for the coach were put

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into Gertrude's hand, and she set forth on her expedition with
beaming eyes and a full heart. She found Mrs. Sullivan and
Mr. Cooper well, and rejoicing over the happiest tidings from
Willie, who, after a long but agreeable voyage, had reached
Calcutta in health and safety. A description of his new home,
his new duties and employers, filled all the rest of the letter,
excepting what was devoted to affectionate messages and inquiries,
a large share of which were for Gerty. Gertrude stayed and
dined with Mrs. Sullivan, and then hastened to the omnibus. She
took her seat, and, as she waited for the coach to start, amused
herself with watching the passers-by. It was nearly three o'clock,
and she was beginning to think she should be the only passenger,
when she heard a strange voice proceeding from a person whose
approach she had not perceived. She moved towards the door,
and saw, standing at the back of the coach, the most singularlooking
being she had ever beheld. It was an old lady, small,
and considerably bent with years. Gertrude knew, at a glance,
that the same original mind must have conceived and executed
every article of the most remarkable toilet she had ever witnessed.
But, before she could observe the details of that which
was as a whole so wonderfully grotesque, her whole attention
was arrested by the peculiar behavior of the old lady.

She had been vainly endeavoring to mount the inconvenient
vehicle, and now, with one foot upon the lower step, was calling
to the driver to come to her assistance.

“Sir,” said she, in measured tones, “is this travelling equipage
under your honorable charge?”

“What say, marm?—Yes, I'm the driver;” saying which, he
came up to the door, opened it, and, without waiting for the
polite request which was on the old lady's lips, placed his hand
beneath her elbow, and before she was aware of his intention
lifted her into the coach and shut the door.

“Bless me!” ejaculated she, as she seated herself opposite
Gertrude, and began to arrange her veil and other draperies,
“that individual is not versed in the art of assisting a lady without
detriment to her habiliments. O dear, O dear!” added she,
in the same breath, “I've lost my parasol!”

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She rose as she spoke; but the sudden starting of the coach
threw her off her balance, and she would have fallen, had it not
been for Gertrude, who caught her by the arm and reseated her,
saying, as she did so, “Do not be alarmed madam; here is the
parasol.”

As she spoke she drew into view the missing article, which,
though nearly the size of an umbrella, was fastened to the old
lady's waist by a green ribbon, and, having slipped out of place,
was supposed lost. And not a parasol only did she thus bring
to light; numerous other articles, arranged in the same manner,
and connected with the same green string, now met Gertrude's
astonished eyes;—a reticule of unusual dimensions and a great
variety of colors, a black lace cap, a large feather fan, a roll of
fancy paper, and several other articles. They were partly hidden
under a thin black silk shawl, and Gertrude began to think her
companion had been on a pilfering expedition. If so, however,
the culprit seemed remarkably at her ease, for before the coach
had gone many steps she deliberately placed her feet on the
opposite seat, and proceeded to make herself comfortable. In
the first place, much to Gertrude's horror, she took out all her
teeth and put them in her work-bag; then drew off a pair of
black silk gloves, and replaced them by cotton ones; removed her
lace veil, folded and pinned it to the green string. She next
untied her bonnet, threw over it, as a protection from the dust, a
large cotton handkerchief, and, with some difficulty, unloosing
her fan, applied herself diligently to the use of it, closing her
eyes as she did so, and evidently intending to go to sleep. She
probably did fall into a doze, for she was very quiet, and Gertrude,
occupied with her own thoughts, and with observing some
heavy clouds that were arising from the west, forgot to observe
her fellow-traveller, until she was startled by a hand suddenly
laid upon her own, and an abrupt exclamation of “My dear
young damsel, do not those dark shadows betoken adverse
weather?”

“I think it will rain very soon,” replied Gertrude.

“This morn, when I ventured forth,” soliloquized the old lady,
“the sun was bright, the sky serene; even the winged songsters,

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as they piped their hymns, proclaimed their part in the universal
joy; and now, before I can regain my retirement, my delicate lace
flounces (and she glanced at the skirt of her dress) will prove a
sacrifice to the pitiless storm.”

