“O, yes, she's nicely now,” said True. “Here, Gerty, look
here! Why, where is she?”

“There she is, hiding up behind the settle,” said Willie, laughing.
“She an't afraid of me, is she?”

“Well, I did n't know as she was shy,” said True. “You silly
little girl,” added he, going towards her, “come out here, and see
Willie. This is Willie Sullivan.”

“I don't want to see him,” said Gerty.

“Don't want to see Willie!” said True; “why, you don't know
what you're sayin'. Willie's the best boy that ever was; I'
spect you and he'll be great friends, by and by.”

“He won't like me,” said Gerty; “I know he won't!”

“Why shan't I like you?” said Willie, approaching the corner
where Gerty had hid herself. Her face was covered with her
hands, according to her usual fashion when anything distressed
her. “I guess I shall like you first-rate, when I see you.”

He stooped down as he spoke, for he was much taller than
Gerty, and, taking her hands directly down from her face and
holding them tight in his own, he fixed his eyes full upon her,
and, nodding pleasantly, said,

“How do do, Cousin Gerty,—how do do?”

“I an't your cousin!” said Gerty.

“Yes you are,” said Willie, decidedly; “Uncle True's your
uncle, and mine too;—so we're cousins—don't you see?—and
I want to get acquainted.”

Gerty could not resist Willie's good-natured words and manner.
She suffered him to draw her out of the corner, and towards the
lighter end of the room. As she came near the lamp, she tried to
free her hands, in order to cover her face up again; but Willie
would not let her, and, attracting her attention to the unopened
package, and exciting her curiosity as to what it might contain,
he succeeded in diverting her thoughts from herself, so that in a
few minutes she seemed quite at her ease.

“There, Uncle True says it's for you,” said Willie; “and I can't
think what't is, can you? Feel—it's hard as can be.”

Gerty felt, and looked up wonderingly in True's face.

“Undo it, Willie,” said True.

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

Willie produced a knife, cut the string, took off the paper, and
disclosed one of those white plaster images, so familiar to every
one, representing the little Samuel in an attitude of devotion.

“O, how pretty!” exclaimed Gerty, full of delight.

“Why did n't I think?” said Willie; “I might have known
what't was, by the feeling.”

“Why! did you ever see it before?” said Gerty.

“Not this same one; but I've seen lots just like it.”

“Have you?” said Gerty. “I never did. I think it's the
beautifullest thing that ever was. Uncle True, did you say it was
for me? Where did you get it?”

“It was by an accident I got it. A few minutes before I met
you, Willie, I was stoppin' at the corner to light my lamp, when I
saw one of those furren boys with a sight o' these sort of things,
and some black ones too, all set up on a board, and he was walkin'
with 'em a-top of his head. I was just a wonderin' how he kept 'em
there, when he hit the board agin my lamp-post, and, the first thing
I knew, whack they all went! He'd spilt 'em every one. Lucky
enough for him, there was a great bank of soft snow close to the
side-walk, and the most of 'em fell into that, and was n't hurt.
Some few went on to the bricks, and were smashed. Well, I kind
o' pitied the feller; for it was late, and I thought like enough he
had n't had much luck sellin' of 'em, to have so many left on his
hands—”

“On his head, you mean,” said Willie.

“Yes, Master Willie, or on the snow,” said True; “any way
you're a mind to have it.”

“And I know what you did, Uncle True, just as well as if I'd
seen you,” said Willie; “you set your ladder and lantern right
down, and went to work helping him pick 'em all up,—that's
just what you'd be sure to do for anybody. I hope, if ever you
get into trouble, some of the folks you've helped will be by to
make return.”

“This feller, Willie, did n't wait for me to get into trouble; he
made return right off. When they were all set right, he bowed,
and scraped, and touched his hat to me, as if I'd been the biggest
gentleman in the land; talkin', too, he was, all the time, though I

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

could n't make out a word of his lingo; and then he insisted on
my takin' one o' the figurs. I wan't agoin to, for I did n't want
it; but I happened to think little Gerty might like it.”

“O, I shall like it!” said Gerty. “I shall like it better than—
no, not better, but almost as well as my kitten; not quite as well,
because that was alive, and this is n't; but almost. O, an't he a
cunning little boy?”

True, finding that Gerty was wholly taken up with the image,
walked away and began to get the tea, leaving the two children
to entertain each other.

