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The next day was Sunday. True was in the habit of going to
church half the day at least, with the sexton's family; but Gerty,
having no bonnet, could not go, and True would not leave her.
So they spent the morning together, wandering round among the
wharves and looking at the ships, Gerty wearing her old shawl
pinned over her head. In the afternoon, True fell asleep by the
fireside, and Gerty played with the cat.

Willie came in the evening; but it was only to say good-by,
before going back to Mr. Bray's. He was in a hurry, and could
not stop at all; for his master had a sober household, and liked to
have his doors closed early, especially Sunday night. Old Mr.
Cooper, however, made his usual visit; and, when he had gone,
True, finding Gerty sound asleep on the settle, thought it a
pity to wake her, and laid her in bed with her clothes on.

She did not wake until morning; and then, much surprised and
amused at finding herself dressed, sprung up and ran out to ask
True how it happened. True was busy making the fire; and
Gerty, having received satisfactory answers to her numerous inquiries,—
when and where she fell asleep, and how she came in
bed,—applied herself earnestly to help in every possible way
about getting the breakfast, and putting the room in order. She
followed Mrs. Sullivan's instructions, all of which she remembered,
and showed a wonderful degree of capability in everything
she undertook. In the course of the few following weeks, during
which her perseverance held out surprisingly, she learned how to
make herself useful in many ways, and, as Mrs. Sullivan had

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prophesied, gave promise of becoming, one day, quite a clever
little housekeeper. Of course, the services she performed were
trifling; but her active and willing feet saved True a great
many steps, and shew as of essential aid in keeping the rooms
neat, that being her especial ambition. She felt that Mrs. Sullivan
expected her, now that the dust and cobwebs were all cleared
away, to take care that they should not accumulate again; and
it was quite an amusing sight, every day, when True had gone
out as usual to fill and clean the street-lamps, to see the little
girl diligently laboring with an old broom, the handle of which
was cut short to make it more suitable for her use. Mrs. Sullivan
looked in occasionally, to praise and assist her; and nothing
made Gerty happier than learning how to do some new thing. She
met with a few trials and discouragements, to be sure. In two
or three instances the toast got burned to a cinder; and, worse
still, she one day broke a painted teacup, over which she shed
many a tear; but, as True never thought of blaming her for anything,
she forgot her misfortunes, and experience made her
careful.

Kate McCarty thought her the smartest child in the world, and
would sometimes come in and wash up the floor, or do some other
work, which required more strength or skill than Gerty possessed.

Prompted by her ambition to equal Mrs. Sullivan's expectations,
and still more by her desire to be useful to True, and in some
degree manifest her love to him by her labors, Gerty was usually
patient, good-natured and obliging. So very indulgent was True,
that he rarely indeed laid a command upon the child, leaving her
to take her own course, and have her own way; but, undisciplined
as she was, she willingly yielded obedience to one who never
thwarted her, and the old man seldom saw her exhibit in his
presence that violent temper, which, when roused, knew no restraint.
She had little to irritate her in the quiet home she now
enjoyed; but instances sometimes occurred which proved that the
fire of her little spirit was not quenched, or its evil propensities
extinguished.

One Sunday, Gerty, who had now a nice little hood which True
had bought for her, was returning with Mr. Cooper, Mr. Flint and

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Willie, from the afternoon service at church. The two old men
were engaged in one of their lengthy discussions, and the children,
having fallen into the rear, had been talking earnestly about the
church, the minister, the people and the music, all of which were
new to Gerty, and greatly excited her wonder and astonishment.

As they drew near home, Willie remarked how dark it was
growing in the streets; and then, looking down at Gerty, whom
he held by the hand, he said, “Gerty, do you ever go out with
Uncle True, and see him light the lamps?”

“No, I never did,” said Gerty, “since the first night I came.
I've wanted to, but it's been so cold Uncle True would not let
me; he said I'd just catch the fever again.”

“It won't be cold this evening,” said Willie; “it'll be a
beautiful night; and, if Uncle True's willing, let's you and I go
with him. I've often been, and it's first rate; you can look into
the windows and see folks drinking tea, and sitting all round the
fire in the parlors.”

“And I like to see him light those great lamps,” interrupted
Gerty; “they make it look so bright and beautiful all round. I
hope he'll let us go; I'll ask him; come,” said she, pulling him
by the hand; “let's catch up with them and ask him now.”

“No,—wait;” said Willie; “he's busy talking with grandpa;
and we're almost home,—we can ask him then.”