“Doesn't the coach pass your door?” inquired Gertrude, her
compassion excited by the old lady's evident distress.

“No! O, no! not within half a mile. Does it better accommodate
you, my young miss?”

“No. I have a mile to walk beyond the omnibus-office.”

The old lady, moved by a deep sympathy, drew nearer to Gertrude,
saying, in the most doleful accents, “Alas for the delicate
whiteness of your bonnet-ribbon!”

The coach had by this time reached its destination, and the
two passengers alighted. Gertrude placed her ticket in the
driver's hand, and would have started at once on her walk, but
was prevented by the old lady, who grasped her dress, and begged
her to wait for her, as she was going the same way. And now
great difficulty and delay ensued. The old lady refused to pay
the amount of fare demanded by the driver; declared it was not
the regular fare, and accused the man of an intention to put the
surplus of two cents in his own pocket. Gertrude was impatient,
for she was every moment expecting to see the rain pour in torrents;
but at last, the matter being compromised between the
driver and his closely-calculating passenger, she was permitted to
proceed. They had walked about a quarter of a mile, and that
at a very slow rate, when the rain commenced falling; and now
Gertrude was called upon to unloose the huge parasol, and carry
it over her companion and herself. In this way they had accomplished
nearly as much more of the distance, when the water
began to descend as if all the reservoirs of heaven were at once
thrown open. At this moment Gertrude heard a step behind
them, and, turning, she saw George, Mr. Graham's man, running
in the direction of the house. He recognized her at once, and
exclaimed, “Miss Gertrude, you'll be wet through; and Miss
Pace too,” added he, seeing Gerty's companion. “Sure and
ye'd better baith hasten to her house, where ye'll be secure.”

So saying, he caught Miss Pace in his arms, and signing to

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Gertrude to follow, rushed across the street, and hurrying on to
a cottage near by, did not stop until he had placed the old lady
in safety beneath her own porch; and Gerty at the same instant
gained its shelter. Miss Pace—for such was the old lady's name—
was so bewildered that it took her some minutes to recover her
consciousness; and, in the mean time, it was arranged that Gertrude
should stop where she was for an hour or two, and that
George should call for her when he passed that way with the carriage,
on his return from the dépôt, where he went regularly on
three afternoons in the week for Mr. Graham.

Miss Patty Pace was not generally considered a person of
much hospitality. She owned the cottage which she occupied,
and lived there quite alone, keeping no servants and entertaining
no visitors. She was herself a famous visitor; and, as but a
small part of her life had been passed in D—, and all her
friends and connections lived either in Boston or at a much
greater distance, she was a constant frequenter of omnibuses and
other public vehicles. But though, through her travelling propensities
and her regular attendance at church, she was well
known, Gertrude was, perhaps, the first visitor that had ever
entered her house; and she, as we have seen, could scarcely be
said to have come by invitation.

Even when she was at the very door, she found herself obliged
to take the old lady's key, unlock and open it herself, and finally
lead her hostess into the parlor, and help her off with her innumerable
capes, shawls and veils. Once come to a distinct consciousness
of her situation, however, and Miss Patty Pace
conducted herself with all the elegant politeness for which she
was remarkable. Suffering though she evidently was with a
thousand regrets at the trying experience her own clothes had
sustained, she commanded herself sufficiently to express nearly as
many fears lest Gertrude had ruined every article of her dress.
It was only after many assurances from the latter that her boots
were scarcely wet at all, her gingham dress and cape not likely
to be hurt by rain, and her nice straw bonnet safe under the
scarf she had thrown over it, that Miss Patty could be prevailed
upon to so far forget the duties of a hostess as to retire and

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change her lace flounces for something more suitable for homewear.

As soon as she left the room, Gertrude, whose curiosity was
wonderfully excited, hastened to take a nearer view of numbers
of articles, both of ornament and use, which had already attracted
her attention from their odd and singular appearance.

