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As may be supposed, the blind girl did not forget our little
Gerty. Emily Graham never forgot the sufferings, the wants,
the necessities, of others. She could not see the world without,
but there was a world of love and sympathy within her, which
manifested itself in abundant benevolence and charity, both of
heart and deed. She lived a life of love. She loved God with
her whole heart, and her neighbor as herself. Her own great
misfortunes and trials could not be helped, and were borne without
repining; but the misfortunes and trials of others became
her care, the alleviation of them her greatest delight. Emily
was never weary of doing good. Many a blessing was called
down upon her head, by young and old, for kindness past; many
a call was made upon her for further aid; and to the call of none
was she ever deaf. But never had she been so touched as now
by any tale of sorrow. Ready listener, as she was, to the story
of grief and trouble, she knew how many children were born into
the world amid poverty and privation; how many were abused,
neglected and forsaken; so that Gerty's experience was not new
to her. But it was something in the child herself that excited
and interested Emily in an unwonted degree. The tones of
her voice, the earnestness and pathos with which she spoke, the
confiding and affectionate manner in which she had clung to her,
the sudden clasping of her hand, and, finally, her vehement outbreak
of grief when she became conscious of Emily's great

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misfortune,—all these things so haunted Miss Graham's recollection,
that she dreamt of the child at night, and thought much of her
by day. She could not account to herself for the interest she
felt in the little stranger; but the impulse to see and know more
of her was irresistible, and, sending for True, she talked a long
time with him about the child.

True was highly gratified by Miss Graham's account of the
meeting in the church, and of the interest the little girl had inspired
in one for whom he felt the greatest admiration and respect.
Gerty had previously told him how she had seen Miss Graham,
and had spoken in the most glowing terms of the dear lady, who
was so kind to her, and brought her home when Mr. Cooper had
forgotten her, but it had not occurred to the old man that the
fancy was mutual.

Emily asked him if he did n't intend to send her to school.

“Well, I don't know,” said he; “she's a little thing, and
an't much used to being with other children. Besides, I don't
exactly like to spare her; I like to see her round.”

Emily suggested that it was time she was learning to read and
write; and that the sooner she went among other children, the
easier it would be to her.

“Very true, Miss Emily, very true,” said Mr. Flint. “I
dare say you're right; and, if you think she'd better go, I'll ask
her, and see what she says.”

“I would,” said Emily. “I think she might enjoy it, besides
improving very much; and, about her clothes, if there's any
deficiency, I'll—”

“O, no, no, Miss Emily!” interrupted True; “there's no
necessity; she's very well on't now, thanks to your kindness.”

“Well,” said Emily, “if she should have any wants, you must
apply to me. You know we adopted her jointly, and I agreed
to do anything I could for her; so you must never hesitate,—it
will be a pleasure to serve either of you. Father always feels
under obligations to you, Mr. Flint, for faithful service, that cost
you dear in the end.”

“O, Miss Emily,” said True, “Mr. Graham has always been
my best friend; and as to that 'ere accident that happened when

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I was in his employ, it was nobody's fault but my own; it was
my own carelessness, and nobody's else.”

“I know you say so,” said Emily, “but we regretted it very
much; and you must n't forget what I tell you, that I shall delight
in doing anything for Gerty. I should like to have her come and
see me, some day, if she would like to, and you'll let her.”

“Sartain, sartain,” said True, “and thank you kindly; she'd
admire to come.”

A few days after, Gerty went with True to see Miss Graham;
but the housekeeper, whom they met in the hall, told them that
she was ill and could see no one. So they went away full of disappointment
and regret.

It proved afterwards that Emily took a severe cold the day
she sat so long in the church, and was suffering with it when they
called; but, though confined to her room, she would have been
glad to have a visit from Gerty, and was sorry and grieved that
Mrs. Ellis should have sent them away so abruptly.

One Saturday evening, when Willie was present, True broached
the subject of Gerty's going to school. Gerty herself was very
much disgusted with the idea; but it met with Willie's warm approbation,
and when Gerty learned that Miss Graham also wished
it, she consented, though rather reluctantly, to begin the next
week, and try how she liked it. So, on the following Monday,
Gerty accompanied True to one of the primary schools, was admitted,
and her education commenced. When Willie came home
the next Saturday, he rushed into True's room, full of eagerness
to hear how Gerty liked going to school. He found her seated at
the table, with her spelling-book; and, as soon as he entered, she
exclaimed, “O, Willie! Willie! come and hear me read!”

