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“Father,” said Mrs. Sullivan, one afternoon, as he was preparing
to go out and to take with him a number of articles which he
wanted for his Saturday's work in the church, “why don't you
get little Gerty to go with you, and carry some of your things?
You can't take them all at once; and she'd like to go, I know.”

“She'd only be in the way,” said Mr. Cooper; “I can take
them myself.”

But when he had swung a lantern and an empty coal-hod on
one arm, taken a little hatchet and a basket of kindlings in his
hand, and hoisted a small ladder over his shoulder, he was fain to
acknowledge that there was no accommodation for his hammer
and a large paper of nails.

So Mrs. Sullivan called Gerty, and asked her to go to the
church with Mr. Cooper, and help him carry his tools.

Gerty was very much pleased with the proposal, and, taking
the hammer and nails, started off with great alacrity.

When they reached the church, the old sexton took them from
her hands, and, telling her she could play about until he went
home, but to be sure and do no mischief, left her and went down
into the vestry-room to commence there his operation of sweeping,
dusting, and building fires. Gerty was thus left to her own
amusement; and ample amusement she found it, for some time, to
wander round among the empty aisles and pews, and examine
closely what, hitherto, she had only viewed from a corner of the
gallery. Then she ascended the pulpit, and in imagination

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addressed a large audience. She was just beginning to grow
weary and restless, however, when the organist, who had entered
unperceived, commenced playing some low, sweet music; and
Gerty, seating herself on the pulpit-stairs, listened with the
greatest attention and pleasure. He had not played long before
the door at the foot of the broad aisle opened, and a couple of
visitors entered, in observing whom Gerty was soon wholly engrossed.
One was an elderly man, dressed like a clergyman,
short and spare, with hair thin and gray, forehead high, and features
rather sharp; but, though a plain man, remarkable for his
calm and benignant expression of countenance. A young lady,
apparently about twenty-five years of age, was leaning on his
arm. She was attired with great simplicity, wearing a dark-brown
cloak, and a bonnet of the same color, relieved by some light-blue
ribbon about the face. The only article of her dress which was
either rich or elegant was some beautiful dark fur, fastened at her
throat with a costly enamelled slide. She was somewhat below
the middle size, but had a pleasing and well-rounded figure. Her
features were small and regular; her complexion clear, though
rather pale; and her light-brown hair was most neatly and carefully
arranged. She never lifted her eyes as she walked slowly
up the aisle, and the long lashes nearly swept her cheek.

The two approached the spot where Gerty sat, but without
perceiving her. “I am glad you like the organ,” said the gentleman;
“I'm not much of a judge of music, myself, but they say
it is a superior instrument, and that Hermann plays it remarkably
well.”

“Nor is my opinion of any value,” said the lady; “for I have
very little knowledge of music, much as I love it. But that symphony
sounds very delightful to me; it is a long time since I have
heard such touching strains; or, it may be, it is partly owing to
their striking so sweetly on the solemn quiet of the church, this
afternoon. I love to go into a large church on a week-day. It
was very kind in you to call for me this afternoon. How came
you to think of it?”

“I thought you would enjoy it, my dear. I knew Hermann
would be playing about this time; and, besides, when I saw how

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pale you were looking, it seemed to me the walk would do you
good.”

“It has done me good. I was not feeling well, and the clear
cold air was just what I needed; I knew it would refresh me;
but Mrs. Ellis was busy, and I could not, you know, go out alone.”

“I thought I should find Mr. Cooper, the sexton, here,” said
the gentleman. “I want to speak to him about the light; the
afternoons are so short now, and it grows dark so early, I must
ask him to open more of the blinds, or I cannot see to read my
sermon to-morrow. Perhaps he is in the vestry-room; he is
always somewhere about here on Saturday; I think I had better
go and look for him.”

