Kristy's Rainy Day Picnic Part 9

She paused--but not a word was spoken--and in a moment she went on.

"I did not know how to choose between you, for you are all so sweet to me, so I made a plan to find out--with Sam's help--a little about your characteristics. The virtue I prize almost above all others, is--truthfulness, honest, outspoken truth. The bad fish, the salted cream, and the odious spread were tests, and only one of you stood the test and spoke the honest truth. I am glad that _one_ did, for otherwise I should not have found, in my own family, one I could adopt and depend upon."

She paused; not a word was said.

"Ruth," she began again, turning to that confused, and blushing, and utterly amazed girl, "Ruth, will you come to live with me, take the place of a daughter, and occupy that room?"

"You ask _me_?" cried Ruth, "clumsy and awkward as I am! I never dreamed you could want me!"

"I know you did not," said Aunt Betty; "but your habit of truthfulness is far more valuable to me than the deftest fingers or the most finished manners. Will you come?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" cried Ruth, falling on her knees and burying her face in Aunt Betty's lap, while happy tears fell from her eyes, and Aunt Betty gently stroked her hair.

"Well, well," said Jenny, with a sigh, as the two girls walked slowly home, "I always knew Aunt Betty was the crankiest woman in the world, and if Ruth wasn't so perfectly sincere I should almost think that she"--

She paused, and Grace broke in.

"Yes; I'm perfectly sure Ruth is not capable of putting on; besides, we always knew she couldn't deceive to save her life."

"Hush," said mamma, as Kristy was about to speak. "Here comes Mrs.

Wilson."

Mrs. Wilson, the next door neighbor, walked in, explaining that she had come in the rain because she was all alone in her house and was lonely, and seeing Mrs. Crawford sewing by the window, thought she would bring her work and join her.

Mrs. Crawford welcomed her, but Kristy was disturbed. "Mrs. Wilson,"

she began, "don't you think a person ought to keep her promise?"

"Why, certainly," said Mrs. Wilson.

"Kristy! Kristy!" said her mother warningly.

"I'm just going to ask Mrs. Wilson," said Kristy, with a twinkle in her eye, "if she doesn't think you ought to _go_ on telling me stories, when you promised to do it as long as it rained. She likes to hear stories, too, I'm sure."

Mrs. Wilson laughed. "Of course I do, and I shall be delighted, I'm sure. Your mother must be a master hand at the business, for I never knew such a story-lover as you, Kristy."

"I've about told myself out," said Mrs. Crawford. "Kristy, I think you really ought to excuse me now."

"How will it do if I tell you one to rest mamma?" asked Mrs. Wilson.

"I happen to be much interested just now in a story that is still going on in town."

"Do tell it!" said Kristy. "I can get mamma to keep her promise this evening."

Mrs. Wilson laughed, and first taking her sewing out of a bag she carried, she began:--

"It's about the Home we see on the cars, going to the city."

"Oh, yes! where we always see girls in the yard as we go by?" said Kristy.

"Yes; I'll tell you how it began."

Kristy settled herself more comfortably on the lounge, and the story began.

CHAPTER VIII

NORA'S GOOD LUCK

It does not seem very good in the beginning--but you shall see. One cold winter night a man in the city came home crazy with drink. I will not tell you what he did to his trembling daughter who was all the family left, except one thing: he put her out of the house and told her never to come back. It was a very poor house, hardly any comforts in it, but it was the only home the child knew and she was twelve years old. When she was turned out of it, her only thought was to hide herself away where no one could find her.

This was in the edge of the city, and she wandered about a little till she came to a new barn where there was an opening in the foundations big enough for her to crawl in. When she saw this, by the light of the street lamp, she crept into the hole and far back in one corner where she thought no one would ever find her--and there she lay.

The house to which that barn belonged held two boys and a dog, and the next day, when the three were playing together, as they generally were, the dog began to act strangely. He smelled around that hole, then ran in, and barked and growled and seemed much excited.

"I guess there's a cat in there," said one of the boys, calling the dog out. He came, but in a minute rushed back, and barked more and seemed to be pulling at something.

This aroused the curiosity of the boys, who got down by the opening and peered in. It was so dark that they could see nothing, but the dog refusing to come out, they went into the house and brought out a candle, and by the light of that, saw what looked like a bundle of rags, which, however, stirred a little as the dog tugged at it.

Then the boys called to her to come out; they threw sticks to see if she were alive; they tried all ways they could think of, and at last they went away. But soon they came back and men with them. Nora, through half-shut eyes, could see them. She knew their blue coats and bright stars--they were policemen.

They called, they coaxed, they commanded, but she did not move. They found a boy small enough to crawl under the barn, and he went in. He found that she was alive, but she would not speak. Never a wish or a hope crossed the child's mind, except a wish to be let alone.

At last the boy, by the directions of the policemen, pulled her towards the opening. She did not resist--she did not know how to resist; her whole life had been a crushing submission to everything.

Finally the men could reach her, and the poor, little, half-dead figure was brought to the light.

"Poor soul!" said one of the men, almost tenderly. "She's near dead with cold and hunger."

She could not walk. Kind though rough hands carried her to the station house, where a warm fire and a few spoonfuls of broth--hastily procured from a restaurant--brought her wholly back to life, and she sat up in her chair and faced a row of pitying faces with all her young misery.

Little by little her story was drawn from her.

But what to do with her--that was the question. She was not an offender against the law, and this inst.i.tution was not for the protection of misfortune, but for the punishment of crime. They did the best they could. They fed her, made her a comfortable bed on a bench in the station house, and the next morning the whole story went into the papers.

This story was read by a lady of wealth over her morning coffee. She had lately been reading an account of the poor in our large cities, and had begun to think it was her duty to do something to help. With more money than she could use, and not a relative in the world, there was no reason why she should not make at least one child happy, and educate it for a useful life.

On reading the story of Nora, with the added statement that her father had been arrested and placed in a retreat where he would not soon get out, the thought struck her that here was her chance to make the experiment.

After her breakfast, Miss Barnes ordered her carriage and went out.

After driving about a little, she ordered her coachman to drive to the B---- Street police station. He looked astonished, but of course obeyed, and in a short time, the dingy station house received an unusual visitor.

The moment Miss Barnes entered the room, she saw the child, and knew she was the one she had come to see. As for Nora, she had never seen a beautiful, happy-looking woman, and she could not take her eyes off her face.

Miss Barnes asked a few questions. Who was going to take her? Who were her friends? She learned that she had none, that her father had been arrested for vagrancy, and would be sent to the bridewell.