Stories of Many Lands Part 13

With her feelings a good deal hurt, and her feet benumbed with cold, poor Bessie tottered on, she knew not whither. Happily, at the very next corner, she encountered another policeman,--a cheery, kindly, family-looking man. To him Bessie sobbed out her piteous story; and he, having a little girl of his own at home, was touched by her distress, and, looking into the clear depths of her innocent blue eyes, believed her. Immediately calling a cab he put her in, and got in himself, and taking off his warm blue overcoat, wrapped her in it, which was the street guardian-angel's way of brooding; and so they went away up town, to a large brown-stone house on Madison Avenue,--Bessie's home,--where they found everybody in great distress. Papa and mamma were almost wild with anxiety, for Bessie had been gone four long hours, and a dozen police officers were already searching for her, and street-criers were tramping up and down, ringing bells, and shouting dismally, "A child l-o-s-t!"

Mr. and Mrs. Raeburn with difficulty recognized their daughter in her ragged disguise. They were shocked by her appearance, fearing she might be made ill by the exposure. They were pained and indignant at hearing all she had suffered, but they both said it would prove a good experience, if it should teach her to be less rash, venturesome, and self-a.s.sured. They hoped, they said, it would cure her of forming secret schemes, even of benevolence, and of an unchildlike ambition to act in matters of importance independent of the aid and advice of her parents. It did all this, I believe; and if you care to hear, I will tell you, by and by, what other good thing came out of that Christmas adventure.

That night, Bessie Raeburn added to her usual prayer these words: "O Father in Heaven, I thank thee more than ever for my warm bed, and everything so comfortable. Forgive me for running off, and giving dear papa and mamma so much trouble. Make those wicked people sorry for what they have done, and then forgive _them_. And please put it into Mrs. Magee's heart to send home my m.u.f.f, if she keeps all the other things. And bless my good policeman, and pity and help poor Molly Magee. Amen."

CHAPTER II.

Little Bessie Raeburn never got back her darling m.u.f.f, nor any other article of her stolen wardrobe. Her friend the good policeman, and other officers, searched diligently for the dismal den of thieves to which she had been led; but either they failed to find the exact spot, or the wretched family had removed. When all search was abandoned, Bessie was sadly disappointed, not because they had failed to recover her pretty street dress, as her loss had been at once made up to her by her kind parents, but that they had failed to find Molly Magee. For ever since her adventure, Bessie had cherished a humane and romantic desire to save and befriend that poor little mendicant, whose pity for her, and vain intercession in her behalf, had touched her heart.

"She is so different from the others, mamma," she would say, "I do believe she was changed in her cradle by some wicked nurse, if there are not any such things as malignant fairies. O, I 'm so sorry I can't believe in fairies any more, they were so convenient; we could account for so many things that way; but it is n't sensible and religious to believe in them, so I won't. But, mamma, what was I saying? O, I do believe that some wicked nurse changed her in her cradle,--took her from some beautiful mamma and a great fine house to Mrs. Magee's dreadful h.o.m.o, and took back a little Magee and put in her place. And may be her name is n't Molly Magee after all, but Lilly Livingston, or Isabella Van Rensselaer, or Gertrude Stuyvesant, and--"

"Stop, stop, my child! You are going on in your old romantic way. You must not let your imagination gallop off with you in that manner. Take care lest it carry you into the bas.e.m.e.nt of a tenement-house again,"

Mrs. Raeburn would say. Then Bessie would blush and be silent; but she could not help thinking of poor little Molly Magee; and she so constantly looked for her on the street that it was hardly a pleasure to her papa and mamma to walk or drive with her. But the winter went by without her catching sight of the beggar-girl who had obtained so strong a hold on her sympathies.

But one sunny day in the early spring her generous, faithful desire was granted. She had been driving with her papa in the Park, and for a little change and exercise they had left the carriage and were walking beside one of the ponds, watching the swans, when all at once Bessie exclaimed, "O papa, there's Molly Magee!" And surely, right before them stood the beggar-girl! her face paler, thinner, and sadder than before, while she wore a still more wretched garb than the one Bessie had been compelled to take from her. Her head was covered, but scarcely protected, by a large, dilapidated straw bonnet, through the rents of which peeped rebellious curls of her soft brown hair. A faded band of ribbon, half detached from the crown, fluttered like a tattered pennon in the April wind.

