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When Gerty had had her kitten about a month, she took a
violent cold from being out in the damp and rain; and Nan,
fearing she should have trouble with her if she became seriously
ill, bade her stay in the house, and keep in the warm room where
she was at work. Gerty's cough was fearful; and it would have
been a great comfort to sit by the stove all day and keep warm,
had it not been for her anxiety about the kitten, lest it should
get lost, or starve, before she was well enough to be out taking
care of it; or, worst of all, come running into the house in search
of her. The whole day passed away, however, and nothing was
seen of pussy. Towards night, the men were heard coming in to
supper. Just as they entered the door of the room where Nan
and Gerty were, and where the coarse meal was prepared, one of
them stumbled over the kitten, which had come in with them,
unperceived.

“Cracky! what's this 'ere?” said the man, whom they all
were accustomed to call Jemmy; “a cat, I vow! Why, Nan, I
thought you kind o' hated cats!”

“Well, 't an't none o' mine; drive it out,” said Nan.

Jemmy started to do so; but puss, suddenly drawing back, and
making a circuit round his legs, sprang forward into the arms of
Gerty, who was anxiously watching its fate.

“Whose kitten's that, Gerty?” said Nan.

“Mine!” said Gerty, bravely.

“Well, how long have you kept cats? I should like to know,”
said Nan. “Speak! how came you by this?”

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The men were all looking on. Gerty was afraid of the men.
They sometimes teased, and were always a source of alarm to
her. She could not think of acknowledging to whom she was
indebted for the gift of the kitten; she knew it would only make
matters worse, for Nan had never forgiven True Flint's rough
expostulation against her cruelty in beating the child for spilling
the milk; and Gerty could not summon presence of mind to think
of any other source to which she could aseribe the kitten's presence,
or she would not have hesitated to tell a falsehood; for her
very limited education had not taught her a love or habit of
truth where a lie would better serve her turn, and save her from
punishment. She was silent, and burst into tears.

“Come,” said Jemmy, “give us some supper, Nan, and let the
gal alone till arterwards.”

Nan complied, ominously muttering, however.

The supper was just finished, when an organ-grinder struck up
a tune outside the door. The men stepped out to join the crowd,
consisting chiefly of the inmates of the house, who were watching
the motions of a monkey that danced in time to the music. Gerty
ran to the window to look out. Delighted with the gambols of
the creature, she gazed intently, until the man and monkey moved
off; so intently, that she did not miss the kitten, which, in the
mean time, crept down from her arms, and, springing upon the
table, began to devour the remnants of the repast. The organ-grinder
was not out of sight when Gerty's eyes fell upon the figure
of the old lamplighter coming up the street. She thought she
would stay and watch him light his lamp, when she was startled
by a sharp and angry exclamation from Nan, and turned just in
time to see her snatch her darling kitten from the table. Gerty
sprang forward to the rescue, jumped into a chair, and caught Nan
by the arm; but she firmly pushed her back with one hand, while
with the other she threw the kitten half across the room. Gerty
heard a sudden splash and a piercing cry. Nan had flung the poor
creature into a large vessel of steaming-hot water, which stood
ready for some household purpose. The little animal struggled
and writhed an instant, then died in torture.

All the fury of Gerty's nature was roused. Without

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hesitation, she lifted a stick of wood which lay near her, and flung it
at Nan with all her strength. It was well aimed, and struck the
woman on the head. The blood started from the wound the blow
had given; but Nan hardly felt the blow, so greatly was she excited
against the child. She sprang upon her, caught her by the
shoulder, and, opening the house-door, thrust her out upon the
side-walk. “Ye'll never darken my doors again, yer imp of
wickedness!” said she, as she rushed into the house, leaving the
child alone in the cold, dark night.

When Gerty was angry or grieved, she always cried aloud,—
not sobbing, as many children do, but uttering a succession of
piercing shrieks, until she sometimes quite exhausted her strength.
When she found herself in the street, she commenced screaming;—
not from fear at being turned away from her only home, and
left all alone at nightfall to wander about the city, and perhaps
freeze before morning (for it was very cold),—she did not think
of herself for a moment. Horror and grief at the dreadful fate
of the only thing she loved in the world entirely filled her little
soul. So she crouched down against the side of the house, her
face hid in her hands, unconscious of the noise she was making,
and unaware of the triumph of the girl who had once thrown
away her shoes, and who was watching her from the house-door
opposite. Suddenly she found herself lifted up and placed on
one of the rounds of Trueman Flint's ladder, which still leaned
against the lamp-post. True held her firmly, just high enough
on the ladder to bring her face opposite his, recognized her as his
old acquaintance, and asked her, in the same kind way he had
used on the former occasion, what was the matter.

