Rich and humble : A story for young people

By Oliver Optic

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Title: Rich and humble
        A story for young people

Author: Oliver Optic

Release date: July 18, 2025 [eBook #76523]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The New York Book Company, 1911

Credits: Aaron Adrignola, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


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  The Boat Club
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  Poor and Proud
  Try Again
  Fighting Joe
  Haste and Waste
  Hope and Have
  In School and Out
  Rich and Humble
  Work and Win

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[Illustration: “I want to leave you my card. There it is!”]




  RICH AND HUMBLE

  A STORY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

  BY
  OLIVER OPTIC

  AUTHOR OF
  “THE BOAT CLUB,” “ALL ABOARD,” “POOR AND PROUD,”
  “TRY AGAIN,” “NOW OR NEVER,” ETC.

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY
  1911




[Illustration: BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

William Taylor Adams, American author, better known and loved by boys
and girls through his pseudonym “Oliver Optic,” was born July 30, 1822,
in the town of Medway, Norfolk County, Massachusetts, about twenty-five
miles from Boston. For twenty years he was a teacher in the Public
Schools of Boston, where he came in close contact with boy life. These
twenty years taught him how to reach the boy’s heart and interest as
the popularity of his books attest.

His story writing began in 1850 when he was twenty-eight years old and
his first book was published in 1853. He also edited “The Oliver Optic
Magazine,” “The Student and Schoolmate,” “Our Little Ones.”

Mr. Adams died at the age of seventy-five years, in Boston, March 27,
1897.

He was a prolific writer and his stories are most attractive and
unobjectionable. Most of his books were published in series. Probably
the most famous of these is “The Boat Club Series” which comprises the
following titles:

“The Boat Club,” “All Aboard,” “Now or Never,” “Try Again,” “Poor and
Proud,” “Little by Little.” All of these titles will be found in this
edition.

Other well-known series are his “Soldier Boy Series,” “Sailor Boy
Series,” “Woodville Stories.” The “Woodville Stories” will also be
found in this edition.]




RICH AND HUMBLE




CHAPTER I

A MISSIONARY TO THE HEATHEN


“Please give me ten dollars, father?” said Bertha Grant.

“Ten dollars!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, with a smile which looked very
encouraging to the applicant. “What in the world do you want ten
dollars for?”

“Oh, I want to use it, father.”

“Well, I suppose you do. I have not the slightest doubt on that point.”

“You are in a hurry now, father, and I will tell you all about it
another time,” replied Bertha, casting an anxious glance at her
brother, who appeared to be an interested listener.

“Well, child, there is ten dollars,” added Mr. Grant, as he handed her
two half eagles.

“Now, dad, do only half as much as that for me, and I will be
satisfied,” said Richard Grant, the only brother of Bertha.

“Not a dollar, Richard. Where did you study politeness, my son? Dad! Do
you think that is a proper term to apply to your father?”

“I meant papa,” whined the boy, in affected tones of humility.

“If you ever call me ‘dad’ again, I will send you off to a boarding
school to mend your manners. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am, papa, and I promise you I never will call you so again, though
that is what all the fellows call their governors.”

“Enough of this. I do not wish to hear any slang talk in my house.
Don’t call me ‘dad,’ or ‘governor,’ either; before my face or behind my
back.”

“I will not, papa.”

“Nor papa, either. You need not be a little rowdy, nor a great calf.”

“I will not, father. Now give me five dollars,” whined the youth, as he
extended his hand to receive the gift.

“Not a dollar, Richard!” replied Mr. Grant, sternly. “Money does you no
good.”

“I don’t think that is fair, father,” protested Richard. “When Bertha
asks you for ten dollars, you give it to her. When I ask you for only
five, you will not give it to me. If she had asked for twenty or fifty,
you would have let her have it.”

“Very likely I should,” replied the father, so coolly that it was clear
the argument of his son had not moved him.

“I think you are partial.”

“You can think what you please, Richard.”

“Why won’t you give me money when I ask for it, as well as Bertha? I am
older than she is, and I don’t see why I should be treated like a baby.”

“Because you act like one. When you behave like a man, you shall be
treated like one.”

“What have I done, father?”

“You have not done anything that is noble, generous or manly. You want
five dollars to enable you to visit some bowling alley, billiard saloon
or horse race.”

“I don’t want it for any such use.”

“What do you want it for?”

“You did not ask Bertha what she wanted her money for; at least you did
not make her tell you.”

“I know very well she will apply it to a good use.”

“Humph!” growled Richard. “She has gathered a crowd of beggars and
paupers in the Glen, and she will waste the whole ten dollars upon
them. I don’t think it is very proper for her to associate with those
dirty savages from the Hollow.”

“It is more proper than to associate with the better-dressed savages
from the other side of the river.”

“Now won’t you please let me have the five dollars, father?” pleaded
Richard, who had a point to gain, and therefore was not disposed to
carry his argument any further.

“I will not, Richard. I gave you five dollars the other day, and the
next morning I heard that you had been seen with most disgraceful
companions in a bowling saloon. Richard, if you have any respect for
yourself, or regard for me and your sisters, do not associate with low
and vile company.”

As Mr. Grant uttered this earnest warning, he put on his hat and left
the room. When he had gone, and the wayward son realized that his
father fully understood his position, he threw himself upon the sofa
with an exclamation of anger and resentment. It was evident that the
warning he had received produced no effect upon him, and that he was
only smarting under the pain of disappointment.

His father had so often given him money when he asked for it that
he did not expect to be refused in the present instance, especially
when he saw his sister so liberally supplied. He remained for a few
moments upon the sofa, venting his anger and disappointment by kicking
and crying, as a very small child does when deprived of some coveted
plaything.

“That’s too confounded bad!” exclaimed he, at last, rising from the
sofa and walking toward Bertha, who had been a sad and silent spectator
of the scene which had just transpired. “All my fun for the day is
spoiled. Berty, won’t you help me out of this scrape?”

“What scrape, Dick?”

“I want five dollars very badly. I must have it, too. I can’t get along
without it. I shall be a byword among all the fellows if I don’t have
it,” added Richard, with a great deal of earnestness. “Lend me five
dollars of the money father gave you, and I will pay you in a few
days, when the governor is better natured.”

“The governor?” suggested Bertha, with a reproving smile.

“Father, I mean, of course. What is the use of being so nice about
little things. I never saw the old man in such a ferment before in my
life.”

“The old man?”

“There it is again!”

“I don’t like to hear such names applied to father. It really hurts my
feelings, and I hope you will not do so.”

“Pooh! All the fellows call their fathers by these names. It sounds
babyish to say ‘my father’; and I don’t like to be different from the
rest of the fellows.”

“I hope you will not be like the young men on the other side of the
river with whom you associate.”

“Nonsense! They are real good fellows. They don’t go to the prayer
meetings, it is true, but, for all that, they are better than hundreds
that do go.”

“I think they are bad boys, and I hope you won’t go with them any more.”

“Then it was you that told father I went with them,” said Richard,
suddenly stopping in his walk across the room, and looking his sister
full in the face.

“I did tell him, Richard; but you know I did so for your good.”

“Pooh! For my good! Do you think I cannot take care of myself?”

“I hope you can.”

“I didn’t think you were a little telltale, Berty,” sneered Richard.

“I have spoken to you about going with those bad boys, and begged
you to keep away from them. If you knew how bad I feel when I see my
brother in such company, you would not complain of me for telling
father.”

“I won’t complain, Berty,” replied Richard, suddenly changing his tone.
“You are a real good girl, and you intended to do me a heap of good
when you told father. You are the best sister in the world. Now lend
me the five dollars, Berty, and I never will find fault with you for
anything you may do.”

“I cannot, Richard.”

“You cannot? Yes, you can. Haven’t you got two half eagles in your
hand?”

“I have, but I got them for a particular use.”

“But I will pay you again.”

“I suppose you will, if you can.”

“If I can! Do you think dad--father, I mean--will always be as savage
as he was this morning?”

“I am afraid you don’t understand him, Richard. He thinks that giving
you money does you injury.”

“Don’t preach any more, Berty. Will you lend me the five dollars?”

“I cannot. It would not be right for me to do so, even if I could spare
the money.”

“Why not?”

“Father refused to give it to you because he thought it would be an
injury to you, and it would certainly be wrong for me to thwart his
purpose.”

“Then you won’t let me have it?” demanded Richard, struggling to keep
down his resentment.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“What odds does it make what I want it for?”

“If you want it for any good purpose I might let you have it,” answered
Bertha, who was wavering between a desire to oblige her brother and the
fear of doing wrong.

“I want it to put in the contribution box for the Hottentots in the
Sandwich Islands, of course,” replied Richard, with a sneer.

“Tell me what you want it for Dick.”

“Well, I scorn to lie about it. I offered to bet five dollars with Tom
Mullen that our sailboat would beat his, and he has taken me up. The
race is to come off to-day, and if I don’t get the money I shall have
to back down.”

“I hope you will, Dick,” said Bertha, sorrowfully. “What would father
say if he knew you were betting on boats?”

“If he had any spunk at all he would hand out the money, and tell me to
go it.”

“You know very well he would disapprove of it. I think it is very
wicked to gamble and bet.”

“No preaching. Are you willing to have me tabooed as a sneak; to have
me a byword and the laughingstock of the fellows?”

“I would rather have such fellows hate you than like you, Richard,”
answered Bertha, sadly. “I did not think you had gone so far as to
gamble.”

“Pshaw! There is no gambling about it. I am not going to be branded as
a sneak. If you won’t lend me the money, I must get it somewhere else.”

“I cannot lend it to you, Richard, for such a purpose. You will be a
disgrace to your family if you go on in this way.”

“I should like to know what you are doing! Don’t you spend half your
time with those dirty savages from the Hollow? Do you think it is right
for the daughter of Franklin Grant to associate with those dirty,
filthy, half-civilized ragamuffins?”

“It will not injure either them or me.”

“I am ashamed of you. If it does not hurt your feelings it does mine,
to hear that you spend your time with these dregs of society. The
fellows on the other side are all laughing at you.”

“Let them laugh. While I do my duty, I need not fear them.”

“Come, Berty, we won’t quarrel. Let me have one of those half eagles,
and I will let you go with the savages as much as you please.”

“No, Richard,” replied Bertha, shaking her head, with a smile which
showed that there was no anger or resentment in her heart.

“Do, Berty!”

“I cannot; my conscience will not let me do so.”

“Confound your conscience!” exclaimed Richard, rushing out of the room
in a paroxysm of anger.

Bertha was sorely tried by the conduct of her brother. She had
observed, with anxiety and pain, the dissolute course of Richard. She
had reasoned and pleaded with him to abandon his wayward companions,
but no good result had attended her efforts to reform him.

Mr. Grant was a broker in the city of New York. He had the reputation
of being a very wealthy man. He lived upon a magnificent estate on the
Hudson, about twenty-five miles from the city. His wife had been dead
several years, and his three children were under the guidance of a
housekeeper, who, though an excellent woman, did not possess a mother’s
influence, nor did she exercise a mother’s authority over her young
charge.

Woodville, the residence of the broker, was a beautiful place. The
mansion and its appointments were all that wealth and taste could make
them. Servants, without number, came and went at the bidding of the
children. Tutors and governesses had been employed to superintend the
education of the young people. Boats on the river, carriages on the
land, were ever ready to minister to their inclinations. There was no
end to the dogs, ponies, rabbits, monkeys, squirrels, deer and other
pets which were supplied to beguile their leisure hours.

Mr. Grant believed himself to be a rich man, and none of his friends
or neighbors had any reason to suspect he was not a rich man. He lived
like a nabob; but more than this, he was a generous and kind-hearted
man, and those who knew him best respected him most, while his wealth
purchased for him the worldly esteem of all within the circle of his
influence.

As my young readers have already discovered, he was an indulgent
parent. Since the death of Mrs. Grant, his children had been his sole
domestic happiness. He was wholly devoted to them; but his immense
business transactions obliged him to be absent from an early hour in
the morning till a late hour in the evening, and they were thus left,
for the greater portion of the time, to the care of the housekeeper and
their instructors.

Our story opens in the month of July, and it was vacation with the
young people. The tutor and the governess had two months’ leave of
absence. Richard, Bertha and Fanny were free from the restraints of
study. They had nothing to do but enjoy themselves. How Richard, who
was fifteen years old, spent his time has already been shown.

Bertha, while wandering alone one May day in the Glen, a secluded
valley on the bank of the river, half a mile from Woodville, had met a
party of poor children from Dunk’s Hollow, which is a little village
a mile or more from the mansion house. There were seven of them, and
they were children of the poorest people in the neighborhood. They were
dirty, ragged, barefoot, and their condition excited the pity of the
child of plenty.

She gave them the cake and confectionery she had brought to grace
her lonely May-day festival in the Glen, told them stories, and made
herself as agreeable as though she had been an angel sent to mitigate
the woes of poverty and want. The event opened a new vista to Bertha,
and she at once began to devise means to instruct these children of
want and improve their worldly condition. Without going to a far-off
land, she became a missionary to the heathen, the friend and companion
of the needy and neglected. Despising the taunts of her brother and
sister, she spent most of her leisure hours with her ragged disciples
in the Glen.