Her performance could not properly be called reading. She
had not got beyond the alphabet, and a few syllables which she
had learned to spell; but Willie bestowed upon her much wellmerited
praise, for she had really been very diligent. He was
astonished to hear that Gerty liked going to school, liked the
teacher and the scholars, and had a fine time at recess. He had
fully expected that she would dislike the whole business, and very
probably go into tantrums about it,—which was the expression

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he used to denote her fits of ill-temper. On the contrary, everything,
thus far, had gone well, and Gerty had never looked so
animated and happy as she did this evening. Willie promised to
assist her in her studies; and the two children's literary plans
soon became as high-flown as if one had been a poet-laureate
and the other a philosopher.

For two or three weeks all appeared to go on smoothly. Gerty
went regularly to school, and continued to make rapid progress.
Every Saturday Willie heard her read and spell, assisted, praised
and encouraged her. He had, however, a shrewd suspicion that,
on one or two occasions, she had come near having a brush with
some large girls, for whom she began to show symptoms of dislike.
Whatever the difficulty originated in, it soon reached a crisis.

One day, when the children were assembled in the school-yard,
during recess, Gerty caught sight of True in his working-dress,
just passing down the street, with his ladder and lamp-filler.
Shouting and laughing, she bounded out of the yard,
pursued and overtook him. She came back in a few minutes,
seeming much delighted at the unexpected rencounter, and ran
into the yard out of breath, and full of happy excitement. The
troop of large girls, whom Gerty had already had some reason to
distrust, had been observing her, and, as soon as she returned, one
of them called out, saying,

“Who's that man?”

“That's my Uncle True,” said Gerty.

“Your what?”

“My uncle, Mr. Flint, that I live with.”

“So you belong to him, do you?” said the girl, in an insolent
tone of voice. “Ha! ha! ha!”

“What are you laughing at?” said Gerty, fiercely.

“Ugh! Before I'd live with him!” said the girl, “old
Smutty!”

The other caught it up, and the laugh and epithet Old Smutty
circulated freely in the corner of the yard where Gerty was
standing.

Gerty was furious. Her eyes glistened, she doubled her little
fist, and, without hesitation, came down in battle upon the crowd.

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But they were too many for her, and, helpless as she was with
passion, they drove her out of the yard. She started for home on
a full run, screaming with all her might.

As she flew along the side-walk, she brushed roughly against a
tall and rather stiff-looking lady, who was walking slowly in the
same direction, with another and much smaller person leaning on
her arm.

“Bless me!” said the tall lady, who had almost lost her equilibrium
from her fright and the suddenness of the shock. “Why,
you horrid little creature!” As she spoke, she grasped Gerty by
the shoulder, and, before the child could break away, succeeded in
giving her a slight shake. This served to increase Gerty's anger, and,
her speed gaining in proportion, it was but a few minutes before
she was at home, crouched in a corner of True's room behind the
bed, her face to the wall, and, as usual, on such occasions, covered
with both her hands. Here she was free to cry as loud as she
pleased; for Mrs. Sullivan was gone out, and there was no one in
the house to hear her,—a privilege, indeed, of which she fully
availed herself.

But she had not had time to indulge long in her tantrum, when
the gate at the end of the yard closed with a bang, and footsteps
were heard coming towards Mr. Flint's door. Gerty's attention
was arrested, for she knew by the sound that it was the step of a
stranger who was approaching. With a strong effort, she succeeded,
after one or two convulsive sobs, in so far controlling herself
as to keep quiet. There was a knock at the door, but Gerty
did not reply to it, remaining in her position concealed behind the
bed. The knock was not repeated, but the stranger lifted the
latch and walked in.

“There does n't seem to be any one at home,” said a female
voice; “what a pity!”

“Is n't there? I'm sorry,” replied another, in the sweet,
musical tones of Miss Graham.

Gerty knew the voice, at once.

“I thought you 'd better not come here yourself,” rejoined the
first speaker, who was no other than Mrs. Ellis, the identical lady
whom Gerty had so frightened and disconcerted.

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“O, I don't regret coming,” said Emily. “You can leave me
here while you go to your sister's, and very likely Mr. Flint or
the little girl will come home in the mean time.”

“It don't become you, Miss Emily, to be carried round everywhere,
and left, like an expressman's parcel, till called for. You
caught a horrid cold, that you're hardly well of now, waiting
there in the church for the minister; and Mr. Graham will be
finding fault next.”

“O, no, Mrs. Ellis; it's very comfortable here; the church
must have been damp, I think. Come, put me in Mr. Flint's
arm-chair, and I can make myself quite contented.”

“Well, at any rate,” said Mrs. Ellis, “I'll make up a good fire
in this stove before I go.”