But Gerty could only gasp and say, “O, my kitten! my kitten!”

“What! the kitten I gave you? Well, have you lost it?
Don't cry! there—don't cry!”

“O, no! not lost! O, poor kitty!” and Gerty began to cry
louder than ever, and coughed at the same time so dreadfully,
that True was quite frightened for the child. Making every
effort to soothe her, and having partially succeeded, he told her
she would catch her death o' cold, and she must go into the house.

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“O, she won't let me in!” said Gerty, “and I would n't go, if
she would!”

“Who won't let you in?—your mother?”

“No! Nan Grant.”

“Who's Nan Grant?”

“She's a horrid, wicked woman, that drowned my kitten in
bilin' water!”

“But where's your mother?”

“I han't got none.”

“Who do you belong to, you poor little thing!”

“Nobody; and I've no business anywhere!”

“But who do you live with, and who takes care of you?”

“O, I lived with Nan Grant; but I hate her. I threw a stick
of wood at her head, and I wish I'd killed her!”

“Hush! hush! you must n't say that! I'll go and speak to
her.”

True moved towards the door, trying to draw Gerty in with
him; but she resisted so foreibly that he left her outside, and,
walking directly into the room, where Nan was binding up her
head with an old handkerchief, told her she had better call her
little girl in, for she would freeze to death out there.

“She's no child of mine,” said Nan; “she's been here long
enough; she's the worst little creature that ever lived; it's a
wonder I've kept her so long; and now I hope I'll never lay
eyes on her agin,—and, what's more, I don't mean to. She ought
to be hung for breaking my head! I believe she's got an illspirit
in her, if ever anybody did have in this world!”

“But what'll become of her?” said True. “It's a fearful
cold night. How'd you feel, marm, if she were found to-morrow
morning all friz up just on your door-step?”

“How'd I feel?—That's your business, is it? S'posen you
take care on her yourself! Yer make a mighty deal o' fuss about
the brat. Carry her home, and try how yer like her. Yer've
been here a talkin' to me about her once afore; and I tell you I
won't hear a word more. Let other folks see to her, I say; I've had
more'n my share; and, as to her freezin', or dyin' anyhow, I'll
risk her. Them children that comes into the world nobody knows

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how, don't go out of it in a hurry. She's the city's property—
let 'em look out for her; and you'd better go long, and not
meddle with what don't consarn you.”

True did not wait to hear more. He was not used to women;
and an angry woman was the most formidable thing to him in the
world. Nan's flashing eyes and menacing attitude were sufficient
warning of the coming tempest, and he wisely hastened away
before it should burst upon his head.

Gerty had ceased crying when he came out, and looked up
into his face with the greatest interest.

“Well,” said he, “she says you shan't come back.”

“O, I'm so glad!” said Gerty.

“But where'll you go to?”

“I don't know; p'raps I'll go with you, and see you light the
lamps.”

“But where'll you sleep to-night?

“I don't know where; I have n't got any house. I guess
I'll sleep out, where I can see the stars. I don't like dark places.
But it'll be cold, won't it?”

“My goodness! You'll freeze to death, child.”

“Well, what'll become of me, then?”

“The Lord only knows!”

True looked at Gerty in perfect wonder and distress. He
knew nothing about children, and was astonished at her simplicity.
He could not leave her there, such a cold night; but he
hardly knew what he could do with her if he took her home, for
he lived alone, and was poor. But another violent coughing
spell decided him at once to share with her his shelter, fire and
food, for one night, at least. So he took her by the hand, saying,
“Come with me;” and Gerty ran along confidently by his
side, never asking whither.

True had about a dozen more lamps to light before they
reached the end of the street, when his round of duty was
finished. Gerty watched him light each one with as keen an
interest as if that were the only object for which she was in his
company; and it was only after they had reached the corner of

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the street, and walked on for some distance without stopping,
that she inquired where they were going.

“Going home,” said True.

“Am I going to your home?” said Gerty.

“Yes,” said True, “and here it is.”