CHAPTER II

BERTHA FINDS HERSELF SHORT OF FUNDS


Woodville was situated on the right bank of the Hudson. About one
mile above was the village of Dunk’s Hollow, as it was called. It was
only a small collection of houses, occupied by boatmen, fishermen and
laborers--American, Irish and Dutch, all blended together in the most
inharmonious manner.

Dunk’s Hollow had a very bad name in the neighborhood, and man, woman
or child who came from there was deemed a reproach to the race. There
was only one shop at the Hollow, and that was the principal source of
all its misery, for its chief trade was in liquor, pipes and tobacco.
The oldest inhabitant could not remember the week in which there had
not been at least one fight there, and the number was often half a
dozen. The men did small jobs, and spent most of their earnings at the
tap-room of Von Brunt, while the women maintained an almost ineffectual
struggle to obtain food enough to keep themselves and their children
alive. This was Dunk’s Hollow, to whose poor and neglected little ones
Bertha Grant had become a ministering angel.

On the opposite side of the river was the thriving village of
Whitestone, in surprising contrast with the place just described. It
contained four or five thousand inhabitants, with all the appointments
of modern civilization, including a race course, half a dozen billiard
saloons, where betting and liquor drinking were the principal
recreations, and as many bowling alleys and fashionable oyster shops.
All these traps to catch young men were frequented by the elite of the
village, as well as by the sons of rich men, whose estates adorned the
hills and valleys of the surrounding country. Here Richard Grant had
taken his first lesson in dissipation.

About halfway between Woodville and the Hollow was the Glen. It was a
beautifully shaded valley, on the bank of the river, through which a
crystal brook from the hills above bubbled its way over the shining
rocks to the great river. It was a fit abode for the fairy queens, and
Bertha was a constant visitor at the spot, even before she made the
acquaintance of the savages from Dunk’s Hollow, as Richard persisted in
calling them.

The Glen was situated in a curve of the river, which swept in from
Woodville to the Hollow. Off the Cove, as it had been named, was a
small island, containing not more than a quarter of an acre of land,
called Van Alstine’s. It was covered with rocks and trees, and was a
frequent resort of boating parties, especially those from Woodville.
This island, as well as the Glen, was owned by Mr. Grant, and he had
taken some pains to clear up the underbrush and furnish it with seats
and arbors.

Merry voices were heard in the Glen, even while the tones of anger
and reproach were ringing in the lofty rooms of the mansion at
Woodville. The savages from the Hollow were already gathered there,
and the repeated glances which they cast down the river indicated the
earnestness with which they expected the coming of their apostle of
mercy. But Bertha was not ready to join them yet. The attitude of her
brother was far from promising, and with a sad heart she realized that
the heathen had invaded her own house.

After Richard rushed out of the house, angry and disappointed, her eyes
filled with tears, and she tried to think of some method by which she
could save him from the error of his ways. She knew that Tom Mullen
and the other young men with whom her brother had lately begun to
associate were the vilest of the vile. Tom had been seen intoxicated
in the streets of the village, and it was well known that he and his
companions were gamblers, if not thieves.

What could she do to save him? Alas! there was nothing that she, a
child, could do; but she resolved never to cease pleading with him to
reform. She wept and she prayed for him. She had faith to believe that
He who lets not a sparrow fall unseen could save her brother from ruin
and death, and with Him she pleaded that Richard might be redeemed.

Bertha’s heart was full of love and gentleness; and while she wept over
her brother, she rejoiced in the little flock to whom she had been
the messenger of so many blessings. She had taught them to read, and
imparted to them that wisdom which is higher and purer than any which
flows from earthly fountains. As she thought of them, she glanced at
the two gold pieces in her hand, and a smile lighted up her sweet
face, when she imagined the pleasure they would purchase for the lambs
of her fold.

Taking her hat and shawl, she left the house and walked down to the
boathouse. It was located on the bank of the river, by the side of a
small wharf extending out into the deep water.

“Waiting for you, Miss Bertha,” said the old boatman, who had been told
to row her over the river.

“I am all ready, Ben,” replied Bertha, as she took her seat in the boat.

“What ails Mr. Richard this morning?” continued Ben, as he glanced
at the sailboat, which was moored in the river a short distance from
the shore, and in which Richard was seated, looking very gloomy and
dejected. “He is uncommon cross this morning.”

“Something happened at the house which did not please him.”

“I thought so. He wanted to borrow five dollars of me; but I could not
lend it to him, for I did not happen to have it about me. I am sorry
Mr. Richard feels so bad.”

“I hope he will feel better,” replied Bertha.

“He tried to borrow the money of the cook, and of the hostler, but none
of them had so much about them. Wouldn’t his father let him have the
money?”

“He would not. But I am all ready, Ben,” said Bertha, who was very
willing to change the subject.

“Where are you going, Bertha?” called Richard from the boat.

“Over to Whitestone.”

“Wait a moment, and I will go with you,” replied Richard, as he pulled
ashore in his skiff. “What are you going to do over at Whitestone?” he
asked, as he stepped into the boat.

“I am going over to buy some things.”

“For the savages, I suppose,” sneered Richard.

“Yes,” answered Bertha, unmoved by the sneer. “If you knew how much
pleasure my work affords me, you would want to join me.”

“I think not; I would not disgrace my family by mixing with the
slime and filth of the Hollow. Your ragged disciples stole half the
strawberries in the garden last night.”

“Not my children, I know.”

“I will bet five dollars they were the same ones to whom you taught the
Ten Commandments and ‘Now I lay me,’” laughed Richard.

“I am sure it was none of mine. We are ready, Ben. You can push off. I
feel like rowing a little this morning, and I will take one oar, if you
please.”

Bertha placed her reticule and shawl on the seat in the stern,
and seated herself at one of the oars. Ben pulled a gentle stroke
to accommodate that of Bertha, and the boat moved forward toward
Whitestone. Richard kept bantering his sister all the way about the
savages of the Hollow, and seemed to have entirely recovered from
his disappointment and anger. In about half an hour they reached
Whitestone. Bertha put on her shawl, and, taking her reticule in her
hand, walked up to the principal street of the village, while Richard
departed in another direction.

Bertha stopped at a dry goods store, where she bought two pieces of
cheap calico, some jean and a number of other articles, amounting to
ten dollars and fifty cents.

“Dear me!” exclaimed she, as she put her hand into her reticule; “I
have lost all my money!”

“Lost your money?” said the salesman.

“I had two half eagles in my reticule, and both of them are gone,”
added she, looking upon the floor and searching the bag again. “I have
not opened the reticule since I started from home, and I am sure they
could not have fallen out.”

“Didn’t you put them in your pocket?”

“No; I am sure I put them in my bag. But it cannot be helped. Of course
I cannot take these things now.”

“Oh, yes, you can. You are Mr. Grant’s daughter, and I shall be glad to
give you credit for any amount you may desire.”

“Thank you, sir. Then I will take the things and pay you for them the
next time I come to Whitestone.”

“Any time, Miss Grant. I will send them down to your boat.”

But Ben had followed her up from the wharf, and carried the goods down
for her. On their way to the river she told him that she had lost her
money.

“Did you lose it in the boat?”

“I don’t know where I lost it. I am sure I put it into my bag, which
has not been opened since I left the house.”

“I saw you put the reticule on the seat in the stern. Mr. Richard sat
there all the way coming over.”

Bertha blushed at these words, and looked earnestly at the boatman to
discover what he meant by them; but Ben looked perfectly blank.

“Perhaps I dropped them out before I fastened the reticule,” added
Bertha.

“Perhaps you did, Miss Bertha; but----”

Ben stopped after the “but,” and looked upon the ground, as though he
had made a mistake. Bertha’s face was crimsoned with shame, as she
thought what that terrible “but” might mean. Richard had sat upon the
bag containing the money during the passage across the river. Ben had
taken pains to state this fact in so many words. What could he mean by
it?

When they reached the wharf they found Richard in the boat, ready to
return with them.

“Come, Berty; I have been waiting this half hour for you,” said he; “I
am in a hurry.”

“Going to have the race to-day, Mr. Richard?” asked Ben, as he placed
the bundle of goods in the bow of the boat.

“Yes, certainly. I told you yesterday it would come off to-day at
eleven o’clock,” answered Richard.

“You told me there was some little difficulty about the matter this
morning,” added Ben, with a smile, which was intended to remove any
appearance of impudence which the words might otherwise convey.

“I have got over that difficulty, and am all ready for the race. We
shall have a good wind to-day, and I am just as certain that I shall
win the race as I am that I sit here. Bear a hand, Ben; I am in a
hurry.”

“Then you raised the money, Mr. Richard?” said Ben, carelessly, as he
adjusted his oars.

“To be sure I did. I told you there were a dozen persons who would be
glad to lend it to me. Bob Bleeker lent me ten dollars, though I did
not ask him for but five.”

“There!” exclaimed Ben, suddenly rising up and slapping his hands upon
his trousers pockets; “I have forgotten my tobacco, and I shall die a
thousand deaths without it. Will you excuse me for five minutes, Miss
Bertha?”

“Certainly, Ben.”

“Hurry up,” added Richard.

“I will be back in less than five minutes;” and Ben ran up the wharf as
if the house of his dearest friend had been on fire.

He rushed up one street and then turned into another, which brought
him to the Empire Saloon, of which Mr. Bob Bleeker was the owner
and proprietor. Taking a two-dollar bill from his wallet, he bolted
into the saloon and thrust it into the face of the keeper of the
establishment.

“What is the matter, Ben? You are all out of wind,” said Bob, as he
glanced at the two-dollar bill.

“Mr. Richard wants you to give him a better bill for this one,” replied
Ben, puffing like a porpoise from the effects of his hard run.

“A better bill? What does he mean by that?”

“You know all about it. Didn’t you just give him this bill?”

“No, sir! I did not,” replied Bob, quick to resent any trick, or any
imputation of unfairness. “I did not give him that bill, or any other.”

“Did you lend him ten dollars just now?”

“No, sir! I did not!” answered Bob, with emphasis.

“Then I have made a bad blunder, and I beg your pardon.”

“All right, Ben.”

“Give me half a pound of that best Cavendish, and I will call it
square.”

Ben having obtained his tobacco, which he had really forgotten,
hastened back to the boat. Taking his place at the oars, he pulled his
steady, even stroke, which in a short time brought them within hail of
the Woodville wharf, where the boatman, without any apparent reason,
suddenly suspended his labor, and the boat soon came to a dead halt.

“What are you stopping for, Ben?” demanded Richard. “You may put me on
board of the _Greyhound_, if you please.”

“Not yet, Mr. Richard. When I get into a fog, I always stand by, and
wait till I can see my way out of it.”

“What do you mean by that, Ben?”

“Hold on a minute, Mr. Richard, and I will make the daylight shine
through what I have said in a very short time.”

“Bear a hand, then, Ben, for you know I am in a hurry.”

“So am I,” added Bertha.

“Miss Bertha lost ten dollars in this boat, which goes right against my
conscience.”

“Perhaps I lost it in the house,” suggested Bertha.

“Perhaps you did, but----” And Ben made a long pause before he added:
“I don’t believe you did.”

“Well, what has all this to do with me, Ben?” asked Richard, his face
as red as Bertha’s had been.

“Not much, perhaps, but I don’t want Miss Bertha to think now, or at
any future time, that I took the money.”

“Of course I don’t think any such thing, Ben,” added Bertha,
reproachfully.

“But you may think so at some future time, if the matter isn’t cleared
up now.”

“I certainly shall not, Ben,” interposed Bertha. “Please don’t keep me
here, when all my children are waiting for me in the Glen.”

“Only a minute, Miss Bertha. I did not take your money; but----”

“Another ‘but,’ Ben,” said Richard. “If you have got anything to say,
why don’t you say it?”

“I will say it,” replied Ben, as he proceeded, in the most mysterious
manner, to turn all his pockets inside out, to open his wallet, and
shake out his handkerchief. “The half eagles are not in my pockets, you
see.”

“Ben, you are a fool!” exclaimed Richard.

The boatman seated himself again, and gazed in silence upon the bottom
of the boat.




CHAPTER III

BERTHA MAKES A VISIT TO THE GLEN


“You don’t understand me, Mr. Richard,” said Ben, after he had mused
for a time.

“I’m sure I do not. You act as though you had lost your senses,”
replied Richard.

“But I have not lost my conscience, Mr. Richard. Perhaps you would not
object to exhibiting the contents of your pockets.”

“Do you mean to insult me, Ben?” exclaimed Richard, reddening with
indignation.

“No, sir, certainly not; but you will do me a great favor by turning
your pockets out--just to oblige an old servant of the family.”

“Enough of this, Ben. Use your oars again.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Richard, but I am in earnest. That money was lost in
this boat. I am a poor man, and it must be found before any suspicion
rests upon me.”

“Ben, do you mean to say I took the money from my sister?”