“You must take care and not break it, Gerty,” said Willie.
“We had a Samuel once, just like it, in the shop; and I dropped
it out of my hand on to the counter, and broke it into a million
pieces.”

“What did you call it?” said Gerty.

“A Samuel; they're all Samuels.”

“What are Sammles?” said Gerty.

“Why, that's the name of the child they're taken for.”

“What do you s'pose he's sittin' on his knee for?”

Willie laughed. “Why, don't you know?” said he.

“No,” said Gerty; “what is he?”

“He's praying,” said Willie.

“Is that what he's got his eyes turned up for, too?”

“Yes, of course; he looks up to heaven when he prays.”

“Up to where?”

“To heaven.”

Gerty looked up at the ceiling in the direction in which the
eyes were turned, then at the figure. She seemed very much dissatisfied
and puzzled.

“Why, Gerty,” said Willie, “I should n't think you knew what
praying was.”

“I don't,” said Gerty; “tell me.”

“Don't you ever pray,—pray to God?”

“No, I don't.—Who is God? Where is God?”

Willie looked inexpressibly shocked at Gerty's ignorance, and
answered, reverently, “God is in heaven, Gerty.”

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

“I don't know where that is,” said Gerty. “I believe I don't
know nothin' about it.”

“I should n't think you did,” said Willie. “I believe heaven
is up in the sky; but my Sunday-school teacher says, `heaven is
anywhere where goodness is,' or some such thing,” he said.

“Are the stars in heaven?” said Gerty.

“They look so, don't they?” said Willie. “They're in the
sky, where I always used to think heaven was.”

“I should like to go to heaven,” said Gerty.

“Perhaps, if you're good, you will go, some time.”

“Can't any but good folks go?”

“No.”

“Then I can't ever go,” said Gerty, mournfully.

“Why not?” said Willie; “an't you good?”

“O, no! I'm very bad.”

“What a queer child!” said Willie. “What makes you think
yourself so very bad?”

“O! I am,” said Gerty, in a very sad tone; “I'm the worst
of all. I'm the worst child in the world.”

“Who told you so?”

“Everybody. Nan Grant says so, and she says everybody
thinks so; I know it, too, myself.”

“Is Nan Grant the cross old woman you used to live with?”

“Yes. How did you know she was cross?”

“O, my mother's been telling me about her. Well, I want to
know if she did n't send you to school, or teach you anything?”

Gerty shook her head.

“Why, what lots you've got to learn! What did you used to
do, when you lived there?”

“Nothing.”

“Never did anything, and don't know anything; my gracious!”

“Yes, I do know one thing,” said Gerty. “I know how to toast
bread;—your mother taught me;—she let me toast some by
her fire.”

As she spoke, she thought of her own neglected toast, and
turned towards the stove; but she was too late,—the toast was
made, the supper ready, and True was just putting it on the table.

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

“O, Uncle True,” said she, “I meant to get the tea.”

“I know it,” said True, “but it's no matter; you can get it
to-morrow.”

The tears came into Gerty's eyes;—she looked very much
disappointed, but said nothing. They all sat down to supper.
Willie put the Samuel in the middle of the table for a centre
ornament, and told so many funny stories, and said so many
pleasant things, that Gerty laughed heartily, forgot that she did
not make the toast herself, forgot her sadness, her shyness, even
her ugliness and wickedness, and showed herself, for once, a
merry child. After tea, she sat beside Willie on the great settle,
and, in her peculiar way, and with many odd expressions and
remarks, gave him a description of her life at Nan Grant's,
winding up with a touching account of the death of her kitten.

The two children seemed in a fair way to become as good
friends as True could possibly wish. True himself sat on the
opposite side of the stove, smoking his pipe; his elbows on his
knees, his eyes bent on the children, and his ears drinking in all
their conversation. He was no restraint upon them. So simple-hearted
and sympathizing a being, so ready to be amused and
pleased, so slow to blame or disapprove, could never be any
check upon the gayety or freedom of the youngest, most careless
spirit. He laughed when they laughed; seemed soberly satisfied,
and took long whiffs at his pipe, when they talked quietly and
sedately; ceased smoking entirely, letting his pipe rest on his
knee, and secretly wiping away a tear, when Gerty recounted
her childish griefs. He had heard the story before, and he
cried then. He often heard it afterwards, but never without
crying.