As she spoke, the energetic housekeeper seized the poker, and,
after stirring up the coals, and making free with all True's kindling-wood,
waited long enough to hear the roaring and see the
blaze; and then, having laid aside Emily's cloak and boa, went
away with the same firm, steady step with which she had come,
and which had so overpowered Emily's noiseless tread, that Gerty
had only anticipated the arrival of a single guest. As soon as
Gerty knew, by the swinging of the gate, that Mrs. Ellis had
really departed, she suspended her effort at self-control, and, with
a deep-drawn sigh, gasped out, “O, dear! O, dear!”

“Why, Gerty!” exclaimed Emily, “is that you?”

“Yes,” sobbed Gerty.

“Come here.”

The child waited no second bidding, but, starting up, ran,
threw herself on the floor by the side of Emily, buried her face in
the blind girl's lap, and once more commenced crying aloud. By
this time her whole frame was trembling with agitation.

“Why, Gerty!” said Emily; “what is the matter?”

But Gerty could not reply; and Emily, finding this to be the
case, desisted from her inquiries until the little one should be
somewhat composed. She lifted Gerty up into her lap, laid her
head upon her shoulder, and with her own handkerchief wiped the
tears from her face.

Her soothing words and caresses soon quieted the child; and

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when she was calm, Emily, instead of recurring at once to the
cause of her grief, very judiciously questioned her upon other
topics. At last, however, she asked, her if she went to school.

“I have been,” said Gerty, raising her head suddenly from
Emily's shoulder; “but I won't ever go again!”

“What!—Why not?”

“Because,” said Gerty, angrily, “I hate those girls; yes, I
hate 'em! ugly things!”

“Gerty,” said Emily, “don't say that; you should n't hate
anybody.”

“Why should n't I?” said Gerty.

“Because it's wrong.”

“No, it's not wrong; I say it is n't!” said Gerty; “and I do
hate 'em; and I hate Nan Grant, and I always shall! Don't you
hate anybody?”

“No,” answered Emily; “I don't.”

“Did anybody ever drown your kitten? Did anybody ever
call your father Old Smutty?” said Gerty. “If they had, I know
you'd hate 'em, just as I do.”

“Gerty,” said Emily, solemnly,- “did n't you tell me, the other
day, that you were a naughty child, but that you wished to be
good, and would try?”

“Yes,” said Gerty.

“If you wish to become good and be forgiven, you must forgive
others.”

Gerty said nothing.

“Do you not wish God to forgive and love you?”

“God, that lives in heaven,—that made the stars?” said Gerty.

“Yes.”

“Will he love me, and let me some time go to heaven?”

“Yes, if you try to be good, and love everybody.”

“Miss Emily,” said Gerty, after a moment's pause, “I can't
do it,—so I s'pose I can't go.”

Just at this moment a tear fell upon Gerty's forehead. She
looked thoughtfully up in Emily's face, then said,

“Dear Miss Emily, are you going?”

“I am trying to.”

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“I should like to go with you,” said Gerty, shaking her head,
meditatively.

Still Emily did not speak. She left the child to the working
of her own thoughts.

“Miss Emily,” said Gerty, at last, in the lowest whisper, “I
mean to try, but I don't think I can.”

“God bless you, and help you, my child!” said Emily, laying
her hand upon Gerty's head.

For fifteen minutes, or more, not a word was spoken by either.
Gerty lay perfectly still in Emily's lap. By and by the latter
perceived, by the child's breathing, that, worn out with the fever
and excitement of all she had gone through, she had dropped into
a quiet sleep. When Mrs. Ellis returned, Emily pointed to the
sleeping child, and asked her to place her on the bed. She did
so, wonderingly; and then, turning to Emily, exclaimed, “Upon
my word, Miss Emily, that's the same rude, bawling little creature,
that came so near being the death of us!” Emily smiled
at the idea of a child eight years old overthrowing and annihilating
a woman of Mrs. Ellis' inches, but said nothing.

Why did Emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene
of the morning? Why did she, on bended knee, wrestle so
vehemently with a mighty sorrow? Why did she pray so earnestly
for new strength and heavenly aid? Why did she so
beseechingly ask of God his blessing on the little child? Because
she had felt, in many a year of darkness and bereavement, in
many an hour of fearful struggle, in many a pang of despair,
how a temper like that which Gerty had this day shown might,
in one moment of its fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime,
and write in fearful lines the mournful requiem of earthly joy.
And so she prayed to Heaven that night for strength to keep her
firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying purpose, to cure
that child of her dark infirmity.

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