The Lamplighter Part 9

"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, pa.s.sing her hand softly and slowly over the child's features.

"Oh, 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, "how would you feel if you could not see the light, 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. "Oh!" 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 but for 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 really _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 will talk about you. I want to know what makes you think yourself so very ugly."

"Because folks say that I am an ugly child, and that n.o.body loves ugly children."

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

"But I an't good," said Gerty, "I'm really 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 asked concerning Gerty's former way of life, and became so interested in the recital of the little girl's early sorrows and trials, that she was unconscious of the flight of time, and quite un.o.bservant of the departure of the organist, who had ceased playing, closed his instrument, and gone away.

Gerty was very communicative. The sweet voice and sympathetic tones of Emily went straight to her heart, and though her whole life had been pa.s.sed among the poorer and lowest cla.s.ses of people, she felt no awe and constraint on her encountering, for the first time, 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. Once or twice she took Emily's nicely-gloved hand between both her own, and held it tight; her favourite mode of expressing her warmth of grat.i.tude and admiration.

The excitable but interesting child took no less strong a hold upon Miss Graham's feelings. The latter perceived how neglected the little one had been, and the importance of her being educated, 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, when Mr. Arnold entered the church hastily. As he came up the aisle, he called to Emily, saying, "Emily; dear, I fear you thought I had forgotten you. I have been longer than I intended. Were you not tired of waiting?"

"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?"

"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."

"Oh, no, it won't tire me; I'm quite strong now, and I would know she was safe home."

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

CHAPTER IX.

MENTAL DARKNESS.

The blind girl did not forget 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 charity, both of heart and deed. She loved G.o.d with her whole heart, and her neighbour as herself.

Her own great misfortunes and trials 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. But never had she been so affected as now by any tale of sorrow. Children were born into the world amid poverty and privation. She could not account to herself for the interest she felt in the little stranger; but the impulse to 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 didn'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."

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."