“That is precisely what I mean, Mr. Richard, only I couldn’t say it out
in so many words, because you are the only son of Mr. Franklin Grant,
the rich broker of New York. I thank you for helping me out with the
idea.”

“Oh, no, Ben! You must be mistaken. Richard would not do so mean a
thing.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Bertha, but your brother did do this mean
thing and if he is mean enough to steal ten dollars, which was to be
given in charity, he is mean enough to lay it to the old boatman; and I
will not risk myself on shore till the matter is cleared up.”

“Ben, do you know who and what you are?” said Richard, sternly.

“I know all about it, Mr. Richard. I am your father’s servant--your
servant, if you please; but if I lose my place, and am sent to jail for
what I do, I will have this matter set right before I go ashore.”

“It is all right now, Ben. Put me on board of the _Greyhound_, and I
will say nothing more about it.”

“I will not. You stole the money from your sister, and you shall return
it to her before you get out of this boat.”

“Let him go, Ben,” remonstrated Bertha, who began to be alarmed by the
stern manner of the old boatman.

“I would do anything in the world for you, Miss Bertha, but I must have
justice done in this matter.”

“Nonsense, Ben. I haven’t got the money,” said Richard, who was also a
little alarmed at the determined manner of the boatman.

“You have got it, Mr. Richard, and you must give it up.”

“I say I have not got it. Doesn’t that satisfy you?”

“It does not. If you haven’t got it, you will not object to turning out
your pockets.”

“I have got ten dollars, of course. I told you I had.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Didn’t I tell you that I borrowed it of Bob Bleeker?”

“You didn’t borrow a dollar of Bob Bleeker,” answered Ben, placing
himself by the side of the youth.

“Dare you tell me that I lie?”

“I dare tell you anything that is true. Will you show me the contents
of your pockets or not?”

“I will not,” replied Richard, stoutly.

The boatman made no reply, but, taking Richard by the collar, he
jerked him into the middle of the boat, and, in spite of his kicks
and struggles, thrust his hand into the boy’s coat pocket, and took
therefrom his portemonnaie. He then released him, and opened the wallet.

It contained two half eagles!

“Here is the money you lost, Miss Bertha.”

“Why, Richard Grant!” exclaimed Bertha, “how could you do such a thing?”

“That is not your money, Berty. I borrowed it of Bob Bleeker,”
stammered Richard, whose face was now as pale as a sheet.

“Mr. Richard, would you be willing to go over with me and ask Bob
Bleeker if he lent you ten dollars?”

“Of course I would if I had the time.”

“Sit down, Mr. Richard, and I will tell you a story,” and Ben proceeded
to relate what had occurred in the saloon of Bob Bleeker. “Are you
satisfied, Miss Bertha?”

“I am. Oh, Richard, how could you do such a thing!”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Let me see the half eagles, Ben. I remember the date of one of them,
and I looked at them so much that I think I should know them again.”

Ben handed her the gold pieces, and she was forced to acknowledge that
they were the coins she had lost. The one whose date she remembered had
a spot upon it, which enabled her to identify it.

“Oh, Richard!” said she, bursting into tears. “I did not think you had
sunk so low! What will become of you?”

“I suppose I must run away and go to sea, or do something of that kind.
My reputation is spoiled here.”

“Oh, no, Richard! Promise to be a better boy, and Ben and I will not
say a word about this.”

“Ben has insulted and outraged me.”

“Sorry for it, Mr. Richard, but I couldn’t help it. The matter is
cleared up now, and I haven’t anything more to say.”

“You will not mention this, Ben--will you?” pleaded Bertha. “Dick is
sorry for it, and he will always be a good boy.”

“I never talk about family matters, Miss Bertha. Whatever happens, I
shall never say a word about this affair,” replied Ben, as, with a
few vigorous strokes of his oars, he placed the boat alongside the
_Greyhound_.

Richard, stupefied at the suddenness with which his guilt had found him
out, stepped mechanically from one boat into the other, hardly knowing
what he was doing. Not only had he been convicted of the base act of
stealing from his sister, but he was deprived of the means of attending
the race. He felt as if some terrible disaster was impending, and threw
himself into the stern sheets of his boat and covered his face with his
hands.

“Now, Miss Bertha, I will row you up to the Glen in double-quick time.”

“I don’t like to leave Richard now. He must feel dreadfully.”

“I hope he does. It will do him good to spend a few hours upon the
stool of repentance. Leave him to himself for a while, Miss Bertha.”

“But perhaps he will do some desperate thing, Ben. He may run away, as
he threatened.”

“No he won’t. He hasn’t the courage to run away. He knows what going
to sea means, and a young gentleman like him won’t do any such thing,”
said Ben, as he bent upon his oars, and the boat glided away in the
direction of the Glen.

In a few moments Ben landed his fair young charge in the midst of her
anxious disciples.

“Now, if you like, Miss Bertha, I will pull back and keep an eye on Mr.
Richard.”

“Do, Ben.”

“Shall he stay about home to-day?” asked Ben, with a quiet smile on his
bronzed features.

“You cannot keep him at home if he chooses to go away.”

“Oh, yes, I can, Miss Bertha,” answered the boatman, confidently. “If
you only say the word, Miss Bertha, he shall stay at home and he will
mind me just like a whipped kitten.”

“Don’t be too hard with him, Ben.”

“Oh, bless you, no! I will handle him as gently as I would a basket
of eggs; but he shall mind me, if you say the word. It is none of my
business, but I don’t like to see a fine boy, like Master Richard,
going to ruin and destruction for the want of a steady hand at the
helm.”

“Do as you think best, Ben, but don’t let any harm come to him.”

“I won’t, Miss Bertha,” replied the boatman, as he shoved off and
pulled toward Woodville.

Ben had once been a boatswain in the navy, and was accustomed to
rigid discipline. He understood Richard’s case exactly, and he had
often regretted that he was not authorized to train him up in the
way he should go. The father was ignorant of his dissolute life, and
the boatman entertained some doubts whether Mr. Grant had the nerve
to discipline him as the case demanded. Bertha was a power and an
influence at Woodville, and Ben knew that whatever she counseled would
be ratified at headquarters.

Richard was still lying on the cushions of the _Greyhound_ when Ben
returned from the Glen. Without seeming to notice the young reprobate,
the boatman kept one eye upon him, while his hands were busied in
carving a snake’s head upon the end of a new tiller for the four-oar
boat. There we will leave them, the watcher and the watched, and return
to the Glen.

“We thought you never would come,” said one of the little savages, as
Bertha walked up to the Retreat with them.

The Retreat was an arbor, which was completely covered with vines, and
in which seats had been built by the ingenuity of Ben, the boatman, who
was almost as much interested in Bertha’s mission as she was herself.

“Now, take your seats, children. I hope you have all got your lessons
well, for we have a great deal to do to-day.”

In a moment each of the little savages took a seat, and produced
the book which Bertha had furnished. They read, spelled and recited
arithmetic to the entire satisfaction of the teacher. New lessons
were assigned for the next day, and then Bertha proceeded to open the
bundles of dry goods.

“Here is a calico dress for each of the girls, and here is some jean to
make jackets and trousers for the boys. We must be as busy as bees, and
have them all made up this week.”

The eyes of the little boys and girls sparkled with delight at this
display of treasures. A Broadway belle or a Chestnut Street dandy could
not have been more enraptured at the latest importation from Paris,
than the poor children of Dunk’s Hollow were at the sight of the homely
material of which their new clothes were to be made.

But the most serious part of the work was yet to be done, and consisted
in the cutting and fitting of the garments. Ever since the brilliant
idea of supplying her flock with new clothes had entered the fertile
brain of Bertha, she had studied and practiced the dressmaker’s art,
under the tuition of Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, who had kindly
afforded her all the instruction she needed. She had also procured
patterns for the jackets and trousers, and patiently examined some of
her brother’s old clothes, for she was determined that the outfit of
the savages should be fashioned entirely by her own hands.

With a confidence worthy the pioneer mind of a Columbus, she tore off
the breadths for the dresses, and set the girls at work in running them
together. Then, with the same zeal and self-possession, she proceeded
to fit the waist of Gretchy von Brunt, who was about as thick as she
was long, and not exactly a model of female elegance in form. It was
a trying experiment for a beginner, but for what the chief operator
lacked in skill and experience, she made up in zeal and hope.

At twelve o’clock Ben came up with a basket of provisions for the busy
troop of workers. He reported that Richard was as tame as a lamb, and
had gone in to dinner when the bell rang. He did not think there was
any danger of his doing a desperate deed. But Bertha insisted that he
should return, and not lose sight of him till his father came home
from the city. As he had been instructed in the morning, Ben brought
up Bertha’s boat, in which she intended to row back herself, when the
labors of the day were finished.

While the girls were busily engaged upon their dresses, and the boys
were bringing stones to make a walk from the landing place to the
Retreat, a slight rustling was heard in the bushes, near the spot where
the dinner things had been left.

“Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!” were the cries which immediately issued from the
bushes.

It sounded like the scream of some wild bird; but neither Bertha nor
her flock were frightened by the noise, though all of them left their
work, and hastened to the spot from which it proceeded.

“It’s Noddy Newman,” said Griffy von Grunt, the largest of the three
boys composing the mission school--a stout, fat little Dutchman of ten
years of age.

“He has stolen what was left of the dinner,” added Bridget McGee.

“And he will steal Miss Bertha’s boat,” said Billy Ball, as he and
Griffy hastened down to the landing place, intending by a flank
movement to protect the property of the mistress.

“He may have the dinner, if he will not carry off the basket and the
plates,” added Bertha. “Noddy! Noddy! Come here a moment; I want to see
you,” called she, as loud as she could.

“No, you don’t,” replied the wild boy who had caused this sudden
commotion. “None of your spelling books for me. I like your dinner, but
I don’t want any of your learning.”

Noddy Newman was now in view of the party. He was even more ragged and
dirty than the raggedest and dirtiest of the Dunk’s Hollowites. He wore
nothing but a shirt and trousers with one suspender, and a straw hat,
of which less than one-fourth of the original brim remained. Though
he was said to be thirteen years old, he was smaller in stature than
Griffy von Grunt; but he was as agile and quick as a monkey.

Noddy had no parents. They had lived at the Hollow till filth and
dissipation ended their days. Since their death Noddy had taken care of
himself; sleeping in barns and outbuildings at night, and begging or
stealing food enough to keep him alive.

“Come to me, Noddy,” repeated Bertha. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know you won’t. You can’t!” shouted the wild boy, as he bounded off,
with the speed of an antelope, toward the river, ending his flight by
running up a large tree which overhung the water.




CHAPTER IV

BERTHA AND NODDY NEWMAN


Beneath the tree in which Noddy Newman had taken refuge lay moored a
nondescript craft, in which the wild boy made his aquatic excursions.
It had once been a sugar box, and by what art or skill the little
savage had made it watertight it would have puzzled the calkers and
gravers of the region to determine. It certainly floated, and Noddy
navigated it about the river with as much pride and satisfaction as if
it had been the fairy barge of Cleopatra. It was fastened by a string
to one of the overhanging branches of the tree in which its adventurous
skipper was now lodged.

It was pretty evident, from the position of his boat, that he had not
landed in the ordinary way, but had drawn himself up into the tree and
come ashore in that manner. To Bertha and her young companions it was a
daring undertaking to embark in the sugar box by the way of the tree,
and she begged him not to attempt it.

“Come down, Noddy, and I will put you into your boat.”

“I ain’t one of your children. I don’t have anything to do with your
reading and spelling, and you needn’t borrow any trouble about me.”

“But some of the branches are rotten, and if you should fall upon the
rocks below, it would kill you.”

“I ain’t going to fall. I know better than that without any book
l’arnin’.”

“Do come down, Noddy. I will give you something if you will,” pleaded
Bertha, who, besides being alarmed for his safety, wished to converse
with him, and induce him to join the school in the Glen.

Noddy had thus far resisted all overtures in this direction, and
had never allowed himself to come near enough to Bertha to enable
her to exercise any influence upon him. He was fond of his freedom,
and evidently enjoyed the vagabond life he led. The authorities of
Whitestone had once made an effort to commit him to the almshouse; but
when an attempt was made to catch him, he disappeared for some weeks.

Bertha had sent him several presents, with messages urging him to join
her little flock; but he never came to the Glen when she was there,
unless it was to rob the basket of the provisions brought for the
scholars. Yet she did not abandon all hope of winning him over from the
savage life he led.

“Have you had dinner enough, Noddy?”

“Yes, I have. I ate all there was in the basket,” replied Noddy,
chuckling with delight at the thought of his own cleverness.

“Won’t you come down and talk with me? I will give you something.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Come down and talk with me, then.”

“I haven’t got anything to say,” laughed Noddy.

“But I want to see you.”

“I don’t want to see you. You are the proud girl from Woodville, and I
don’t want anything of you.”

“I am not proud, Noddy.”

“Well, you are rich.”

“Come down to me, and I will give you a silver ten-cent piece.”