He opened a little gate close to the side-walk. It led into a
small and very narrow yard, which stretched along the whole
length of a decent two-storied house. True lived in the back
part of the house; so they went through the yard, passed by
several windows and the main entrance, and, keeping on to a
small door in the rear, opened it and went in. Gerty was by
this time trembling with the cold; her little bare feet were quite
blue with walking so far on the pavements. There was a stove
in the room into which they had entered, but no fire in it. It
was a large room, and looked as if it might be pretty comfortable,
though it was very untidy. True made as much haste as he
could to dispose of his ladder, torch, &c., in an adjoining shed;
and then, bringing in a handful of wood, he lit a fire in the stove.
In a few minutes there was a bright blaze, and the chilly atmosphere
grew warm. Drawing an old wooden settle up to the fire,
he threw his shaggy great-coat over it, and lifting little Gerty up,
he placed her gently upon the comfortable seat. He then went to
work to get supper; for True was an old bachelor, and accustomed
to do everything for himself. He made tea; then, mixing
a great mug full for Gerty, with plenty of sugar, and all his
cent's worth of milk, he produced from a little cupboard a loaf
of bread, cut her a huge slice, and pressed her to eat and drink
as much as she could; for he judged well when he concluded,
from her looks, that she had not always been well fed; and so
much satisfaction did he feel in her evident enjoyment of the
best meal she had ever had, that he forgot to partake of it himself,
but sat watching her with a tenderness which proved that
the unerring instinct of childhood had not been wanting in Gerty,
when she felt, as she watched True about his work, so long before
he ever spoke to her, that he was a friend to everybody, even to
the most forlorn little girl in the world.

Trueman Flint was horn and brought up in New Hampshire;

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but, when fifteen years old, being left an orphan, he had made his
way to Boston, where he supported himself for many years by
whatever employment he could obtain; having been, at different
times, a newspaper carrier, a cab-driver, a porter, a wood-cutter,
indeed, a jack-at-all-trades; and so honest, capable and good-tempered,
had he always shown himself, that he everywhere won
a good name, and had sometimes continued for years in the same
employ. Previous to his entering upon the service in which we
find him, he had been for some time a porter in a large store,
owned by a wealthy and generous merchant. Being one day
engaged in removing some heavy casks, he had the misfortune to
be severely injured by one of them falling upon his chest. For
a long time no hope was entertained of his recovering from the
effects of the accident; and when he at last began to mend, his
health returned so gradually that it was a year before he was
able to be at work again. This sickness swallowed up the savings
of years; but his late employer never allowed him to want for
any comforts, provided an excellent physician, and saw that he
was well taken care of.

True, however, had never been the same man since. He rose
up from his sick bed ten years older in constitution, and his
strength so much enfeebled that he was only fit for some comparatively
light employment. It was then that his kind friend
and former master obtained for him the situation he now held
as lamplighter; in addition to which, he frequently earned considerable
sums by sawing wood, shovelling snow, &c.

He was now between fifty and sixty years old, a stoutly-built
man, with features cut in one of nature's rough moulds, but
expressive of much good-nature. He was naturally silent and
reserved, lived much by himself, was known to but few people
in the city, and had only one crony, the sexton of a neighboring
church, a very old man, and one usually considered very crossgrained
and uncompanionable.

But we left Gerty finishing her supper; and now, when we
return to her, she is stretched upon the wide settle, sound asleep,
covered up with a warm blanket, and her head resting upon a
pillow. True sits beside her; her little thin hand lies in his

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great palm,—occasionally he draws the blanket closer round her.
She breathes hard; suddenly she gives a nervous start, then
speaks quickly; her dreams are evidently troubled. True listens
intently to her words, as she exclaims, eagerly, “O, don't!
don't drown my kitty!” and then again, in a voice of fear, “O,
she'll catch me! she'll catch me!” once more; and now her
tones are touchingly plaintive and earnest,—“Dear, dear, good
old man! let me stay with you, do let me stay!”

Great tears are in Trueman Flint's eyes, and rolling down the
furrows of his rough cheeks; he lays his great head on the pillow
and draws Gerty's little face close to his; at the same time
smoothing her long, uncombed hair with his hand. He too is
thinking aloud;—what does he say?

“Catch you!—no, she shan't! Stay with me!—so you shall,
I promise you, poor little birdie! All alone in this big world, and
so am I. Please God, we'll bide together.”

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