He could hardly restrain her impatience, however; and, as soon
as they reached the gate, she suddenly broke away from him, and,
rushing up to True, made known her request. The plan was willingly
acceded to, and the three soon started on the rounds.

For some time Gerty's attention was so wholly engrossed by the
lamplighting that she could see and enjoy nothing else. But,
when they reached the corner of the street, and came in sight of
a large apothecary's shop, her delight knew no bounds. The brilliant
colors displayed in the windows, now for the first time seen
by the evening light, completely captivated her fancy; and when
Willie told her that his master's shop was very similar, she
thought it must be a fine place to spend one's life in. Then
she wondered why this was open on Sunday, when all the other
stores were closed; and Willie, stopping to explain the matter to

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her, and to gratify her curiosity on many other points, found, when
they again started on their way, that True was some distance in
advance of them. He hurried Gerty along, telling her that they
were now in the finest street they should pass through, and that
they must make haste, for they had nearly reached the house he
most wanted her to see. When they came up with True, he
was just placing his ladder against a post opposite a fine block of
buildings. Many of the front windows were shaded, so that the
children could not see in; some, however, either had no curtains,
or they had not yet been drawn. In one parlor there was a
pleasant wood-fire, around which a group were gathered; and here
Gerty would fain have lingered. Again, in another, a brilliant
chandelier was lit, and though the room was vacant, the furniture
was so showy, and the whole so brilliant, that the child clapped
her hands in delight, and Willie could not prevail upon her to
leave the spot, until he told her that further down the street was
another house, equally attractive, where she would perhaps see
some beautiful children.

“How do you know there'll be children there?” said she, as
they walked along.

“I don't know, certainly,” said Willie; “but I think there
will. They used always to be up at the window, when I came
with Uncle True, last winter.”

“How many?” asked Gerty.

“Three, I believe; there was one little girl with such beautiful
curls, and such a sweet, cunning little face. She looked like a
wax doll, only a great deal prettier.”

“O, I hope we shall see her!” said Gerty, dancing along on
the tops of her toes, so full was she of excitement and pleasure.

“There they are!” exclaimed Willie; “all three, I declare,
just as they used to be!”

“Where?” said Gerty; “where?”

“Over opposite, in the great stone house. Here, let's cross
over. It's muddy; I'll carry you.”

Willie lifted Gerty carefully over the mud, and they stood in
front of the house. True had not yet come up. It was he that the

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children were watching for. Gerty was not the only child that
loved to see the lamps lit.

It was now quite dark, so that persons in a light room could
not see any one out of doors; but Willie and Gerty had so
much the better chance to look in. It was indeed a fine mansion,
evidently the home of wealth. A clear coal-fire, and a bright
lamp in the centre of the room, shed abroad their cheerful blaze.
Rich carpets, deeply-tinted curtains, pictures in gilded frames,
and huge mirrors, reflecting the whole on every side, gave Gerty
her first impressions of luxurious life. There was an air of comfort
combined with all this elegance, which made it still more fascinating
to the child of poverty and want. A table was bountifully
spread for tea; the cloth of snow-white damask, the shining plute,
above all, the home-like hissing tea-kettle, had a most inviting
look. A gentleman in gay slippers was in an easy-chair by the
fire; a lady in a gay cap was superintending a servant-girl's
arrangements at the tea-table, and the children of the household,
smiling and happy, were crowded together on a window-seat, looking
out, as we have said.

They were, as Willie had described them, sweet, lovely-looking
little creatures; especially a girl, about the same age as Gerty, the
eldest of the three. Her fair hair fell in long ringlets over a neck
as white as snow; she had blue eyes, a cherub face, and a little
round, plump figure. Gerty's admiration and rapture were such
that she could find no expression for them, except in jumping
up and down, shouting, laughing, and directing Willie's notice
first to one thing and then another.

“O, Willie! is n't she a darling? and see what a beautiful
fire,—what a splendid lady! And look! look at the father's
shoes! What is that on the table? I guess it's good! There's
a big looking-glass; and O, Willie! an't they dear little handsome
children?”

In all her exclamations, she began and ended with her praises
of the children. Willie was quite satisfied; Gerty was as much
pleased as he had expected or wished.