Just then Mr. Cooper entered the church, and, seeing the clergyman,
came up, and, after receiving his directions about the
light, seemed to request him to accompany him somewhere; for
the gentleman hesitated, glanced at the young lady, and then
said, “I suppose I ought to go to-day; and, as you say you are
at leisure, it is a pity I should not; but I don't know—”

Then, turning to the lady, he said, “Emily, Mr. Cooper wants
me to go to Mrs. Glass' with him; and I suppose I should have
to be absent some time. Do you think you should mind waiting
here until I return? She lives in the next street; but I may be
detained, for it's about that matter of the library-books being
so mischievously defaced, and I am very much afraid that oldest
boy of hers had something to do with it. It ought to be inquired
into before to-morrow, and I can hardly walk so far as this again
to-night, or I would not think of leaving you.”

“O! go, by all means,” said Emily; “don't mind me; it will
be a pleasure to sit here and listen to the music. Mr. Hermann's
playing is a great treat to me, and I don't care how long I wait;
so I beg you won't hurry on my account, Mr. Arnold.”

Thus assured, Mr. Arnold concluded to go; and, having first
led the lady to a chair beneath the pulpit, went away with Mr.
Cooper.

All this time Gerty had been quite unnoticed, and had remained
very quiet on the upper stair, a little secured from sight
by the pulpit. Hardly had the doors closed, however, with a

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loud bang, when the child got up, and began to descend the stairs.
The moment she moved, the lady, whose seat was very near,
started, and exclaimed, rather suddenly, “Who's that?”

Gerty stood quite still, and made no reply. Strangely enough,
the lady did not look up, though she must have perceived that the
movement was above her head. There was a moment's pause,
and then Gerty began again to run down the stairs. This time
the lady sprung up, and, stretching out her hand, said, as quickly
as before, “Who is it?”

“Me,” said Gerty, looking up in the lady's face; “it's only me.”

“Will you stop and speak to me?” said the lady.

Gerty not only stopped, but came close up to Emily's chair,
irresistibly attracted by the music of the sweetest voice she had
ever heard. The lady placed her hand on Gerty's head, drew
her towards her, and said, “Who are you?”

“Gerty.”

“Gerty who?”

“Nothing else but Gerty.”

“Have you forgotten your other name?”

“I haven't got any other name.”

“How came you here?”

“I came with Mr. Cooper, to help him bring his things.”

“And he's left you here to wait for him, and I'm left too; so
we must take care of each other, mustn't we?”

Gerty laughed at this.

“Where were you?—On the stairs?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose you sit down on this step by my chair, and talk with
me a little while; I want to see if we can't find out what your
other name is. Where do you say you live?”

“With Uncle True.”

“True?”

“Yes. Mr. True Flint, I live with now. He took me home
to his house, one night, when Nan Grant put me out on the side-walk.”

“Why! are you that little girl? Then I've heard of you
before. Mr. Flint told me all about you.”

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“Do you know my Uncle True?”

“Yes, very well.”

“What's your name?”

“My name is Emily Graham.”

“O! I know,” said Gerty, springing suddenly up, and clapping
her hands together; “I know. You asked him to keep me;
he said so,—I heard him say so; and you gave me my clothes;
and you're beautiful; and you're good; and I love you! O!
I love you ever so much!”

As Gerty spoke with a voice full of excitement, a strange look
passed over Miss Graham's face, a most inquiring and restless
look, as if the tones of the voice had vibrated on a chord of her
memory. She did not speak, but, passing her arm round the
child's waist, drew her closer to her. As the peculiar expression
passed away from her face, and her features assumed their usual
calm composure, Gerty, as she gazed at her with a look of wonder
(a look which the child had worn during the whole of the conversation),
exclaimed, at last, “Are you going to sleep?”

“No.—Why?”

“Because your eyes are shut.”

“They are always shut, my child.”

“Always shut!—What for?”

“I am blind, Gerty; I can see nothing.”

“Not see!” said Gerty; “can't you see anything? Can't you
see me now?”

“No,” said Miss Graham.

“O!” exclaimed Gerty, drawing a long breath, “I'm so
glad.”

“Glad!” said Miss Graham, in the saddest voice that ever was
heard.

“O, yes!” said Gerty, “so glad you can't see me!—because
now, perhaps, you'll love me.”

“And shouldn't I love you if I saw you?” said Emily, passing
her hand softly and slowly over the child's features.

“O, no!” answered Gerty; “I'm so ugly! I'm glad you
can't see how ugly I am.”

