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It was a stormy evening. Gerty was standing at the window,
watching for True's return from his lamplighting. She was neatly
and comfortably dressed, her hair smooth, her face and hands
clean. She was now quite well—better than for years before
her sickness. Care and kindness had done wonders for her, and,
though still a pale and rather slender-looking child, with eyes and
mouth disproportionately large to her other features, the painful
look of suffering she had been wont to wear had given place to a
happy though rather grave expression. On the wide window-sill
in front of her sat a plump and venerable cat, parent to
Gerty's lost darling, and for that reason very dear to her; she
was quietly stroking its back, while the constant purring that the
old veteran kept up proved her satisfaction at the arrangement.

Suddenly a rumbling, tumbling sound was heard in the wall.
The house was old, and furnished with ample accommodations
for rats, who seemed, from the noise, to have availed themselves
of this fact to give a ball, such an excitement were they manifesting.
One would almost have thought a chimney was falling
down, brick by brick. It did not alarm Gerty, however; she was
used to old, rat-inhabited walls, and too much accustomed to hearing
such sounds all around her, when she slept in the garret at
Nan Grant's, to be disturbed by them. Not so, however, with
the ancient grimalkin, who pricked up her ears, and gave every
sign of a disposition to rush into battle. No war-horse could

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have been more excited by the sound of the trumpet, than
was puss at the rushing of her foes through the ceiling.

“Lie still, pussy,” said Gerty, “lie still, I say; don't you be
running off after rats. You must sit up straight, and be good,
till you see Uncle True coming, so's to hear what he'll say when
he sees the room and me.”

Here Gerty turned and glanced around the room with an air
of infinite satisfaction; then, clambering upon the wide, old-fashioned
window-sill, where she could see up the yard, and have a
full view of the lamplighter the moment he entered the gate,
she took the cat in her arms, smoothed down her dress, gave a
look of interest and pride at her shoes and stockings, and then
composed herself, with a determined effort to be patient. It
would not do, however; she could not be patient; it seemed to
her that he never came so late before, and she was just beginning
to think he never would come at all, when he turned into the gate.
It was nearly dark, but Gerty could see that there was some person
with him. He did not look tall enough to be Mr. Cooper,
and did not step like him; but she concluded it must be he, for
whoever it was stopped at his door further up the yard, and went
in. Impatient as Gerty had been for True's arrival, she did not
run to meet him as usual, but waited in a listening attitude, until
she heard him come in through the shed, where he was in the
habit of stopping to hang up his ladder and lantern, and remove
the soiled frock and overalls which he wore outside his clothes
when about his work. She then ran and hid behind the door by
which he must enter the room. She evidently had some great
surprise in store for him, and meant to enjoy it to the utmost.
The cat, not being so full of the matter, whatever it was, was
more mindful of her manners, and went to meet him, rubbing her
head against his legs, which was her customary welcome.

“Hollo, whiskers!” said True; “where's my little gal?”

He shut the door behind him as he spoke, thus disclosing Gerty
to view. She sprang forward with a bound, laughed, and looked
first at her own clothes, and then in True's face, to see what he
would think of her appearance.

“Well, I declare!” said he, lifting her up in his arms and

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carrying her nearer to the light; “little folks do look famous!
New gown, apron, shoes!—got 'em all on! And who fixed your
hair? My! you an't none too handsome, sartain, but you do look
famous nice!”

“Mrs. Sullivan dressed me all up, and brushed my hair; and
more too—don't you see what else she has done?”

True followed Gerty's eyes as they wandered around the room.
He looked amazed enough to satisfy her anticipations, great as
they had been; and no wonder. He had been gone since morning,
and things had indeed undergone a transformation. Woman's
hands had evidently been at work, clearing up and setting to
rights.

Until Gerty came to live with True, his home had never been
subjected to female intrusion. Living wholly by himself, and entertaining
scareely any visitors, it had been his habit to make
himself comfortable in his own way, utterly regardless of appearances.
In his humble apartment sweeping-day came but seldom,
and spring cleaning was unknown. Two large windows, facing
the yard, were treated with great injustice, the cheerful light they
were capable of affording being half obscured by dirt and smoke.
The corners of the ceiling were festooned with cobwebs; the high,
broad mantel-piece had accumulated a curious medley of things
useful and useless; while there was no end to the rubbish that had
collected under the stove. Then the furniture, some of which
was very good, was adjusted in the most inconvenient manner,
and in a way to turn the size of the room to the least possible advantage.
During Gerty's illness, a bed made up on the floor for
True's use, and the various articles which had been required in
her sick-room, had increased the clutter to such an extent that
one almost needed a pilot to conduct him in safety through the
apartment.