“Don’t want it; if I should go to buy anything with it they would catch
me and put me in the workhouse.”

“Don’t you want a knife? I will give you mine, if you will go up to the
arbor with me.”

“I have got a better knife now than you have. I took it from Bob
Bleeker’s boat.”

“But it was wrong to take it without leave.”

“I don’t know but it was. If it was I can’t help it.”

As he spoke these words, Noddy began to move down to the branch from
which he could drop into his boat. As he did so, a rotten limb, which
he had grasped with his hands, suddenly snapped, his feet slipped from
the branch, and he fell, striking with such force upon the sugar-box
craft that one of its sides was split off. The unfortunate boy rolled
from the boat, and went into the deep water. A sharp cry issued from
his mouth as he struck the board, and then he disappeared beneath the
surface of the river.

“Mercy!” screamed Bertha, paralyzed with horror, as she witnessed the
sad mishap.

“Never fear, Miss Bertha; he can swim like a fish,” said Griffy von
Grunt.

“But the fall may have killed him,” gasped Bertha, as she summoned
strength enough to run to her boat, which was moored a short distance
from the spot.

At the same time, Griffy leaped into the river, and swam to the sugar
box. In a moment Noddy rose to the surface; but he did not attempt to
swim, and it was evident that the fall had deprived him of the use of
his powers. As he rose, Griffy seized him by the arm, and held him
above the water till Bertha came up with the boat. With no difficulty
they lifted him in; but the little savage appeared to be dead. On his
temple there was a deep cut, which had probably been caused by the
nails driven into the side of the box to answer for thole pins.

“What shall we do?” stammered Bertha, terribly frightened by the pale
face and motionless form of the poor boy. “I will take him down to the
house. Griffy, you may go with me, and the rest of you may go home.”

The children were appalled by the fearful accident, and could not say a
word. Only Griffy seemed to have his wits about him, and while Bertha
attempted to bind up the bleeding head of Noddy, he rowed with all his
might toward the pier at Woodville. Ben was in the boathouse when they
arrived, and, taking the insensible boy in his arms, carried him up to
the house and laid him upon the bed in Bertha’s chamber.

“Now, Ben, go over to Whitestone as fast as you can and bring the
doctor.”

“Yes, Miss Bertha; but I don’t think the boy is very badly hurt. That
knock on the head has taken away his senses; but he will be all right
in a few hours. You can’t kill a boy like that so easily.”

“Go quick, Ben. I am afraid he is dead now.”

“Oh, bless you! no, he isn’t. Don’t be frightened, Miss Bertha. Here
comes Mrs. Green.”

The housekeeper’s opinion coincided with that of the boatman, that
Noddy was not dangerously injured. She was an experienced nurse, and
proceeded to take such measures for the relief of the sufferer as the
case required. Before the doctor arrived the patient began to exhibit
some signs of consciousness. He opened his eyes, and gazed around
the room with a bewildered stare. The costly furniture was in strong
contrast with anything he had ever before seen, and it was no wonder
that he was bewildered.

As if conscious that he was not in his proper element, he suddenly
attempted to rise, but sank back upon the bed with a deep groan, and
closed his eyes again. The arrival of the doctor was gladly welcomed
by Bertha. After a patient examination, he declared that the boy was
badly hurt; that three of his ribs were fractured, and that he was
probably injured internally.

Before evening Noddy was in full possession of his senses, but was
suffering intense pain. Bertha remained by his side, ministering to all
his wants with as much zeal and interest as though the patient had been
her own brother.

When Mr. Grant came home, he found his daughter bending over the sick
bed of the friendless outcast; and then, more than ever before, he
realized what a treasure he possessed in this darling child. Richard
was proud and haughty, but Bertha was a friend to the poor; humble even
in possession of all the luxury and splendor which the world can afford.

Mr. Grant listened with pleasure to Bertha’s narrative of the events of
the day. Of the conduct of her brother in the morning she said nothing,
for she had decided to wait till necessity compelled her to do so. She
hoped Richard would reform his life, and, as he had given up the race,
she was encouraged to believe that he was taking the first steps toward
amendment.

The next day Noddy was feverish, and for a week he suffered a great
deal. Bertha took care of him most of the time during the day, while
Ben and the housekeeper attended him at night. Every day the boatman
brought the children of the school from the Glen to the house, where,
with the assistance of Mrs. Green and the chambermaids, the garments
of the boys and girls were completed, and as soon as Noddy began to
improve, Bertha gave them a picnic on Van Alstine’s Island.

But the sick boy was not willing that his little nurse should leave
him. His severe sickness seemed to have produced a wonderful effect
upon him. It softened his heart, and made him more human than he had
ever been before. He had become strongly attached to Bertha, and
listened attentively to the gentle lessons of wisdom with which she
improved the hours of his convalescence.

It was a fortnight before he was able to sit up, and a month before
he could go out of the house; but much of the spirit of his life
and character had returned to him, and he longed for the health and
strength which would enable him to roam the fields and forests, and
sail upon the river, as he had done before his fall.

“I shall be so glad to be well again!” exclaimed he, as he walked on
the lawn one day with Bertha.

“What will you do then?”

“I shall run and climb and sail as I used to do; but I will go to your
school, Miss Bertha.”

“Don’t you want to do something better than spend your time in
idleness?”

“What can I do?”

“You can learn to be a useful and respectable man.”

“I don’t think I shall ever be of any use to anyone but myself. It was
queer that I fell that day, after I had told you I knew enough not to
fall.”

“It was all for the best, Noddy.”

“I don’t believe that. How could it be best for me to stave in my ribs,
and lie here, like a fool, for a month?”

“Perhaps it will prove to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“You don’t mean so, Miss Bertha,” said the pale boy, with a smile.

“I do, Noddy. Our misfortunes are blessings to us; and we ought to
be as thankful for them as for the prosperity we enjoy. If you had
continued your wild life much longer, you would probably have been
taken up and sent to prison.”

Noddy made no reply, but kept thinking of what Bertha had said. He
could not fully comprehend such wisdom, though he could not help
believing that his coming to Woodville was a great event in his life.
His fair instructress improved the advantage she had obtained, and the
little savage was already more than half civilized.

During the month that Noddy had been confined to the house, Richard
did not once visit Whitestone, or meet any of his former dissolute
companions; but whether this was from mortification at his failure
to sail the _Greyhound_ with Tom Mullen, or because he had really
commenced upon a new life, was a matter of painful doubt to Bertha. His
father steadily refused to supply him with money, and he spent most of
the time at home. He would not permit any allusion to the half eagles,
either by his sister or the boatman.

He was gloomy and taciturn. When he used the _Greyhound_, he did not
go near the other side of the river, and carefully avoided meeting
any other boats, especially those belonging to Whitestone. One day,
as he was sailing near the island, he observed a great commotion
on board of a passing steamer, and soon ascertained that a man had
fallen overboard. Trimming his sails, he bore down upon the spot, and
succeeded in saving the stranger from a watery grave.

In the gratitude of his heart, the gentleman presented him with fifty
dollars in gold, as he landed him on the pier at Whitestone, where the
steamer had made a landing.

“Your name, young man,” said the gentleman.

“John Green,” replied Richard, after some hesitation.

“God bless you, John Green! I shall remember your name as long as I
live,” added the stranger, as he shook him warmly by the hand, and
hastened on board of the steamer.

“John Green!” muttered Richard to himself, as he turned the bow of his
boat toward Woodville, “I’m rich now, and that boat race shall come off
yet.”

If anyone had asked Richard why he had given a false name to the
gentleman whose life he had saved, his pride would not have permitted
him to acknowledge the meanness of the motive which prompted the
falsehood. It was that he might conceal the fact of possessing so large
a sum of money from the family at Woodville.

The next day, the _Greyhound_ made another visit to Whitestone, and
the terms of the contest between the two boats were arranged. Richard
excused his long absence upon the plea that he had been sick, and his
graceless companions were too glad to see him again to find much fault.
The race was to take place in three days, and the stakes were placed
in the hands of Bob Bleeker, who was to act as umpire upon the great
occasion.

On the day before the race, Richard had the bottom of the _Greyhound_
cleaned, her sails and ropes carefully adjusted, and everything done
that would add a particle to his chance of winning the regatta. This
time he kept his own counsel, and did not even tell Ben of the coming
race.

The fifty dollars in his pocket had wrought a great change in the
manner of Richard. He was no longer dull and gloomy, but full of life
and energy. None of the family or the servants knew it was he who had
saved the stranger from drowning, and, with all the neighborhood, had
wondered who John Green was. No one had ever heard of him before, and
the more they wondered, the more Richard chuckled over his own cunning
and deception.

When Richard had completed his preparations for the race, he sat in
the stern sheets of the _Greyhound_, thinking of the triumph he was so
confident of winning.

“Richard! Richard!” called Bertha from the pier.

“What do you want, Berty?”

“Father hasn’t come home.”

“Well, what of it?”

“The train has arrived, and he did not come in it. Where do you suppose
he is?” continued Bertha, as she stepped into her boat, and rowed to
the _Greyhound_.

“I don’t know. Perhaps he was talking politics, and forgot to get out
at the station,” replied Richard, indifferently.

“No; Mr. Barton said he was not in the cars.”

“He is safe enough.”

“He has looked very sad and troubled for several days. I am afraid
something has happened,” added Bertha, as she pulled back to the wharf.




CHAPTER V

GOOD NEWS AND BAD


The return of her father from the city was a happy event to Bertha,
and she was always the first to greet him on his arrival. It was an
everyday occurrence, but it lost none of its interest on this account.
He was the only parent she had, and his smile, as she welcomed him
home, was worth all the watching and waiting which it cost.

When, therefore, on that eventful evening, the man who had gone to
drive him up from the railroad station returned without him, gloomy
forebodings filled her mind. Her father was very regular and methodical
in his habits, and had never missed a train, or remained away overnight
without announcing his intention to do so beforehand. This fact, added
to the sad and anxious look which Mr. Grant had worn for several days,
was enough to awaken painful thoughts, even in a mind less sensitive
than that of Bertha.

The long, gloomy night wore away without any tidings from the absent
father. Richard slept, and Fanny slept, but Bertha scarcely closed
her eyes, so deeply was she impressed with the dread of some coming
calamity. Long before sunrise, she left her chamber, and wandered up
and down the walks upon the lawn, trying to make herself believe that
nothing had happened to her father.

“Why, Miss Bertha, how pale you are this morning!” exclaimed Noddy, as
he met her on the lawn, after the first bell had rung. “Are you sick?”

“No, Noddy, I am not sick.”

“What ails you, then? Is it because your father did not come home last
night?”

“Not because he did not come home, but because I fear something has
happened to him.”

“Well, I am glad I haven’t got any father to bother me like that! I
never had any trouble about my relations,” laughed Noddy.

“You must not talk so, Noddy; it does not sound well. If you had a good
and kind father, as I have, he would be a great joy to you.”

“But your father don’t seem to be a great joy to you just now,” added
Noddy, whose philosophy had been developed at the expense of his
affections.

“Yes, he is; and even if I knew that he were dead”--and Bertha
shuddered as she uttered the words--“the remembrance of his love and
kindness would still be a great joy to me.”

“Well, I don’t understand those things, and I suppose I ought not to
say anything about them,” said Noddy, as he observed the great tear
that slid down the pale cheek of Bertha. “There’s going to be a race
to-day.”

“What kind of a race?”

“Mr. Richard is going to race with Tom Mullen. Each one put up five
dollars, and Bob Bleeker has got the money.”

Bertha was shocked at this piece of news, for it assured her that her
brother had never made a resolution to abandon his evil associates, or
that he had broken it.

“Are you sure of what you say, Noddy?”

“Yes; I am certain of it. Tom Mullen told me all about it yesterday.”

“Where did you see him?”

“I saw him on the river. You know you lent me your boat to go up to the
island, and I met him on my way back. The reason why he told me was,
that he wanted to know what Mr. Richard had been doing to his boat, to
make her sail faster.”

The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the breakfast bell.
Bertha noticed that Richard was more than usually excited. He hurried
through the morning meal, and hastened down to the wharf, whither
Bertha followed him, and joined him on board the _Greyhound_.

“I wish you would take the morning train to the city, Richard, and
ascertain what has become of father,” said Bertha, as she stepped into
the sailboat. “I feel almost sure something has happened to him.”

“I can’t go to-day,” replied Richard, impatiently.

“Why not, Dick?”

“Because I can’t. I think that is reason enough.”

“How rude you are! If you felt as badly as I do, you would be glad to
go.”

“Badly? Why should you feel badly? Don’t you think father is old
enough, and knows enough, to take care of himself?”

“You know he has the heart complaint, and----”

Bertha could not complete her sentence, for there was in her mind a
vivid picture of her father lying dead in his office, where he might
have fallen when there was no one near to help him, or even to witness
his expiring agony. She burst into tears and wept in silence, with the
awful picture still before her mental vision. Richard, disturbed by
none of his sister’s doubts or fears, coolly cast loose the sails of
the _Greyhound_, and made his preparations for the exciting event of
the day. Bertha continued to weep, without his sympathy or even his
notice, for a time.