“But just think, Gerty,” said Emily, in the same sad voice,

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“how would you feel if you could not see
anything in the world?”

“Can't you see the sun, and the stars, and the sky, and the
church we're in? Are you in the dark?”

“In the dark, all the time, day and night in the dark.”

Gerty burst into a paroxysm of tears. “O!” exclaimed she,
as soon as she could find voice amid her sobs, “it's too bad! it's
too bad!”

The child's grief was contagious; and, for the first time for
years, Emily wept bitterly for her blindness.

It was for but a few moments, however. Quickly recovering
herself, she tried to compose the child also, saying, “Hush! hush!
don't cry; and don't say it's too bad! It's not too bad; I can
bear it very well. I'm used to it, and am quite happy.”

“I shouldn't be happy in the dark; I should hate to be!”
said Gerty. “I an't glad you're blind; I'm real sorry. I wish
you could see me and everything. Can't your eyes be opened,
any way?”

“No,” said Emily, “never; but we won't talk about that any
more; we'll talk about you. I want to know what makes you
think yourself so very ugly.”

“Because folks say that I'm an ugly child, and that nobody
loves ugly children.”

“Yes, people do,” said Emily, “love ugly children, if they are
good.”

“But I an't good,” said Gerty; “I'm real bad!”

“But you can be good,” said Emily, “and then everybody will
love you.”

“Do you think I can be good?”

“Yes, if you try.”

“I will try.”

“I hope you will,” said Emily. “Mr. Flint thinks a great
deal of his little girl, and she must do all she can to please him.”

She then went on to make inquiries concerning Gerty's former
way of life, and became so much interested in the recital of the
little girl's early sorrows and trials, that she was unconscious of
the flight of time, and quite unobservant of the departure of the

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organist, who had ceased playing, closed his instrument, and gone
away.

Gerty was very communicative. Always a little shy of strangers
at first, she was nevertheless easily won by kind words; and,
in the present case, the sweet voice and sympathetic tones of
Emily went straight to her heart. Singularly enough, though
her whole life had been passed among the poorer, and almost the
whole of it among the lowest class of people, she seemed to feel
none of that awe and constraint which might be supposed natural,
on her encountering, for the first time, one who, born and bred
amid affluence and luxury, showed herself, in every word and
motion, a lady of polished mind and manners. On the contrary,
Gerty clung to Emily as affectionately, and stroked her soft boa
with as much freedom, as if she had herself been born in a palace,
and cradled in sable fur. Once or twice she took Emily's
nicely-gloved hand between both her own, and held it tight; her
favorite mode of expressing her enthusiastic warmth of gratitude
and admiration. The excitable but interesting child took no less
strong a hold upon Miss Graham's feelings. The latter saw at
once how totally neglected the little one had been, and the importance
of her being educated and trained with care, lest early
abuse, acting upon an impetuous disposition, should prove destructive
to a nature capable of the best attainments. The two were
still entertaining each other, and, as we have said, unconscious of
the lateness of the hour, when Mr. Arnold entered the church
hastily, and somewhat out of breath. As he came up the aisle,
when he was yet some way off he called to Emily, saying,
“Emily, dear, I'm afraid you thought I had forgotten you, I
have been gone so much longer than I intended. Were you not
quite tired and discouraged?”

“Have you been gone long?” replied Emily. “I thought it
was but a very little while; I have had company, you see.”

“What, little folks!” said Mr. Arnold, good-naturedly.
“Where did this little body come from?”

“She came to the church this afternoon, with Mr. Cooper.
Isn't he here for her?”

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“Cooper?—No: he went straight home, after he left me; he's
probably forgotten all about the child. What's to be done?”

“Can't we take her home? Is it far?”

“It is two or three streets from here, and directly out of our
way; altogether too far for you to walk.”

“O no, it won't tire me; I'm quite strong now, and I wouldn't
but know she was safe home, on any account. I'd rather get a
little fatigued.”

If Emily could but have seen Gerty's grateful face that moment,
she would indeed have felt repayed for almost any amount
of weariness.

So they went home with Gerty, and Emily kissed Gerty at the
gate; and Gerty was a happy child that night.

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