On hearing Bessie's exclamation, the child stood as motionless as though turned to stone. The next moment Mr. Raeburn's hand rested firmly on her shoulder. She looked up in mute terror, then turned a pleading glance on Bessie, who answered it by saying kindly, "Don't be afraid; he is my papa, and he won't hurt you. We have been looking for you ever so long. We want to do something for you, don't we, papa?"

"Yes, Molly," said Mr. Raeburn, gently, "we want to help you, if we can. My little girl says you were better than the rest of your family.

Do your father and mother still get their living by robbing little girls?"

"O, sir, _she_ is dead!" sobbed out Molly. "They sold all thim things, and bought whiskey with the money, and drank and drank, and one morning I myself found mother dead and cold. Father behaved a little better for a while, but he is as bad as ever now, and keeps me and the boys begging, and when we have bad luck, beats us till we are like to die."

"Poor, poor child!" said Mr. Raeburn, "you must come home with us, and we will see what we can do for you."

Molly looked surprised, but pa.s.sively allowed herself to be led to the carriage and lifted on to the front seat, to the immense astonishment, not to say horror, of the coachman, a very grand personage, with four capes to his coat.

When they reached home, Mr. Raeburn took Molly at once to his wife's room, and those two good people had a long talk with her. They questioned her kindly but closely about her life, and her story was such a sad one that tears soon fell from Mrs. Raeburn's eyes, while her husband turned to the window to hide his.

A little later Molly found herself again stripped of her rags, and clad (after a warm bath) in some of Bessie's clothes. Molly looked intensely grateful, but was evidently too thoroughly bewildered to say much. When she was taken to Mrs. Raeburn's parlor, she gazed about her curiously,--not in admiration, but with a strange, perplexed look, which struck Mrs. Raeburn. "What are you thinking of, my child?"

"Why, ma'am, it seems to me I remember _all_ these grand things,--carpets and curtains and pictures,--or things just like them."

"Perhaps your mother has taken you to such houses, or you went by yourself, sometime?"

"No, lady, _she_ never took me with her; and the servants of grand houses never let the likes of me come farther than the alley gate or the kitchen door. No, it must be I _dreamed_ it all. Many is the lovely things I see in my dreams, ma'am. I see blue water, with vessels sailing softly by, like the great white swans in the Park, and mountains and trees, and flowers that smell like fine ladies'

handkerchiefs on Broadway; and many's the time, when I am tired and footsore, I seem to sleep, as I tramp, and dream of a good, kind gentleman, who takes me up in his arms and carries me. And sometimes at night, when I am cold and hungry, I dream of a sweet lady, who parts my hair, and pats me, and kisses me, and hugs me up warm. I call those my _dream_ father and mother."

As Mrs. Raeburn sat reflecting on the words of the child, Bessie brought a story-book to her young friend. Molly turned over its leaves sadly, saying, "I don't know how to read, miss."

"Nor write?" asked Bessie.

"No, miss."

"Nor cipher, nor find places on the map?"

"No, miss."

"Dear me! Do you know any hymns?"

"No, miss. What are they, thin?"

"Hymns? Why hymns are a sort of singing prayers."

"O, thin, miss, I do know one. I say it every night; and when I 've had to tell a great many lies I say it over and over _hard_:--

'Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.'"

"Who taught you that?" asked Mrs. Raeburn.

"I don't know, ma'am. It seems to me my dream-mother taught it to me."

Bessie soon grew very fond of her protegee (a French word, meaning one whom you protect); and her romantic mind rushed at once to the conclusion that she was to have an adopted sister. But her parents had other plans for Molly. They felt that it would be much better for the child, if she could be wholly removed from the city, in which she had lived so unhappy and discreditable a life, and where it was to be feared she would always be subject to the degrading influence or annoying interference of her father.

Following Molly's directions, Mr. Raeburn, accompanied by Mr. Blair, the good policeman, sought out Patrick Magee, and by sternly threatening him with arrest and a long term in prison, for his share in the robbery of little Bessie, made him sign away all claim to the persons or services of his children. For when Mr. Raeburn came to see the three little boys, he was so touched by their worse than heathenish condition that he resolved to try to do something towards saving them, as well as their more interesting sister.