“My poor father!” sobbed Bertha.

“What are you crying about, Berty?”

“I am almost certain that something has happened to father. He never
stayed away overnight before without letting us know where he was.”

“Oh, nonsense! He is full of business, and something has detained him.
If he were sick, or anything worse had happened to him, we should have
heard of it before this time. I tell you it is all right.”

“Even if it is all right, it will do no harm to ascertain the fact. You
can go to the city this morning, and return by the noon train,” said
Bertha, whose anxiety for her father had overshadowed everything else,
and even made her forget the race of which Noddy had told her.

“I told you I couldn’t go this morning,” answered he, petulantly. “Why
don’t you go yourself?”

“I cannot leave to-day. Fanny is to have her party this afternoon.”

“Well, I can’t go, and it is of no use to talk about it. I have an
engagement that I must keep.”

“I hope you are not going with that wicked Tom Mullen again,” added
she, as Noddy’s unpleasant intelligence recurred to her mind.

“I don’t want any preaching.”

“You are going with those boys again! Oh, Richard! I beg of you, do
not.”

“What’s the matter now?” sneered Richard.

“Stay at home to-day with me, Richard. You don’t know how lonely and
sad I feel.”

“The more fool you!”

“How unkind you are, Dick!”

“Come, Berty, don’t whine any more; that’s a good girl,” said he,
changing his tone as policy, rather than feeling, seemed to dictate.
“If father doesn’t come home before three o’clock, and you don’t hear
from him, I will agree to go to the city by the afternoon train, and
find out where he is. Positively, Berty, that is the best I can do.
Now, be a good girl, Berty, and go ashore, or you won’t be ready for
Fanny’s party.”

“I feel almost as bad for you as I do for father,” sobbed Bertha.

“Why, what under the canopy of Jupiter has got into you now?” exclaimed
Richard, suspending his work, and looking in her face with astonishment.

“I know you are going to do something wrong to-day, Dick.”

“Do you, indeed? Then you are a long way ahead of my time. What do you
mean?”

“You are going to sail your boat against Tom Mullen’s.”

“Who told you that?”

“Isn’t it so, Dick?”

“Well, suppose it is; what then? There is no great harm in racing
boats, I hope.”

“And you have put up five dollars, as a bet, on the race.”

“Who told you this?”

“Is it true, Dick?”

“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t; what then?”

“You don’t answer me, Dick!”

“Did you ever hear of such a thing as a race for nothing?” answered he,
sullenly. “I would give another five dollars to know who told you this.”

“Money seems to be very plenty with you, though father hasn’t given you
any for six or seven weeks.”

“Now, you have said enough, Berty, and you may go ashore. Do you think
I am going to listen to your preaching, and have you domineer over me,
like that? If you don’t leave the boat, I will help you ashore,” said
Richard, who was now so angry that he had lost control of himself.

“Don’t be angry, Richard. You are my brother and you know I would not
willingly offend you.”

“That’s just what you are doing.”

“But you are going with those bad boys again. You are taking your first
steps in gambling. If you knew how bad these things make me feel, you
wouldn’t be cross to me. I don’t want to have my brother like Tom
Mullen.”

“Now, shut up! Don’t whine any more over me. I am able to take care of
myself, and I don’t want a sermon from you every time you happen to
have the blues.”

“Where did you get the money, Dick, to bet on the race?”

“That’s none of your business,” replied Richard, rudely. “Do you mean
to hint that I stole it?”

“I hope not, Dick.”

“If you haven’t any better opinion of me than that, you had better hold
your tongue.”

“You remember the other time, when you were going to have this race
with Tom Mullen? You know what you were tempted to do that time?”

“That was father’s money, and just as much mine as it was yours. You
wouldn’t lend me the money, and you see what you made me do.”

“I only wanted to keep you away from those boys. If father were at
home, you know he wouldn’t let you go.”

“He couldn’t help himself,” growled Richard; “and you can’t; so you may
as well go into the house, and hold your tongue.”

“Won’t you give up this race for my sake, Richard?” pleaded the poor
girl, whose solicitude was now divided between her father and her
brother.

“No, I won’t! All the teasing, scolding, preaching, fretting and
threatening in the world won’t make me back out this time.”

“At least tell me where you got the money that you put up.”

“I won’t do that, either,” said Richard, stoutly. “I came honestly by
it, and that’s enough for you to know. You need not scold or threaten
any more, but go home.”

“I haven’t threatened you,” sighed Bertha; “you know I didn’t tell
father about the ten dollars.”

“I know you didn’t; but you told him I went with Tom Mullen and the
rest of the fellows, and that was just as bad.”

“I did it for your good.”

“If you won’t go ashore, I will!” said Richard, angrily, as he jumped
into his skiff and paddled to the wharf as fast as he could.

Poor Bertha, trembling for her father and her brother, was sorely tried
by the unfeeling conduct of the latter. She could do nothing to restore
the one or redeem the other. Richard would go, though she had done all
she could to prevent him from doing so. As she sat weeping in the boat,
she tried to think of some plan to keep Richard at home. She knew that
Ben could do it; that he would even lock him up in the boathouse, if
she wished him to do so; but she was unwilling to resort to extreme
measures.

Whatever else might be, it was certain that crying would do no good;
and summoning all her resolution, she dried her tears, and determined
to make the best of her trying situation. Stepping into the boat, she
rowed to the shore. Her resolution was already imparting new courage
to her soul, and she felt that she could endure all that might be in
store for her. But she did not abandon her purpose to save her brother.
He had left her in anger, and she hoped, when he became himself again,
that he would hear her.

As she passed up the path toward the house, where Richard had gone,
she saw Ben hastening toward her with all the speed his rheumatic
joints would permit. As he approached he held up a letter, which caused
Bertha’s heart to beat with hope and fear.

“Here is a letter, Miss Bertha. The handwriting is your father’s; so
I suppose nothing has happened to him,” said Ben, as he gave her the
letter.

“I hope not. Where did you get it?” asked Bertha, as she tore open the
envelope.

“The conductor on the morning train brought it up.”

Bertha’s face lighted up with pleasure as she read the first line; but
as she proceeded with the letter, her expression changed, and the shade
of sadness deepened into a look of grief and alarm. The letter was as
follows:

                                            “NEW YORK CITY, August 12th.

  “MY DEAR CHILDREN: An unexpected event detained me in the city last
  night, and prevented me from sending you any word that I could not
  go home as usual; but I am alive and well, and I hope my unexplained
  absence did not cause you any anxiety or alarm.

  “But, my dear children, the event to which I allude promises the
  most serious consequences to me in my business relations, and before
  many days you may be called upon to share with me the trials and
  misfortunes from which only a few men in active business life can be
  exempted. You may be compelled to give up the comforts and luxuries
  of our elegant home; but while your father retains his honor and
  integrity, can you not bear with him the loss of everything else?
  I do not yet know the extent of my misfortune, and I have only
  mentioned it that you might the sooner learn to endure with patience
  the change to which we must submit.

  “I shall not be able to go home to-night or to-morrow night--perhaps
  not for several days. I am much distressed by the aspect of my
  business affairs; but it would be a great relief to me, when I do go
  home, to find that my children have the courage to endure the heavy
  blow that has come upon us. Be patient and hopeful, and all will yet
  be well with us.
                                    “Your affectionate father,
                                                       “FRANKLIN GRANT.”

Bertha was astonished and bewildered by the contents of this letter.
She told the boatman that her father was alive and well; but she deemed
it prudent to conceal the rest of the letter from him for the present.
The bad news it contained would travel fast enough, without any
assistance from her.

While reading the letter, she had seen Richard come out of the house
and walk off in another direction. She asked Ben to find him, and send
him to the house, where she went herself, rejoiced to find her worst
fears were not realized, but almost stunned by the shock which the
letter had given her. It was terrible to think of leaving Woodville; to
step down from the pinnacle of wealth to the low level of poverty; but,
as she had been rich and humble, the fall would be a gentle one to her;
yet how terrible to Richard and Fanny!

Richard read the letter, turned pale, and wondered what it all meant.
Bertha said it was plain that her father had failed in business. She
was calm and resigned, he was morose and sullen.

“You will not go to the race now, Dick?” she asked.

“I will!” and he rushed out of the house, down the hill, to the wharf;
but when he got there, nothing but the topmast of the _Greyhound_ could
be seen.

She had sunk in fifteen feet of water!




CHAPTER VI

THE “GREYHOUND” FLOATS AGAIN


The rage of Richard knew no bounds when he discovered the topmast of
the _Greyhound_, with the little tri-colored flag still flaunting
upon it, rising but a few feet above the waves of the Hudson. There
she had floated, as gayly and as buoyantly as a swan, only an hour
before. But there was no one near to hear his exclamations of wrath and
disappointment, as he beheld the ruin of all his hopes for that day. I
am sorry to add that he swore roundly; but a boy who could associate
with rowdies and blacklegs would not be too nice to use profane
language.

While he was still venting his impotent frenzy, Ben arrived at the
wharf. The boatman had not discovered the calamity which had befallen
the _Greyhound_ till he reached the wharf, for the gloomy expression of
Bertha still haunted his mind, and he was wondering what had happened
to cover with shadows the face which was wont to be all sunshine. When
he raised his eyes from the ground, and looked off upon the water--as
an old sailor always does when he first comes near the sea, or on deck
from below--he saw the flaunting flag of the _Greyhound_, fifteen feet
lower down than when he had last looked upon it, and he appeared to be
quite as much surprised as Richard.

“Ben, who did that?” roared Richard, as the boatman moved out to the
end of the wharf.

He was almost bursting with anger and vexation; and no doubt his mind
was filled with suspicions and conjectures in regard to the author of
this mischief, for he had already come to the conclusion that it had an
author, as the _Greyhound_ would never have done so mean a thing as to
sink without assistance.

Ben was an elderly man, and he had always been treated with
consideration and respect by Mr. Grant and all his household; therefore
he felt that the tone with which “Mr. Richard” addressed him was not
proper or even tolerable.

“I don’t know, Mr. Richard,” replied the boatman, in a gruff,
man-of-war tone, and without even condescending to express any regret
or surprise at the singular event.

“If I knew who did it, I would kill him!” foamed Richard.

“Then it is lucky for him that you don’t know,” added Ben, rather
coolly.

“She didn’t sink herself.”

“I didn’t say she did, Mr. Richard.”

“Then who did it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do know; and if you don’t tell me, I’ll hold you responsible
for it,” said Richard with an emphasis which ought to have produced a
startling effect upon the old boatman.

But it did not appear to produce any effect; for Ben hitched up his
long blue trousers, turned upon his heel, and slowly walked off.

“Why don’t you answer me, Ben?”

“I haven’t anything to say, Mr. Richard,” replied the old man,
continuing his walk up the wharf.

“How dare you turn your back upon me in that manner? Come back here,
and answer my questions.”

As Ben would not come back, Richard went to him, and, with clinched
fists, placed himself in front of the old boatman, as though he meant
to thrash him on the spot for his impudence. If Richard had been
himself, as his hump-backed namesake declared he was on a certain
occasion, he would not have ventured into this belligerent attitude.
He was beside himself with passion, and there was neither wisdom nor
discretion left in him.

“Mr. Richard,” said the boatman, after he had deliberately surveyed the
youngster from head to foot for a moment, “you are my employer’s son,
and I don’t want to harm you; but I don’t allow anyone to insult me. I
am a poor man, but there isn’t anybody in the world that is rich enough
to insult me. Now, get out of my way.”

“Tell me who sunk that boat!”

The great, broad hand of the old boatman suddenly dropped upon the
shoulder of the youngster, a vigorous shaking followed, and he was laid
upon the ground as gently as a mother would deposit her babe in the
cradle. That strong arm was too much for Richard, and when he rose, he
placed a respectful distance between himself and the owner of it.

“You did it! I know you did!” growled Richard. “I will pay you for it
before you are many days older.”

Ben deigned no reply to this rude speech, but walked up the lawn toward
the house. On his way he was met by Bertha, who from her window had
discovered the mishap which had befallen the _Greyhound_, as well as
witnessed the scene we have just described; and she was coming down to
make peace between the parties.

In a few words Ben told her what had happened, assuring her that he was
entirely ignorant of the cause of the sinking of the boat.

“Mr. Richard is very angry just now, and I think you had better keep
away from him for a time. When he comes to himself, he and I have an
account to be squared,” said Ben.

“Don’t be angry with him. He will be sorry for what he has done.”

“Bless you, Miss Bertha, I’m not angry. I couldn’t get angry with a
youngster like him if I tried,” added the boatman with a benign smile.

“I hope not.”

“Mr. Richard is a good-hearted boy, and before he began to run with
those beggarly rowdies on the other side, he was an honest and
well-meaning boy. If I had him on board ship, a thousand miles from the
nearest land, I could make a man of him in three days.”