Now, Mrs. Sullivan was the soul of neatness. Her rooms were
like wax-work. Her own dress was almost quaker-like in its extreme
simplicity, and freedom from the least speck or stain. No one could
meet her old father, or her young son, even in their working dress,
without perceiving at once the evidence of a careful daughter and
mother's handiwork. It was to nurse Gerty, and take care of her in

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True's absence, that she first entered a room so much the reverse of
her own; and it is not easy to appreciate the degree in which the
virtue and charity of her so doing was enhanced, unless one can
realize how painful the contrast was to her, and how excessively
annoying she found it, to spend sometimes a whole afternoon in a
room, which, as she expressed herself afterwards at home, it would
have been a real pleasure to her to clear up and put to rights, if
it were only to see how it would look, and whether anybody
would recognize it. Mrs. Sullivan was a little bit of a woman,
but had more capability and energy than could have been found in
any one among twenty others twice her size. She really pitied
those whose home was such a mass of confusion; felt sure that
they could not be happy; and inwardly determined, as soon as
Gerty got well, to exert herself in the cause of cleanliness and
order, which was in her eyes the cause of virtue and happiness, so
completely did she identify outward neatness and purity with
inward peace. She pondered in her own mind how she could
broach the subject of a renovation in his affairs to True himself,
without wounding his feelings; for she was herself so sensitive on
a point of neatness, that she imagined he must be somewhat the
same,—and the little woman, being as tender-hearted as she was
tidy, would not have mortified him for the world,—when a mode
of action was suggested to her by Gerty herself.

On the day previous to that on which the great cleaning operations
took place, Gerty was observed by Mrs. Sullivan standing in
the passage near her door, and looking shyly but wistfully in.

“Come in, Gerty,” said the kind little woman; “come in and
see me.—Here,” added she, seeing how timid the child felt about
intruding herself into a strange room; “you may sit up here by
the table, and see me iron. This is your own little dress. I am
smoothing it out, and then your things will all be done. You'll
be glad of some new clothes, shan't you?”

“Very glad, marm,” said Gerty. “Am I to take them away,
and keep them all myself?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

“I don't know where I'll put 'em all; there an't no place in
our room,—at least, no very nice place,” said Gerty, glancing

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with admiration at the open drawer, in which Mrs. Sullivan was
now placing the little dress, adding it to a pile of neatly-folded
garments.

“Why, part of them, you know, you'll be wearing,” said Mrs.
Sullivan; “and we must find some good place for the rest.”

“You've got good places for things,” said Gerty, looking round
the room; “this is a beautiful room, is n't it?”

“Why, it is n't very different from Mr. Flint's. It's just
about the same size, and two front-windows like his. My cupboard
is the best; yours is only a three-cornered one; but that's
about all the difference.”

“O, but then yours don't look one bit like ours. You have n't
got any bed here, and all the floor stand in a row, and the table
shines, and the floor is so clean, and the stove is new, and the sun
comes in so bright! O! I wish our room was like this! I
should n't think ours was more than half as big, eigher. Why,
Uncle True stumbled over the tongs, this morning, and he said
there was n't room there to swing a cat.”

“Where were the tongs?” said Mrs. Sullivan.

“About in the middle of the floor, marm.”

“Well, you see I don't keep things in the middle of the floor.
I think, if your room were all cleaned up, and places found for
everything, it would look almost as well as mine.”

“I wish it could be fixed up nice,” said Gerty; “but what
could be done with those beds?”

“I've been thinking about that. There's that little pantry,—
or bathing-room, I think it must have been once, when this house
was new, and rich people lived in it; that's large enough to hold a
small bedstead and a chair or two;'t would be quite a comfortable
little chamber for you. There's nothing in it but rubbish, that
might just as well be thrown away, or, if it were good for anything,
put in the shed.”

“O, that'll be nice!” said Gerty; “then Uncle True can have
his bed back again, and I'll sleep on the floor in there.”

“No,” said Mrs. Sullivan; “it won't be necessary for you to
sleep on the floor. I've got a very good little cross-legged bedstead,
that my Willie slept on when he lived at home; and I will

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lend it to you, if you'll try to take good care of it, and of everything
else that is put into your room.”