Miss Pace's parlor was as remarkable as its owner. Its furniture,
like her apparel, was made up of the gleanings of every
age and fashion, from chairs that undoubtedly came over in the
Mayflower, to feeble attempts at modern pineushions, and imitations
of crystallized grass, that were a complete failure. Gertrude's
quick and observing eye was revelling amid the few relies
of ancient elegance, and the numerous specimens of folly and
bad taste, with which the room was filled, when the old lady
returned.

A neat though quaint black dress having taken the place of
the much-valued flounces, she now looked far more ladylike.
She held in her hand a tumbler of pepper and water, and begged
her visitor to drink, assuring her it would warm her stomach
and prevent her taking cold; and when Gertrude, who could only
with great difficulty keep from laughing in her face, declined the
beverage, Miss Patty seated herself, and, while enjoying the
refreshment, carried on a conversation which at one moment
satisfied her visitor she was a woman of sense, and the next
persuaded her that she was either foolish or insane.

The impression which Gertrude made upon Miss Patty, however,
was more decided. Miss Patty was delighted with the
young miss, who, she declared, possessed an intellect that would
do honor to a queen, a figure that was airy as a gazelle, and
motions more graceful than those of a swan.

When George came for Gertrude, Miss Pace, who seemed really
sorry to part with her, cordially invited her to come again, and
Gertrude promised to do so.

The satisfactory news from Willie, and the amusing adventures
of the afternoon, had given to Gertrude such a feeling of buoyancy
and light-heartedness, that she bounded into the house, and
up the stairs, with that fairy quickness Uncle True had so loved

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to see in her, and which, since his death, her subdued spirits had
rarely permitted her to exercise. She hastened to her own room
to remove her bonnet and change her dress before seeking Emily,
to whom she longed to communicate the events of the day.

At the door of her room she met Bridget, the housemaid, with
a dust-pan, hand-broom, etc. On inquiring what was going on
there at this unusual hour, she learned that during her absence
her room, which had since their removal been in some confusion,
owing to Mrs. Ellis' not having decided what furniture should
be placed there, had been subjected to a thorough and comprehensive
system of spring cleaning. Alarmed, though she scarcely
knew why, at the idea of Mrs. Ellis having invaded her premises,
she surveyed the apartment with a slight feeling of agitation,
which, as she continued her observations, swelled into a storm of
angry excitement.

When Gertrude went from Mrs. Sullivan's to Mr. Graham's
house in the city, she carried with her, beside a trunk containing
her wardrobe, an old bandbox, which she stored away on the
shelf of a closet in her chamber.

There it remained, during the winter, unpacked and unobserved
by any one. When the family went into the country, however,
the box went also, carefully watched and protected by its owner.
As there was no closet or other hiding-place in Gertrude's new
room, she placed it in a corner behind the bed, and the evening
before her expedition to the city had been engaged in removing
and inspecting a part of its contents. Each article was endeared
to her by the charm of old association, and many a tear had the
little maiden shed over her stock of valuables. There was the
figure of the Samuel, Uncle True's first gift, now defaced by time
and accident. As the surveyed a severe contusion on the back
of the head, the effect of an inadvertent knock given it by
True himself, and remembered how patiently the dear old man
labored to repair the injury, she felt that she would not part
with the much-valued memento for the world. There, too, were
his pipes, of common clay, and dark with smoke and age; but, as
she thought how much comfort they had been to him, she felt
that the possession of them was a consolation to her. She had

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brought away too his lantern, for she had not forgotten its pleasant
light, the first that ever fell upon the darkness of her life; nor
could she leave behind an old fur cap, beneath which she had often
sought a kindly smile, and, never having sought in vain, could
hardly realize that there was not one for her still hidden beneath
its crown. There were some toys too, and picture-books, gifts
from Willie, a little basket he had carved for her from a nut, and
a few other trifles.

All these things, excepting the lantern and cap, Gertrude had
left upon the mantel-piece; and now, upon entering the room, her
eye at once sought her treasures. They were gone. The mantel-piece
was nicely dusted, and quite empty. She ran towards the
corner, where she had left the old box. That too was gone. To
rush after the retreating house-maid, call her back, and pour forth
a succession of eager inquiries, was but the work of an instant.