With this encouraging remark, Ben hitched up his trousers again, and
continued his walk toward the house. Acting upon the suggestion of the
boatman, Bertha decided to let her brother cool off for a while, before
she went near him. The sinking of the boat seemed like a providential
event to her, since it must prevent the race she so much dreaded. Yet
if Richard had the will to associate with dissolute persons, even this
accident could not restrain him.

She could not help asking herself, as she sat waiting for Richard’s
wrath to subside, what effect the change of fortune would have upon
him. If it saved him from the error of his ways, it would be a blessing
instead of a misfortune. Her brother was proud, and gloried in the
wealth and social position of his father. The rowdies of Whitestone
had discovered his weak point, and as long as he paid for the oysters,
cigars--and liquors, for aught we know--they were willing to flatter
him, and to yield the homage which he so much coveted.

Misfortune had swept away the wealth of his father, and he was placed
on a level with those who had before looked up to him. If Mr. Grant had
the will, he had no longer the ability to furnish his children with
money, as he had done before. But Richard still had a large portion
of the fifty dollars left, and he was not disposed to consider any
of these questions. They did not even occur to him. His mind was all
absorbed by the race.

When she thought a sufficient time had elapsed for Richard to recover
his self-possession, Bertha joined him on the wharf, where he still
sat, brooding over the ruin of his hopes. He noticed Bertha as she
approached, but his interview with Ben had evaporated the violence of
his temper, and he permitted her to seat herself by his side without
uttering a word.

“Richard, I am sorry you were so rude to Ben. He is an old man, and he
has always been very kind to you,” said Bertha in the gentlest tones of
peace and affection.

“He had no business to sink my boat then,” muttered Richard.

“He did not do it.”

“How do you know he didn’t?”

“He went down to the railroad station while we were at breakfast, and
did not return till after you came on shore. He handed me the letter
as I was going up to the house, and then went for his breakfast. He did
not come down here again until after you did, and then he found you
here. It is impossible that he should have done it.”

“Then you must have done it yourself.”

“No, Richard; I did not. You have had your eyes upon me ever since we
landed from the boat.”

“You knew about the race, and wanted to prevent me from going to it.”

“But I did not sink your boat; neither do I know by whom it was done.”

Richard knew that Bertha always spoke the truth, and he would as soon
have doubted his own existence as doubted her word. In spite of his
theory that she had done it, or caused it to be done, to defeat his
plans, he was compelled to believe what she said.

“I don’t understand it, then,” said he, greatly perplexed. “You were
the last person on board of her.”

“It is as much a mystery to me as it is to you; but I hope you will
give up this race.”

“I can’t do anything else now. I put the money up, and I suppose I have
lost it.”

“That is of little consequence.”

“So you say; but the fellows will think I did it to avoid the race.”

“Let them think so; it won’t injure you.”

“But I would give a good deal to know how it was done.”

“Perhaps some boat ran into her while she lay at her moorings. How do
you know that Tom Mullen didn’t do it?”

“He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“He isn’t any too good to do a mean action.”

“If I thought he did do it!” said Richard, as he jumped from the seat,
apparently convinced that he did do it. “Where is Ben? I wonder if we
can’t raise her, and have the race yet?”

“Do you think Ben would help you now?” asked Bertha, reproachfully.

“I am sorry for what I said to him; but I was fully convinced that
he had done the mischief by your order. I will beg his pardon;” and
Richard ran up to the house, and made his peace with Ben, which was not
a difficult matter, for the old boatman was almost a grandfather to all
three of the children.

“Certainly, Mr. Richard, I forgive you with all my heart, and I am glad
of the chance to do so, for this thing made me feel worse than it did
you. Now we will go down and find out what made the _Greyhound_ go to
the bottom,” said Ben, as he led the way to the wharf.

Bertha had returned to the house, to attend to the preparations
for Fanny’s party, or possibly she might have objected to any
investigations in the direction indicated. Richard did not have the
courage to ask Ben to help raise the boat; but when they reached the
wharf, the old man went to the boathouse, and brought out sundry coils
of rigging, blocks and other gear. Then, with the end of a line in his
hand, he stepped into Bertha’s boat with Richard, and sculled off to
the place where the _Greyhound_ had sunk.

Fastening the line to the painter of the sunken boat, he sculled back
again. On their return to the wharf, they found Noddy there, an anxious
observer of their proceedings.

“Noddy, do you know who sunk this boat?” said Richard, who happened to
think just then that the little savage had been sitting on the pier
during the angry interview between himself and Bertha.

“I expect she sunk herself,” replied he, with one of his wild leers.

“If you know anything about it, tell me at once,” added Richard,
sternly.

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Yes, you do, you little villain!” continued Richard, beginning to get
excited.

“Keep cool, Mr. Richard,” interposed the boatman. “We have no time to
spare in that manner. Of course the boy don’t know anything about it.
Here, you young sculpin, run up and tell John to bring the two plow
horses down here as quick as he can.”

Noddy, whose health was now almost restored, ran off toward the
stables, chuckling as he went, as if he was glad to escape any further
questions.

Ben now sent Richard up into a large tree which grew on the very verge
of the water, where, under the old man’s directions, he fastened a
block, and passed the long line from the boat through it. Another block
was attached near the ground, and the line run through it. By this time
the horses had come, and were hitched to the end of the rope.

Richard was deeply interested in the operation, and what he could not
understand, the boatman explained to him. The rope was run through the
block in the tree so as to pull the boat upward from the bottom of the
river.

“Now start up the horses, John, very slowly, and stop quick, when I
give the order,” said Ben, as he stepped into the skiff, and paddled
out to the mast of the _Greyhound_. “Now, go ahead, John,” shouted he.

The horses pulled, and in a few moments the sailboat was safely landed
on the grass by the side of the water. On examination, it was found
that the plug in the bottom had been taken out, and greater than ever
was the mystery in regard to the author of the mischief; but Richard,
elated at the success of the boatman’s labors, had ceased to care who
had sunk the boat, so intent was he upon the prospects of the race.

The boat was baled out, and washed out, and half an hour of sunshine
restored her to her former condition.

“Ben, I am ever so much obliged to you for what you have done, and all
the more sorry for what happened this morning,” said Richard, as the
boatman was leaving the _Greyhound_. “You have saved me from disgrace
and defeat.”

“Why so?”

“I am going to run the race with Tom Mullen this morning.”

“Are you? If I had known it, I wouldn’t have raised your boat to save
her from destruction,” replied Ben, with a sad look.

“Miss Bertha don’t want him to go,” added Noddy, who was seated in
the bow of Ben’s boat. “I heard her teasing him to give it up, and he
wouldn’t.”

“Shut up, you young monkey!” said Ben. “Boys should be seen, and not
heard.”

The old boatman used all the powers of his rude eloquence to dissuade
Richard from going; but the latter prated about his faith and his
honor, and declared that he must go; and he did go.

“Poor boy!” sighed Ben. “He is a smart, likely, good-hearted fellow,
and it is a pity that he should go to ruin.”

“Miss Bertha cried as though her heart would break, trying to make him
give up the race. Something awful has happened to Mr. Grant, too,”
added Noddy. “I heard Miss Bertha say he had failed, if you know what
that means--I don’t.”

“Failed!” gasped old Ben.

“Yes, sir; but Richard would go, and that’s the reason why I pulled the
plug out, and sank the boat,” continued Noddy, innocently.




CHAPTER VII

TERRIBLE NEWS


Noddy Newman’s confession promised to get him into trouble with
Richard, if the latter should discover that he was the cause of the
mischief. Ben, the old boatman, fully sympathized with the young savage
in what he had done; for, when the latter related the conversation
between Bertha and her brother, to which he had listened, and told how
badly he felt when Mr. Richard scolded at her, and declared that he
would go to the race, his indignation was as deeply roused as that of
the listener had been, and he decided that it would be better for all
parties if the truth were concealed.

Richard had gone to the race, and there was nothing more that could
be done to save him from the consequences of his own folly and
waywardness. Noddy was well satisfied with what he had done, especially
after the approval of Ben. All he lived for was to please Miss Bertha,
and, if he could do anything to carry out her views, he was not very
particular to avoid displeasing anybody else. If she wished to prevent
Richard from going to the race, he was ready to sink the boat, or even
to burn and destroy it. What the owner of her liked or disliked was a
matter of no consequence to him.

Noddy’s ideas of right and wrong, of truth and justice, were not very
clearly defined. He had no particular devotion to the truth as such,
and no particular love of justice for its own sake. He did not remain
at Woodville because he liked the place, after he had strength enough
to return to his former vagabond life, but because Bertha was there.
He was willing to do right, so far as he understood it, because she
desired him to do so. It must be confessed that principle had not yet
been developed in his character. His only law was to do what his fair
and loving mistress wished him to do, and he had no higher idea of duty
than this. He cared for no one, was afraid of no one. Her friends were
his friends, and, if she had had any foes, they would have been his
foes.

Ben sat on the wharf, watching the _Greyhound_, as she swept forward
on her course. He was sad and dull, for the information which Noddy
had given him was full of grief to the old servant of the family. As
he reflected upon the import of the fearful words which expressed the
misfortune of Mr. Grant, the tears gathered on his brown cheek.

“What ails you, Ben?” asked Noddy, who was lying upon the wharf, gazing
into the face of the boatman.

“What ails me? You young sculpin, are you here? I thought you had
gone,” replied Ben, roughly, as he wiped away the tears.

“You are crying!”

“Crying? Nonsense! Did you ever see an old sailor cry?”

“I never did before.”

“I am not crying, you little lubber! I am getting old, and my eyes are
weak. The sun makes them water a little.”

“Tell me what it is about, Ben, and perhaps I will cry, too,” added
Noddy, suddenly dropping his chin, and looking as gloomy as though he
had lost his best friend.

“Run away, boy--up to the house. Miss Bertha wants you to help her
about the party. You must turn somersets, stand on your head, and cut
all the capers you can this afternoon, to please the children who will
come to the party, for I think it will be the last party the young
folks will ever have at Woodville. Go and limber up your back, boy.”

“I will do anything Miss Bertha wants me to do, if it is to swallow my
own head, or turn inside out,” replied Noddy, as he walked away, with
the feeling that there was a chance for him to do something to please
his young mistress.

On the way up to the house, he stopped in the grove to practice a few
gymnastic feats, for he was not certain whether his ribs were yet in
condition to enable him to entertain a party of young ladies. But his
bones were all right, and his gyrations would have been creditable to a
traveling circus company. When he had satisfied himself that he was in
condition to perform, he walked leisurely up to the house to report to
Bertha.

She did not give him much encouragement that his entertainment would be
an acceptable one to the delicate young ladies who were to come from
the homes of wealth and taste in the vicinity; but she was pleased with
his devotion--with his efforts to do something for the amusement of the
party. During the rest of the forenoon she kept him busy in preparing
the rooms for the reception of the company, and Noddy was never so
well satisfied as when he felt that he was doing something to assist or
amuse Bertha.

At two o’clock in the afternoon everything was ready for the party.
Miss Fanny was dressed like a fairy queen; Bertha, more plainly robed,
was not less fascinating, and even Noddy Newman was so disguised by
his new clothes that he looked very much like a little gentleman. Two
o’clock came, and half-past two, and three, but not a single young lady
who had been invited to the party made her appearance.

Fanny fretted, pouted and stormed at this want of punctuality, and even
Bertha did not know what to make of it. But when four o’clock came, and
still not a single guest appeared, Fanny gave up to despair, and Bertha
was as puzzled as though she had been solving problems in Euclid.
Five o’clock, and six o’clock, came, and still the great parlor of
Woodville, with all its flowers and draperies, was “like some banquet
hall deserted.” Not a single guest came to the party of Miss Fanny,
and the rich feast that decked the table in the great dining-room was
“wasting its sweetness on the desert air.”

Great were the astonishment and mortification of all in the house.
Fanny had gone to her chamber, thrown off her fine clothes, and
was weeping great tears of grief and vexation. The steward and the
housekeeper were vainly trying to explain the circumstance. It was very
remarkable.

“It is very singular,” said Mrs. Green, “and such a slight was never
put upon this family before.”

“I can’t understand it,” added the steward.

“Neither can I.”

“I can,” said Noddy, thrusting his hands down to the bottom of the
pockets in his new pants.

“You! What do you know about it?” said the steward.

“I think there must have been some mistake in the invitations,”
continued the housekeeper.

“I tell you, I know all about it,” said Noddy.

“What do you know?”

“Mr. Grant has failed, and the people round here don’t want to have
anything more to do with him.”

Neither the steward nor the housekeeper had heard anything of this kind
before, and they were incredulous; but, Bertha, to whom Mrs. Green
carried this piece of information, confirmed it.

“That is no reason why people should keep their children from coming to
Fanny’s party. Two or three of our neighbors have failed, and people
sympathized with them, instead of insulting them, in their misfortune,”
said Bertha.

The failure of Mr. Grant certainly was not enough to explain the
singular unanimity with which the guests of the party stayed away.
The steward and the housekeeper were more indignant than before, and
declared that they lived in the midst of the heathen. The cakes and
the creams, the fruits and the candies, for the feast, were put away,
the parlor was restored to its wonted condition; but grief, chagrin
and indignation pervaded every hall and apartment at Woodville for the
slight that had been put upon the family.