After Gerty had closed her tale of sorrows, which was frequently
interrupted by Willie's ejaculations of condolence or
pity, she sat for a moment without speaking; then, becoming
excited, as her ungoverned and easily roused nature dwelt upon
its wrongs, she burst forth in a very different tone from that in
which she had been speaking, and commenced uttering the most
bitter invectives against Nan Grant; making use of many a
rough and coarse term, such as she had been accustomed to hear

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

used by the ill-bred people with whom she had lived. The child's
language expressed unmitigated hatred, and even a hope of
future revenge. True looked worried and troubled at hearing her
talk so angrily. Since he brought her home he had never witnessed
such a display of temper, and had fondly believed that
she would always be as quiet and gentle as during her illness and
the few weeks subsequent to it. True's own disposition was so
placid, amiable and forgiving, that he could not imagine that any
one, and especially a little child, should long retain feelings of
anger and bitterness. Gerty had shown herself so mild and
patient since she had been with him, so submissive to his wishes,
so anxious even to forestall them, that it had never occurred to
him to dread any difficulty in the management of the child. Now,
however, as he observed her flashing eyes, and noticed the doubling
of her little fist, as she menaced Nan with her future wrath, he
had an undefined, half-formed presentiment of coming trouble in
the control of his little charge; a feeling almost of alarm, lest he
had undertaken what he could never perform. For the moment,
she ceased, in his eyes, to be the pet and plaything he had hitherto
considered her. He saw in her something which needed a
check, and felt himself unfit to apply it.

And no wonder. He was totally unfit to cope with a spirit
like Gerty's. It was true he possessed over her one mighty influence,—
her strong affection for him, which he could not doubt.
It was that which made her so submissive and patient in her
sickness, so grateful for his care and kindness, so anxious to do
something in return. It was that deep love for her first friend,
which, never wavering, and growing stronger to the last, proved,
in after years, a noble motive for exertion, a worthy incentive to
virtue. It was that love, fortified and illumined by a higher
light, which came in time to sanctify it, that gave her, while yet
a mere girl, a woman's courage, a woman's strength of heart and
self-denial. It was that which cheered the old man's latter years,
and shed joy on his dying bed.

But for the present it was not enough. The kindness she had
received for the few weeks past had completely softened Gerty's
heart towards her benefactors; but the effect of eight years'

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

mismanagement, ill treatment, and want of all judicious discipline,
could not be done away in that short time. Her unruly nature
could not be so suddenly quelled, her better capabilities called
into action.

The plant that for years has been growing distorted, and
dwelling in a barren spot, deprived of light and nourishment,
withered in its leaves and blighted in its fruit, cannot at once
recover from so cruel a blast. Transplanted to another soil, it
must be directed in the right course, nourished with care and
warmed with Heaven's light, ere it can recover from the shock
occasioned by its early neglect, and find strength to expand its
flowers and ripen its fruit.

So with little Gerty;—a new direction must be given to her
ideas, new nourishment to her mind, new light to her soul, ere the
higher purposes for which she was created could be accomplished
in her.

Something of this True felt, and it troubled him. He did not,
however, attempt to check the child. He did not know what to
do, and so did nothing.

Willie tried once or twice to stop the current of her abusive
language; but soon desisted, for she did not pay the least attention
to him. He could not help smiling at her childish wrath;
nor could he resist sympathizing with her in a degree, and almost
wishing he could have a brush with Nan himself, and express his
opinion of her character in one or two hard knocks. But he had
been well brought up by his gentle mother, was conscious that
Gerty was exhibiting a very hot temper, and began to understand
what made everybody think her so bad.

After Gerty had railed about Nan a little while, she stopped
of her own accord; though an unpleasant look remained on her
countenance, one of her old looks, that it was a pity should
return, but which always did when she got into a passion. It
soon passed away, however, and when, a little later in the evening,
Mrs. Sullivan appeared at the door, Gerty looked bright and
happy, listened with evident delight while True uttered warm
expressions of thanks for the labor which had been undertaken in
his behalf, and, when Willie went away with his mother, said her

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

good-night and asked him to come again so pleasantly, and her
eyes looked so bright as she stood holding on to True's hand in
the doorway, that Willie said, as soon as they were out of hearing,
“She's a queer little thing, an't she, mother? But I kind
o' like her.”