Bridget was a new comer, a remarkably stupid specimen, but
Gertrude contrived to obtain from her all the information she
needed. The image, the pipes and the lantern, were thrown among
a heap of broken glass and crockery, and, as Bridget declared,
smashed all to nothing. The cap, pronounced moth-eaten, had
been condemned to the flames; and the other articles, Bridget
could not be sure, but “troth, she belaved she was just afther
laving them in the fireplace.” And all this in strict accordance
with Mrs. Ellis' orders. Gertrude allowed Bridget to depart
unaware of the greatness of her loss; then, shutting the door, she
threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to a violent fit of
weeping.

So this, thought she, was the reason why Mrs. Ellis was so willing
to forward my plans,—and I was foolish enough to believe it
was for my own sake! She wanted to come here and rob me, the
thief!

She rose from the bed as suddenly as she had thrown herself
down, and started for the door; then, some new thought seeming
to check her, she returned again to the bed-side, and, with a loud
sob, fell upon her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Once
or twice she lifted her head, and seemed on the point of rising and
going to face her enemy. But each time something came across

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her mind and detained her. It was not fear;—O, no! Gertrude
was not afraid of anybody. It must have been some stronger
motive than that. Whatever it might be, it was something that
had, on the whole, a soothing influence; for, after every fresh
struggle, she grew calmer, and presently, rising, seated herself in
a chair by the window, leaned her head on her hand, and looked
out. The window was open; the shower was over, and the smiles
of the refreshed and beautiful earth were reflected in a glowing
rainbow, that spanned the eastern horizon. A little bird came,
and perched on a branch of a tree close to the window, and shouted
forth a Te Deum. A Persian lilac-bush in full bloom sent up a
delicious fragrance. A wonderful composure stole into Gertrude's
heart, and, ere she had sat there many minutes, she felt “the
grace that brings peace succeed to the passions that produce
trouble.” She had conquered; she had achieved the greatest of
earth's victories, a victory over herself. The brilliant rainbow,
the carol of the bird, the fragrance of the blossoms, all the
bright things that gladdened the earth after the storm, were not
half so beautiful as the light that overspread the face of the young
girl when, the storm within her laid at rest, she looked up to
heaven, and her heart sent forth its silent offering of praise.

The sound of the tea-bell startled her. She hastened to bathe
her face and brush her hair, and then went down stairs. There
was no one in the dining-room but Mrs. Ellis; Mr. Graham had
been detained in town, and Emily was suffering with a severe
headache. Consequently, Gertrude took tea alone with Mrs. Ellis.
The latter, though unaware of the great value Gertrude attached
to her old relies, was conscious she had done an unkind thing; and
as the injured party gave no evidence of anger or ill will, not even
mentioning the subject, the aggressor felt more uncomfortable and
mortified than she would have been willing to allow. The matter
was never recurred to, but Mrs. Ellis experienced a stinging consciousness
of the fact that Gertrude had shown a superiority to
herself in point of forbearance.

The next day, Mrs. Prime, the cook, came to the door of Emily's
room, and obtaining a ready admittance, produced the little basket,
made of a nut, saying, “I wonder now, Miss Emily, where Miss

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Gertrude is; for I've found her little basket in the coal-hod, and I guess
she'll be right glad on't—'t an't hurt a mite.” Emily inquired
“What basket?” and the cook, placing it in her hands, proceeded
with cagerness to give an account of the destruction of Gertrude's
property, which she had herself witnessed with great indignation.
She also gave a piteous description of the distress the young girl
manifested in her questioning of Bridget, which the sympathizing
cook had overheard from her own not very distant chamber.