True now came up, and, as his torch-light swept along the side-walk,
Gerty and Willie became, in their turn, the subjects of

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notice and conversation. The little curly-haired girl saw them,
and pointed them out to the notice of the other two. Though
Gerty could not know what they were saying, she did not like
the idea of being stared at and talked about; and, hiding behind
the post, she would not move or look up, though Willie laughed
at her, and told her it was now her turn to be looked at. When
True took up his ladder, however, and started to move off, she
commenced following him at a run, so as to escape observation;
but Willie calling to her, and saying that the children were gone
from the window, she ran back as quickly to have one more look,
and was just in time to see them taking their places at the tea-table.
The next instant the servant-girl came and drew down the window-shades.
Gerty then took Willie's hand again, and they hastened
on once more to overtake True.

“Should n't you like to live in such a house as that, Gerty?”
said Willie.

“Yes, indeed,” said Gerty; “an't it splendid?”

“I wish I had just such a house,” said Willie. “I mean to,
one of these days.”

“Where will you get it?” exclaimed Gerty, much amazed at
so bold a declaration.

“O, I shall work, and grow rich, and buy it.”

“You can't; it would take a lot o' money.”

“I know it; but I can earn a lot, and I mean to. The gentleman
that lives in that grand house was a poor boy when he
first came to Boston; and why can't one poor boy get rich, as well
as another?”

“How do you suppose he got so much money?”

“I don't know how he did; there are a good many ways.
Some people think it's all luck, but I guess it's as much smartness
as anything.”

“Are you smart?”

Willie laughed. “An't I?” said he. “If I don't turn out
a rich man, one of these days, you may say I an't.”

“I know what I'd do, if I was rich,” said Gerty.

“What?” asked Willie.

“First, I'd buy a great, nice chair, for Uncle True, with

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cushions all in the inside, and bright flowers on it,—just exactly
like that one the gentleman was sitting in; and next, I'd have
great big lamps, ever so many all in a bunch, so's to make the
room as light—as light as it could be!”

“Seems to me you 're mighty fond of lights, Gerty,” said
Willie.

“I be,” said the child. “I hate old, dark, black places; I
like stars, and sunshine, and fires, and Uncle True's torch—”

“And I like bright eyes!” interrupted Willie; “Yours look
just like stars, they shine so to-night. An't we having a good
time?”

“Yes, real.”

And so they went on. Gerty jumping and dancing along the
side-walk, Willie sharing in her gayety and joy, and glorying
in the responsibility of entertaining and at the same time protecting
the wild little creature. They talked much of how they
would spend that future wealth which, in their buoyant hopefulness,
they both fully calculated upon one day possessing; for
Gerty had caught Willie's spirit, and she, too, meant to work and
grow rich. Willie told Gerty of the many plans he had for surrounding
his mother and grandfather, and even herself and Uncle
True, with every comfort and luxury he had ever heard or dreamt
of. Among other things, his mother was to wear a gay cap, like
that of the lady they had seen through the window; and at this
Gerty had a great laugh. She had an innate perception of the
fact that the quiet, demure little widow would be ridiculous in
a flowered head-gear. Good taste is inborn, and Gerty had it
in her. She felt that Mrs. Sullivan, attired in anything that
was not simple, neat and sober-looking, would altogether lose
her identity. Willie had no selfish schemes; the generous boy
suggested nothing for his own gratification; it was for the rest
he meant to labor, and in and through them that he looked for
his reward. Happy children! happy as children only can be!
What do they want of wealth? What of anything, material and
tangible, more than they now possess? They have what is
worth more than riches or fame. They are full of childhood's
faith and hope. With a fancy and imagination unchecked by

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disappointment, they are building those same castles that so many
thousand children have built before,—that children always will be
building, to the end of time. Far off in the distance, they see
bright things, and know not what myths they are. High up they
rise, and shine, and glitter; and the little ones fix their eyes on
them, overlook the rough, dark places that lie between, see not
the perils of the way, suspect not the gulfs and snares into which
many are destined to fall; but, confident of gaining the glorious
goal, they set forth on the way rejoicing. Blessings on that
childhood's delusion, if such it be. Undeceive not the little
believers, ye wise ones! Check not that God-given hopefulness,
which will, perhaps, in its airy flight, lift them in safety over
many a rough spot in life's road. It lasts not long, at the best;
then check it not, for as it dies out the way grows hard.