The hour for the return of Mr. Grant had arrived, and a man had been
sent down to the railroad station to drive him up, as usual, for Bertha
hoped that he might come that night, in spite of what he had said in
his note. But the man returned alone, bringing the mail and the city
newspapers.

As there was no letter from her father, Bertha took up one of
the papers. The excitement of the party had passed away, and the
all-engrossing theme of her father’s misfortune once more began to prey
upon her mind. Richard had not yet returned from the race, and she had
a sad thought for him. Fanny and the housekeeper were discussing the
party still, and Bertha tried to read the newspaper. She ran her eyes
up and down the columns, in search of any item or article that might
interest her.

Suddenly her gaze was fixed upon a paragraph, which accidentally
caught her eye. It chained her attention, while her cheeks paled, her
eyes dilated and her lips quivered. She read it through, as though some
terrible fascination attracted her to the words; then the paper dropped
from her hands, a slight groan escaped her pallid lips, and she dropped
senseless from her chair upon the floor.

Mrs. Green, alarmed at her fall, hastened to her assistance, and,
with a strong arm, placed her upon a sofa. She saw that Bertha had
only fainted, and immediately applied herself with all zeal to her
restoration.

“What ails her?” asked Fanny, who was greatly terrified by the
deathlike appearance of her sister.

“She has only fainted; she will get over it in a few minutes,” replied
Mrs. Green, as she dashed a tumbler of ice water in the patient’s face.

“What made her faint?”

“Poor child! She is all worn out. She didn’t sleep any last night,
worrying because her father didn’t come home; and I suppose this affair
of the party has vexed and tormented her, as it has all the rest of us.”

“It is enough to make anyone faint. I wonder I don’t faint,” added Miss
Fanny, who, no doubt, thought she had more sorrows, just then, than all
the rest of the world put together.

Mrs. Green labored diligently and skillfully for the restoration of
Bertha, and in a very short time the poor girl opened her eyes, and
gazed languidly around the room.

“My poor father!” sighed she, and she shuddered so that her whole frame
shook with the paroxysm, as she uttered the words.

“Come, dear, don’t take it so sorely to heart; your father will come
back again.”

“Oh, Mrs. Green!” sobbed Bertha, as she looked at the housekeeper, and
her eyes filled with tears. “What will become of me?”

“Don’t take on so, Bertha. You have no reason to feel so badly, even if
your father has failed.”

“Failed!” exclaimed Miss Fanny, to whom this intelligence now came for
the first time.

To the proud little miss this was the most terrible thing that could
happen, and Mrs. Green began to fear that she should have another
patient on her hands, for Fanny began to cry and rave as though she was
to be the only sufferer by her father’s misfortune.

“Come, children, you will make yourselves sick, if you take on in this
way. It may not be half as bad as you think it is.”

“My poor father!” sighed Bertha.

“No more parties, no more fine dresses; the horses and carriages must
be sold, and all the servants discharged!” added Fanny, who, though
only eleven years of age, knew what a failure meant, and had read some
novels from which she had obtained the romantic idea of bankruptcy.

“What will become of him?” said Bertha.

“What shall I do?” added Fanny. “No one thinks anything of poor people.”

“Come, Bertha, you had better go up to your chamber and lie down. You
are all beat out with this party, and last night,” suggested Mrs. Green.

“Has Richard come home?”

“He has not.”

“I wish he would come, Mrs. Green. I must go to the city by the first
train to-morrow morning.”

“By the first train? Why! what for?”

“I must see father,” sighed she.

“You must be calm, Bertha. This violent taking on don’t seem like you.”

“You don’t understand it, Mrs. Green,” added Bertha, looking sadly at
the housekeeper.

“Oh, yes, I do; I have known a hundred people to fail, and some of
them did not sell a single horse, nor discharge a single servant, but
lived on just the same as they did before they failed. It isn’t such a
terrible thing, after all.”

“You don’t understand it,” groaned Bertha, her eyes filling with tears
again.

“Why, yes, I do. Some folks fail on purpose, and make ever so much
money by it. Don’t cry about it.”

“It is nothing of that kind that makes me feel so.”

“What in the world is it, then?” asked the housekeeper, astonished and
alarmed by the reply.

“I cannot tell you. Do not ask me. You will know too soon. But I will
try to be calm, and not disturb you and others by my conduct.”

“Bless you, child! You don’t disturb me, but I feel as bad as you do. I
hope nothing bad has happened?”

“I cannot answer you,” replied Bertha, as she shuddered at the thought
of the terrible thing she had read in the newspaper. “There, I will not
cry any more.”

She rose from the sofa, and summoned all her strength to her aid; she
tried to recover her wonted self-possession, but the blow she had
received was too heavy and too awful to be easily resisted. She picked
up the newspaper from the floor, and put it in her pocket, that none of
the family might read the terrible paragraph which had taken away her
reason for the time.

In her own bosom she locked up the fearful truth. She had no one to
whom she dared to impart it. The reason why none of the children had
come to the party was painfully apparent to her. The neighbors had read
that stunning paragraph, and Woodville was no place for their children
to visit after such a revelation.

Poor Bertha tried to eat her supper, but she could not. The terrible
secret was burning at her heart. She dared not utter it, lest the
housekeeper and the steward, and even old Ben, should desert the
family, as the neighbors had done. But Richard was her brother, and
she must tell him. He was older than she was, and such a shock as this
would electrify him.

The secret seemed to gnaw at her soul, and she felt the need of a
friend comforter, and Richard was the only one to whom she could muster
courage to reveal it. After rising from the supper table, where she
had vainly tried to eat, she hastened down to the wharf, to meet
her brother on his return. As she approached the pier, she saw the
_Greyhound_ coming around the island. In a few moments it was within
hail of the wharf, when Bertha discovered, with intense alarm, that
Richard was not at the helm.

The boat was steered by Tom Mullen; but, on its nearer approach, the
poor girl perceived the form of her brother lying in the bottom. She
uttered a scream of terror, for he appeared to be dead.

“Don’t be frightened, miss,” said Tom Mullen, as he brought the boat
alongside the wharf.

“Is he dead?” gasped Bertha.

“Oh, no, Miss Grant. Nothing of the kind. He took one glass more than
he can carry, and it threw him,” laughed Tom.

Richard was intoxicated! It was scarcely better than dead!




CHAPTER VIII

THE NEW OWNER OF WOODVILLE


Bertha was shocked and almost paralyzed when she realized the condition
of her brother. It was dreadful to see a mere boy, only fifteen years
of age, in a state of beastly intoxication, and that boy her only
brother, he to whom she had looked for counsel and encouragement in
this hour of bitter trial. All her hopes seemed to be dissipated by
this greatest calamity, and despair to be her only resort.

Tom Mullen’s coarseness--for he alluded to the condition of Richard
as though it were a matter of no consequence--grated harshly upon her
feelings, and in a low tone she begged Ben, who had now come to her
assistance, to send him off. The boatman and Tom bore Richard to the
seat upon the pier, and then the former thanked the rowdy for what he
had done for Mr. Richard, and proposed to take him back to Whitestone
in one of the rowboats. Tom assented to the arrangement, and, much to
the relief of Bertha, he bade her good-night, and stepped into the
boat, leaving her alone with the helpless boy.

“Too bad,” sighed Ben. “Too bad for a fine boy like Mr. Richard to come
home in such a situation as that.”

“That’s a fact, Ben. I told him he had got enough, and advised him not
to take the last glass. I did all I could to keep him straight, so it
is not my fault that he comes home drunk.”

“If he had never seen you, and the rest of the boys on the other side
of the river, he might have been a decent boy.”

“That is talking pretty close to the point!” replied Tom Mullen, sourly.

“Perhaps it is. Mr. Richard is a smart boy, and worth a dozen of the
rowdies he goes with.”

“Maybe he is; but, if he don’t want my company, I am sure I don’t want
his. I can get along as well without him as he can without me. He
wanted to race boats with me, and he did, and lost the race. I am five
dollars better off for the affair than before, it is true, but I paid
for all the liquor he drank.”

“Don’t say any more, Tom Mullen, or you will tempt me to throw you into
the river!”

“But don’t you see I am not to blame?”

“Silence! You have led this poor boy into all sorts of iniquity, and,
if I thought you knew any better, I would take it out of your bones!”

Tom Mullen was a boy of seventeen. His feelings were deeply injured
by the plain speech of the old boatman, if a person of his stamp had
feelings, and he was disposed to resent these home thrusts; but he knew
old Ben well enough not to attempt anything of the kind at present, and
laid up his revenge for a more convenient season.

Ben landed his dissolute passenger on the pier at Whitestone, and
hastened back to comfort Bertha, and attend to the besotted youth. On
his return, he found the poor girl weeping over her brother.

“This is terrible, Ben!” sobbed she. “To think that Richard should ever
come to this!”

“It’s awful to see a man drunk, and I think the angels must weep to see
a boy in such a state.”

“What shall we do? I don’t want to expose him to all the servants in
the house.”

“Leave him to me, Miss Bertha. I will take good care of him, and not a
soul shall see him till he is all right again. Go up to the house; go
to bed, and sleep as though nothing had happened.”

“Thank you, Ben; you are very kind to save my feelings, and Richard’s,
too, for he will hide his head with shame when he realizes what he has
done.”

“I hope he will; and, bad as this thing is, it may be all for the best.
It may be the very thing he needs to open his eyes and reform his life.”

Bertha tried to hope that what the old man said might prove true, but
just then there seemed to be no stability in anything human, and she
could not help feeling that Richard was ruined forever--that his life
would be that of the miserable sot, and end in the drunkard’s grave.
So many terrible events had suddenly been hurled upon her that she had
begun to give way to the sense of gloom and despondency which the dark
clouds of human ill often induce.

With a repeated charge to Ben to see that Richard was well cared for,
she bade him good-night, and slowly walked up toward the house. She
went to her chamber, and her prayers that night were longer and more
earnest than usual, but they gave her hope and strength, for “earth
has no sorrow which Heaven cannot heal.” Exhausted by her physical
exertions, as well as by her mental struggles, she soon wept herself to
sleep.

As soon as Bertha left the wharf, the boatman at once applied himself
to the redeeming of his promise. Lifting the inebriated boy in his
arms, he carried him to a shallow place by the bank of the river,
and, having removed his clothing, he commenced a vigorous course of
hydropathic treatment, which partially brought the patient to his
senses. Richard thought is was rather rough, when he had so far
recovered from his stupor to be able to comprehend his situation,
and he begged the doctor to desist; but Ben persevered till he was
satisfied he had done his work thoroughly. He then carefully rubbed him
dry, and led him back to the boathouse, where he made a bed for him of
sails and boat cushions. The patient was still too stupid to offer any
objection, and dropped asleep almost as soon as he touched his bed.
Ben slept by his side, faithful to the charge given him by his young
mistress.

The next morning Richard had entirely recovered from his debauch, with
the exception of a severe headache. The vigorous treatment of the
old boatman had, no doubt, been highly beneficial. At all events, he
was sufficiently recovered to be heartily ashamed of himself, for he
realized that he had been intoxicated, and had a faint recollection of
the energetic operations of Ben. But I am sorry to add that his pride
was more deeply wounded than his principle. He began to think of what
people would say, rather than of the wrong he had done. The feeling
that he had disgraced himself and his family, rather than sinned
against God and himself, took possession of his mind.

He was soon called to a realizing sense of his conduct by the vigorous
scolding which Ben gave him. The old man was as faithful in his
admonition as though the boy had been his own son; and Richard’s
shame and mortification did not permit him to utter a word in his own
defense. While he was undergoing this severe lecture, Bertha came down
to inquire for his health. The boatman brought his address to an abrupt
conclusion, and told Bertha what he had done, and that the patient was
in as good condition as could be expected after such a time.

“Come up to the house with me, Richard,” said Bertha; “I want to talk
with you.”

“I have had talk enough, and I don’t think any more would do me any
good,” replied Richard; but the remonstrance was very tame, for him.

“I will not reproach you for what you have done, Dick. I will leave
that to your own conscience. I have something else to say to you.”

“I don’t want to go up to the house, and be laughed at by all the
servants. I feel more like clearing out somewhere, and never seeing
anybody that knows me again.”

“No one at the house knows anything about your conduct.”

Richard thought it was very considerate on the part of Ben and his
sister to conceal his infirmity from others, and he felt grateful to
them for sparing his pride. He walked up to the house with Bertha, and,
after he had changed his clothes and eaten his breakfast, they met
again in the library.

Just before breakfast Mrs. Green had told him about the failure of
Fanny’s party, and the fainting of Bertha. He was indignant at the
slight upon the family, and pitied poor Bertha, who had taken it so
sorely to heart. He reproached himself more than ever for his own
conduct, and determined to make what reparation he could for it.

“I did not think our neighbors were so heartless before,” said Richard,
as he entered the library, where Bertha was waiting for him. “It makes
my blood boil to think of it.”