As Emily listened to the story, she well remembered having
thought, the previous afternoon, that she heard Gertrude sobbing
in her room, which on one side adjoined her own, but that she
afterwards concluded herself to have been mistaken. “Go,” said
she, “and carry the basket to Gertrude; she is in the little library;
but please, Mrs. Prime, don't tell her that you have mentioned
the matter to me.” Emily expected, for several days, to hear
from Gertrude the story of her injuries; but Gertrude kept her
trouble to herself, and bore it in silence.

This was the first instance of complete self-control in Gerty, and
the last we shall have occasion to dwell upon. From this time
she continued to experience more and more the power of governing
herself; and, with each new effort gaining new strength,
became at last a wonder to those who knew the temperament she
had had to contend with. She was now nearly fourteen years old,
and so rapid had been her recent growth that, instead of being
below the usual stature, she was taller than most girls of her age.
Freedom from study, and plenty of air and exercise, prevented
her, however, from suffering from this circumstance.

Her garden was a source of great pleasure to her, and, flowers
seeming to prosper under her careful training, she had always a
bouquet ready to place by Emily's plate at breakfast-time.

Occasionally she went to see her friend Miss Patty Pace, and
always met with a cordial reception. Miss Patty's attention was
very much engrossed by the manufacture of paper flowers, and, as
Gerirude's garden furnished the models, she seldom went emptyhanded;
but, the old lady's success being very ill proportioned to
her efforts, it would have been a libel upon nature to pronounce
even the most favorable specimens of this sort of fancy-work true

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copies of the original. Miss Patty was satisfied, however; and it
is to be hoped that her various friends, for whom the large bunches
were intended that travelled about tied to her waist by the green
string, were satisfied also.

Miss Patty seemed to have a great many friends. Judging from
the numbers of people that she talked about to Gertrude, the latter
concluded she must be acquainted with everybody in Boston.
And it would have been hard to find any one whose intercourse
extended to a wider circle. She had, in her youth, learned an
upholsterer's trade, which she had practised for many years in the
employment (as she said) of the first families in the city; and so
observing was she, and so acute in her judgment, that a report at
one time prevailed that Miss Pace had eyes in the back of her
head, and two pair of ears. Notwithstanding her wonderful visionary
and comprehending powers, she had never been known to
make mischief in families. She was prudent and conscientious,
and, though always peculiar in her habits and modes of expression,
and so wild in some of her fancies as to be often thought by
strangers a little out, she had secured and continued to retain the
good will of a great many kindly-disposed ladies and gentlemen,
at whose houses she was always well received and politely treated.
She calculated, in the course of every year, to go the rounds
among all these friends, and thus kept up her intimacy with households
in every member of which she felt a warm personal interest.

Miss Patty labored under one great and absorbing regret, and
frequently expatiated to Gertrude on the subject; it was, that she
was without a companion. “Ah, Miss Gertrude,” she would sometimes
exclaim, seeming for the time quite forgetful of her age and
infirmities, “I should do vastly well in this world, if I only had a
companion;” and here, with a slight toss of the head, and a little,
smirking air, she would add, in a whisper, “and you must know,
my dear, I somewhat meditate matrimony.” Then, seeing Gertrude's
look of surprise and amusement, she would apologize for
having so long delayed fulfilling what had always been her intention;
and, at the same time that she admitted not being as young
as she had once been, would usually close with the remark, “It is

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true, time is inexorable; but I cling to life, Miss Gertrude, I
cling to life, and may marry yet.”

On the subject of fashion, too, she would declaim at great
length, avowing, for her own part, a rigid determination to be
modern, whatever the cost might be. Gertrude could not fail to
observe that she had failed in this intention as signally as in that
of securing a youthful swain; and she was also gradually led to
conclude that Miss Pace, whatever might be her means, was a
terrible miser. Emily, who knew the old lady very well, and had
often employed her, did not oppose Gertrude's visits to the cottage,
and sometimes accompanied her; for Emily loved to be amused,
and Miss Patty's quaint conversation was as great a treat to her
as to Gertrude. These calls were so promptly returned, that it
was made very evident that Miss Patty preferred doing the greater
part of the visiting herself; observing which, Emily gave her a
general invitation to the house, of which she was not slow to avail
herself.

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