“O, I will,” said Gerty.—“But can I?” added she, hesitating;
“do you think I can? I don't know how to do anything.”

“You never have been taught to do anything, my child; but a
girl eight years old can do a great many things, if she is patient
and tries hard to learn. I could teach you to do a great deal that
would be useful, and that would help your Uncle True very
much.”

“What could I do?”

“You could sweep the room up every day; you could make the
beds, after a fashion, with a little help in turning them; you could
set the table, toast the bread, and wash the dishes. Perhaps you
would not do these things in the best manner at first; but you
would keep improving, and by and by get to be quite a nice little
house-keeper.”

“O, I wish I could do something for Uncle True!” said Gerty;
“but how could I ever begin?”

“In the first place, you must have things cleaned up for you.
If I thought Mr. Flint would like it, I'd get Kate McCarty to
come in some day and help us; and I think we could make a great
improvement in his home.”

“O, I know he'd like it,” said Gerty; “'t would be grand!
May I help?”

“Yes, you may do what you can; but Kate'll be the best hand;
she's strong, and knows how to do cleaning very well.”

“Who's she?” said Gerty.

“Kate?—She's Mrs. McCarty's daughter, in the next house.
Mr. Flint does them many a good turn,—saws wood, and so on.
They do most of his washing; but they can't half pay him all the
kindness he's done that family. Kate's a clever girl; she'll be
glad to come and work for him, any day. I'll ask her.”

“Will she come to-morrow?”

“Perhaps she will.”

“Uncle True's going to be gone all day to-morrow,” said Gerty;
“he's going to get in Mr. Eustace's coal. Would n't it be a good
time?”

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“Very,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “I'll try and get Kate to come
to-morrow.”

Kate came. The room was thoroughly cleaned, and put in complete
order. Gerty's new clothes were delivered over to her own
keeping; she was ncatly dressed in one suit, the other placed in a
little chest which was found in the pantry, and which accommodated
her small wardrobe very well.

It was the result of all Mrs. Sullivan's, Kate's and Gerty's combined
labor which called forth True's astonishment on his return from
his work; and the pleasure he manifested made the day a memorable
one in Gerty's life, one to be marked in her memory as long
as she lived, as being the first in which she had known that happiness—
perhaps the highest earth affords—of feeling that she had
been instrumental in giving joy to another. Not that Gerty's
assistance had been of any great value; or that all could not have
been done as well, or even better, if she had been where Nan
Grant always put her,—out of the way. But the child did not
realize that: she had been one of the laborers; she had entered
heart and soul into every part of the work; wherever she had been
allowed to lend a helping hand, she had exerted her whole
strength. She could say, with truth, “We did it,—Mrs. Sullivan,
Kate and I.”

None but a loving heart, like Mrs. Sullivan's, would have
understood and sympathized in the feeling which made Gerty so
eager to help. But she did, and allotted to her many little services,
which the child felt herself more blessed in being permitted to
perform than she would have done at almost any gift or favor that
could have been bestowed upon her.

She led True about to show him how judiciously and ingeniously
Mrs. Sullivan had contrived to make the most of the room and the
furniture; how, by moving the bed into a deep recess, which was
just wide enough for it, she had reserved the whole square area,
and made, as True declared, a parlor of it. It was some time
before he could be made to believe that half his property had not
been spirited away, so incomprehensible was it to him that so
much additional space and comfort could be acquired by a little
system and order.

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But his astonishment and Gerty's delight reached their climax,
when she introduced him into the former lumber-closet, now transformed
into a really snug and comfortable bed-room.

“Well, I declare! Well, I declare!” was all the old man
could seem to say. He sat down beside the stove, now polished,
and made, as Gerty declared, new, just like Mrs. Sullivan's;
rubbed his hands together, for they were cold with being out in
the frosty evening, and then, spreading them in front of the fire,
took a general view of his reformed domicile, and of Gerty, who,
according to Mrs. Sullivan's careful instructions, was preparing to
set the table and toast the bread for supper. She was standing on
a chair, taking down the cups and saucers from among the regular
rows of dishes shining in the three-cornered cupboard, having
already deposited on the lower shelf, where she could reach it
from the floor, a plate containing some smoothly-cut slices of
bread, which the thoughtful Mrs. Sullivan had prepared for her.
True watched her motions for a minute or two, and then indulged
in a short soliloquy. “Mrs. Sullivan's a clever woman, sartain,
and they've made my old house here complete, and Gerty's gettin'
to be like the apple of my eye, and I'm as happy a man as—”

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