Then he called at the office of the n.o.ble _Children's Aid Society_, and placed the poor little street waifs under the protection of its excellent officers, pledging himself for their clothing, instruction, and support, till proper homes should be found for them.

I am glad to say, that, under kind Christian care, the poor little lads improved rapidly, grew healthy and happy, and showed quite an eager desire to learn. Before a year had pa.s.sed, comfortable homes were found for them in the West, where I believe they still are.

To return to Molly. The account of her dream-home and parents so impressed Mr. and Mrs. Raeburn, that they put an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the daily papers, stating that they had taken in a little street wanderer, who had evidently been born in a happier and higher condition, and begging any parents who may have had a little girl stolen from them, eight or nine years before, to call, with the hope of identifying her.

But weeks, months went by, and no answer came, and Molly was not claimed, except by a hideous old German organ-grinder, who could n't prove property, so could n't take her away,--but took herself off, scolding in very low Dutch.

That advertis.e.m.e.nt met many thousands of careless eyes, but not the sad, yearning eyes to which it would have come like the message of angels,--"Glad tidings of great joy." Those eyes were then gazing on strange tropical scenes, on orange-groves and jessamine bowers, and on the purple sea that washes the lovely sh.o.r.es of Florida.

All hope of finding Molly's _dream_-home being abandoned, her good friends set about finding a _real_ home for her. At last, through the Reverend C---- B----, the Chief Shepherd of the Lord's lost lambs in the great wicked city, they succeeded. A farmer and his wife, good, kindly, intelligent people, living pleasantly and comfortably near a village among the hills of Berkshire, Ma.s.sachusetts, offered to take her to their home and hearts,--to adopt her as their own, for they were childless.

Bessie was grieved at the prospect of being parted from her friend, whom she really loved, but was comforted by the promise of an annual visit to her, in Berkshire.

Poor little Molly wept much when she left her good friends. They had not only taught her what human kindness and affection were, but had taught her much about her Heavenly Father,--had led her straight to the arms of His infinite love. So her tears were not all of sadness, but of tenderest grat.i.tude, as she went from their door with kindly Farmer Morton.

CHAPTER III.

Our little friend Molly spent five peaceful, happy years in her home among the grand old hills of Berkshire, with Farmer Morton and his kind, good wife. She was treated in every respect as a daughter, well instructed in religious duties and moral obligations, and in all useful housewifely arts. Nor was school education withheld. As soon as she had acquired the first rudiments of knowledge, she was sent to the excellent village academy, where she proved an apt and diligent scholar. In return for all this generous, fostering care, Molly (or _Mary Morton_ as she was usually called) gave to the kind pair who had so generously adopted her, all the affection, respect, and obedience due to parents; added to a grat.i.tude inexpressibly deep and tender.

Her life as a beggar-girl, half fed, half clad, and always abused, had been so terribly sad that she could never forget it; and her present life seemed one of heavenly serenity and security in contrast.

She did not see her "_dream_-father and mother" as often as formerly.

She did not need them. But when they did come to her in her slumbers, they looked happy, and smiled over her.

Molly was now in her fifteenth summer,--a tall, graceful girl, with a sweet, delicate face. She was still pale and slender, for she had not quite outgrown the effects of the old sorrow, starvation, and exposure.

Her face often wore an expression of pensive sadness, unsuited to her years,--a faint shadow of her unhappy childhood still lingering about her,--but it was always ready to brighten into cheerful smiles at a kind word or look.

Molly had made more than one visit to her friends in New York, and now the Raeburns were spending some weeks in the pretty village which was scarcely a mile from the farm-house of Mr. Morton. They were as kind as ever to Molly, and quite proud of her. They took her with them on all their drives among the hills, or rows upon the lakes. Bessie always spoke of her friend as "My Molly," seeming to think she had in her "certain inalienable rights," chief of which was the right of discovery. Molly never thought of disputing those rights. She looked up to pretty, wayward, impulsive Bessie Raeburn as to a superior being,--an angelic deliverer. In her half-adoring grat.i.tude and love, she could have "kissed the hem of her garment," or the lower flounce of her pretty organdie dress. She would often say, "O, where would I have been now, if it had not been for _you_, dear Bessie? In a pauper's grave,--or worse, in prison,--or worse still, on the streets, a wicked, lost girl, loving n.o.body, and only knowing of G.o.d and Jesus by hearing their names in dreadful oaths."