One source of the light-heartedness that Willie and Gerty
experienced undoubtedly lay in the disinterestedness and generosity
of the emotion which occupied them; for, in the plans they
formed, neither seemed actuated by selfish motives. They were
both filled with the desire to contribute to the comfort of their
more aged friends. It was a beautiful spirit of grateful love which
each manifested,—a spirit in a great degree natural to both. In
Willie, however, it had been so fostered by pious training that
it partook of the nature of a principle; while in Gerty it was a
mere impulse; and, alas for poor human nature, when swayed by
its own passions alone! The poor little girl had—as who has
not?—other less pleasing impulses; and, if the former needed
encouraging and strengthening, so did the latter require to be
uprooted and destroyed.

They had reached the last lamp-post in the street, and now
turned another corner; but scarcely had they gone a dozen steps,
before Gerty stopped short, and, positively refusing to proceed
any further, pulled hard at Willie's hand, and tried to induce
him to retrace his steps.

“What's the matter, Gerty?” said he; “are you tired?”

“No, O no! but I can't go any further.”

“Why not?”

“O, because—because—” and here Gerty lowered her voice,

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and, putting her mouth close to Willie's ear, whispered,—“there
is Nan Grant's; I see the house! I had forgot Uncle True went
there; and I can't go,—I'm afraid!”

“Oho!” said Willie, drawing himself up with dignity, “I
should like to know what you're afraid of, when I'm with you!
Let her touch you, if she dares! And Uncle True, too!—I
should laugh.” Very kindly and pleasantly did Willie plead with
the child, telling her that Nan would not be likely to see them,
but that perhaps they should see her; and that was just what he
wanted,—nothing he should like better. Gerty's fears were
easily allayed. She was not naturally timid; it was only the
suddenness of the shock she received, on recognizing her old home,
that had revived, with full force, her dread and horror of Nan.
It needed but little reasoning to assure her of the perfect safety
of her present position; and her fears soon gave place to the
desire to point out to Willie her former persecutor. So, by the
time they stood in front of the house, she was rather hoping, than
otherwise, to catch sight of Nan. And never had any one a
fairer chance to be looked at than Nan at that moment. She
was standing opposite the window, engaged in an animated
dispute with one of her neighbors. Her countenance expressed
angry excitement; and, an ill-looking woman at best, her face
now was so sufficient an index to her character, that no one could
see her thus and afterwards question her right to the title of
vixen, virago, scold, or anything else that conveys the same idea.

“Which is she?” said Willie; “the tall one, swinging the
coffee-pot in her hand? I guess she'll break the handle off, if
she don't look out.”

“Yes,” said Gerty, “that's Nan.”

“What's she doing?”

“O, she's fighting with Miss Birch; she does most always
with somebody. She don't see us, does she?”

“No, she's too busy. Come, don't let's stop; she's an uglylooking
woman, just as I knew she was. I've seen enough of
her, and I'm sure you have,—come.”

But Gerty lingered. Courageous in the knowledge that she
was safe and unseen, she was attentively gazing at Nan, and her

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eyes glistened, not, as a few minutes before, with the healthy and
innocent excitement of a cheerful heart, but with the fire of
kindled passion,—a fire that Nan had kindled long ago, which
had not yet gone out, and which the sight of Nan had now revived
in full force. Willie, thinking it was time to be hurrying home,
and perceiving once more that Mr. Flint and his torch were far
down the street, now left Gerty, and started himself, as an expedient
to draw her on, saying, at the same time, “Come, Gerty, I
can't wait.”

Gerty turned, saw that he was going, then, quick as lightning,
stooped, and, picking up a stone from the side-walk, flung it at
the window. There was a crash of broken glass, and an exclamation
in Nan's well-known voice; but Gerty was not there to
see the result of her work. The instant the stone had left her
hand, and she heard the crash, her fears all returned, and, flying
past Willie, she paused not until she was safe by the side of True.
Willie did not overtake them until they were nearly home, and
then came running up, exclaiming, breathlessly, “Why, Gerty, do
you know what you did?—You broke the window!”

Gerty jerked her shoulders from side to side to avoid Willie,
pouted, and declared that was what she meant to do.

True now inquired what window; and Gerty unhesitatingly
acknowledged what she had done, and avowed that she did it on
purpose. True and Willie were shocked and silent. Gerty was
silent, too, for the rest of the walk; there were clouds on her face,
and she felt unhappy in her little heart. She did not understand
herself, or her own sensations: we may not say how far she was
responsible for them, but this much is certain, her face alone
betrayed that, as evil took violent possession of her soul, peace
and pleasantness fled away. Poor child! how much she needs to
learn the truth! God grant that the inward may one day become
as dear to her as now the outward light!

Willie bade them good-night at the house-door, and, as usual,
they saw no more of him for a week.

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