“I am not at all surprised at their conduct. Perhaps they kept their
children at home from the best of motives, for they probably knew more
of our affairs than we did ourselves,” replied Bertha, as she wiped
away the tears from her eyes, which would come in spite of all her
efforts to repress them.

“What do you mean by that, Bertha?”

“Father is utterly ruined.”

“Well, he has failed, I suppose; but I----”

“Or, worse than that--as much worse than that as can be!” exclaimed
Bertha.

“Why, what has happened? You had a letter from him yesterday, saying
that he was alive and well.”

“I did; but he did not tell us the whole truth.”

“Why, what do you mean, Bertha? What can have happened to him?”

“He is not only ruined, but he is in prison.”

“In prison!” exclaimed Richard, shocked at these words.

“In the Tombs,” replied she, covering her face with her hands. “I read
it in the newspaper last night.”

“What has he done?” demanded Richard, with quivering lip.

“He was arrested on the charge of fraud--the paper says stupendous
frauds in his business. I do not understand it, but I am sure, very
sure, that father has not done anything wrong. I know he would not do
it.”

“Certainly not,” added Richard, biting his lip till the blood ran.

“The newspaper says that he was arrested in an attempt to leave the
country, which rendered his guilt all the more apparent; but I do not
believe it.”

“Nor I,” added Richard.

“Here is the paper; you can read the paragraph, and perhaps you will
understand it better than I do,” said Bertha, as she took the paper
from her pocket.

Richard read the article, and then read it again; but the complicated
transactions which it described were as much beyond his comprehension
as they had been beyond his sister’s. The failure of an extensive
English banking house had been the beginning of Mr. Grant’s
misfortunes, and the alleged frauds were committed in attempting to
sustain himself against the pressure caused by being deprived of his
foreign resources. But, my young readers would be as much in the dark
as Richard and Bertha if I should attempt to explain the situation
of Mr. Grant’s affairs. It is enough to say that all the apparent
wealth of the broker, immense as it had appeared to himself and to his
neighbors, had suddenly been swept away, and that he was thrown into
prison on the charge of fraud.

Since the preceding evening Bertha had borne this heavy load upon her
heart, made ten times heavier by the misconduct of her brother. The
consciousness that she could do nothing to aid her father, or even to
comfort him, was not the least of her troubles. Mr. Grant had concealed
from his children the fact of his arrest and imprisonment, and she had
given up her purpose to visit him in his prison, for it could only add
to his grief, since he now supposed her to be ignorant of his real
condition.

Among other items in the paragraph, the newspaper said that Mr. Grant
had secured his principal and most pressing creditor by making over
to him his splendid estate on the Hudson, with all its furniture,
appointments, boats, library--indeed, everything there was at
Woodville. This statement was even more startling to Richard than the
fact of his father’s arrest. All the worldly possessions of his father
had passed away, almost in the twinkling of an eye. When he heard of
the failure, he recalled the case of one of the neighbors, who, though
a bankrupt, had retained his house and lands, and he had expected that
his father would do the same. But now Woodville was gone; even the
furniture in the house, the boats and the horses--all were to be given
up, and the proud youth looked with disgust and contempt upon the poor
cottage, or other humble abode, which his fancy pictured as the future
residence of the family.

He was selfish, grossly selfish, in his pride and vanity, and he almost
forgot the situation of his father in his mournings over the loss of
the luxuries to which he had always been accustomed. Henceforth he was
to be no better than the young men of Whitestone, who had regarded him
with envy and admiration.

While he and Bertha were considering, from widely different points of
view, the sad misfortune which had overtaken them, the man to whom
Mr. Grant had transferred Woodville arrived to take possession of
his property. As he was a money lender, and had no other god but his
wealth, he was a hard man, rude and rough. Woodville would not pay him
for the money he had lent its late owner, and obtaining possession of
the place did not appease the anger which the failure of Mr. Grant had
occasioned.

He was duly armed with all the necessary papers to make his work legal,
and he had no regard for the feelings of the children or the servants.
He walked all over the house and grounds, with his followers, and gave
orders to the servants for the disposal of the boat and the horses.

“Can we remain here?” asked Bertha, in timid and trembling tones, as
the new owner, for the third time, rudely entered the library, where
Bertha and Richard were still seated, followed by all his train.

“How long do you want to stay?” demanded Mr. Grayle, the new
proprietor, with an unfeeling stare at her and her brother.

“I don’t know; till father comes home, I suppose,” answered Bertha,
alarmed and indignant at the coarse manner of the man.

“That will be a long time, I rather think,” said Mr. Grayle. “Haven’t
you got any uncles, or aunts, or other friends, you could visit for a
few weeks?”

“We have no relative but Uncle Obed, and he is in South America; but we
will not stay here, if you do not wish us to do so.”

“Well, I don’t want to be hard with you. I have a purchaser in view,
who will take the estate as it stands. He will be here to-morrow; but
you can stay till I sell the place,” said Grayle.

“Do you think he will buy it?” asked Richard.

“I am reasonably sure that he will.”

“Then we must, indeed, leave Woodville,” groaned Richard.

“I shouldn’t think you would want to stay here, after what has
happened,” sneered Grayle. “But, if you want to stay, of course I
shall not drive you out. As to your father’s coming home, don’t delude
yourself on that point, young man. In my opinion, you won’t see him for
some years, unless you go where he happens to be.”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Richard, his face crimson with
shame.

“I suppose you know where Sing Sing is? If you call at the penitentiary
there, in the course of a month or two, you will probably find him.”

“You are an unfeeling brute!” gasped Richard, filled with rage at the
words and the sneers of the money lender.

“You are a little too bad,” whispered one of the attendants of Grayle.

“I speak the truth. This young cub has been living at my expense for
some time. He is prouder than his father, and it is time for him to
open his eyes. But I won’t be hard with them. I shall lock up the
parlors, the library and the dining-room. They may have the use of the
kitchen and their own chambers. We will send the servants off to-day.
They may have their rooms and welcome, though I suppose they won’t
thank me for them,” growled Grayle, as he left the library.

Richard and Bertha were almost stunned by these words; but they
hastened from the library to their own chambers, to avoid further
insult.




CHAPTER IX

BERTHA LEAVES WOODVILLE


There was no longer any room, if there was any desire, to conceal the
misfortunes which had overtaken the owner of Woodville. The servants
were all talking about the matter, and the astounding intelligence
that Mr. Grant had been sent to the Tombs for fraud was spreading
in every direction. Before night the steward and the housekeeper,
the boatman and the grooms--indeed, all who had held any position at
Woodville--were discharged. Not even Mrs. Green was allowed to remain,
for Grayle feared that the affection of the late owner’s employees
might lead them to appropriate some of the property of their master.
Perhaps his principal object was to drive the children from the place.
Whether it was or not, it had this effect, for they could not remain
any longer in the deserted home.

“What shall we do? We can’t remain here any longer,” said Richard, as
the three lonely children met together in the chamber of Bertha. “There
is not a servant left in the house. For one, I cannot remain here any
longer.”

“I feel that we are intruders; but where shall we go?” added Bertha.

“Anywhere--I care not where.”

“But we have no place to go. Our rich and proud neighbors will not
receive us now.”

“If I knew they would, I wouldn’t darken their doors,” replied Richard,
proudly.

“Nor I, after what they did yesterday,” added Fanny.

“I cannot stay here, to be watched and dogged by that man whom Grayle
has left in charge of the place. If I move, he follows me, as though he
were afraid I would steal something,” continued Richard, chafing under
the new order of things. “I will not remain under this roof a single
hour longer.”

“Where shall we go?”

“We will go to the hotel over at Whitestone.”

“To the hotel? How can we go to the hotel? We have not money enough to
pay for a single day’s board.”

“Yes, we have. I have over thirty dollars in my pocket.”

“Thirty dollars?” repeated Bertha, with an inquiring glance.

“Yes; thirty-five, I think.”

“Oh, Richard!” sighed Bertha.

“Come, Berty, don’t reprove me any more; and, as I have no longer any
reason for keeping it secret, I will tell you that I had fifty dollars.
I saved the man on the steamer from drowning, and gave him the name of
John Green.”

Bertha was not disposed to criticise his conduct at this time, but
she was rejoiced to know that he had so much money, and that he came
honestly by it. She readily assented to the plan of going to the hotel
in Whitestone, and hastily packed up her own and Fanny’s clothing in a
trunk which belonged to her, as Richard had already done with his own
wardrobe.

The trunks were carried downstairs by Richard and Bertha, and placed
upon the piazza. They were heavy, and their weight reminded the proud
youth of the condition to which he had fallen. He had never done such a
thing as to carry his own trunk downstairs before. There were a dozen
willing servants ready to do such work, but they had all been driven,
like unclean beasts, from the premises.

But some of them had not gone far. Old Ben, like a guardian angel,
hovered around the house, in spite of the orders of the keeper to
leave; and no sooner were the trunks visible on the piazza than the
boatman made his appearance. He had been up to Bertha’s room several
times during the day, and had done what he could to comfort her; but
he was old and poor, and he had nothing to offer but words of hope and
consolation.

“Are you going, Miss Bertha?” he asked, as the children came out of the
house.

“Yes, Ben; we cannot stay here, where we are not wanted, any longer. We
are going over to the hotel at Whitestone.”

“Then I will go with you; and I am glad that you are going where I may
have a chance to speak to you. These lubberly land sharks have been
trying to drive me away from Woodville, but I shall not lose sight of
the place while any of you remain. Dear me! This is the saddest day I
ever knew in my life; but after a storm there’s always a calm. Keep a
cheery heart, and it will all come out right in the end,” said Ben, as,
with much difficulty, he shouldered the big trunk, and walked toward
the wharf.

“Stop, there!” said a voice, in the direction of the stable.

At this moment Noddy Newman came bounding over the lawn, closely
pursued by the keeper of the estate. The little savage had been driven
off the premises a dozen times during the day, but he had as many times
returned, determined not to desert Bertha in this hour of her extremity.

“Stop!” shouted the keeper. “Put down that trunk!” and the man placed
himself in front of Ben, who, followed by Bertha and Richard, with the
smaller trunk, was heading the little procession down to the pier.

“What do you want?” said Ben, gruffly, as he deposited the trunk upon
the ground.

“I ordered you to leave these premises!”

“And I am going to leave them now, once and for all,” replied Ben. “The
children are going with me.”

“You cannot carry off those trunks!”

“I think we can, if our strength holds out. Here, Noddy, take hold of
that trunk with Mr. Richard.”

“Stop, I say! You shall not carry those trunks off the place!”

“They contain nothing but our clothes,” interposed Bertha.

“I don’t know that,” said the keeper, who was evidently a close
imitator of his employer.

“I know it; go ahead, Ben,” added Richard.

“I say you cannot carry off those trunks!” persisted the man.

“Can’t we have our own clothes?” asked Bertha. “There is nothing else
in them.”

“Open them, and let me see!” added the man, roughly.

“I will not do it!” answered Richard, stoutly. “I give my word that
they contain nothing but our clothing.”

“What is your word good for, young man? You may open them, or carry
them back to the house!”

“I will do neither! Move on, Ben.”

Ben attempted to take up the trunk again, but the man put his hands
upon it in such a manner as to prevent him from doing so.

“You miserable land shark!” said Ben, letting go the trunk. “You have
all the law on your side, perhaps, but I have all the common sense and
humanity on mine! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, to persecute these
poor children in this manner?”

“I only do my duty,” whined the keeper.

“I am going to take these things down to the pier, whether you are
willing or not! I am ready to shake hands or fight with you; but I am
going to do what I say!” and Ben proceeded once more to shoulder the
trunk.

The keeper did not deem it prudent to interfere with him again, and
perhaps he thought he was doing more than his duty required of him.
The party reached the pier, and were on the point of putting the
trunks into the four-oar barge, when the keeper again interposed, to
prevent them from using the boat. This was plainly a part of Grayle’s
property, and there could be no question in regard to the man’s right
to interfere. He was inflexible, though Ben and Bertha both begged the
use of the boat for a single hour.

Noddy stood by, watching, with intense interest, the proceedings, and
so indignant that he could no longer contain himself. He began to abuse
the keeper in round terms, and, finding this did him no damage, he
picked up a large stone, and would have thrown it, if Bertha had not
commanded him to drop it and be silent.

“Why don’t you take the boat?” said he.

“Because it is not right to take it.”

“Right! Humph!” pouted Noddy. “I would take it quick enough! But hold
on a minute, Miss Bertha, and I will get you a boat,” and away he ran
down the bank of the river before she could stop him.

In half an hour he returned in a boat, with Bob Bleeker, whom he had
hailed from the point below. Bob was what would be called a “rough”
in the city of New York, but he was a man of generous heart, and had
many good qualities. As his boat rounded up by the side of the wharf,
he stepped ashore, and offered his services to convey the party over
to Whitestone, for Noddy had already told him, with a good deal of
coloring, about the conduct of the keeper.

He helped Ben put the trunks in the boat and then handed Bertha and
Fanny to their seats. The keeper stood by, watching the movements of
the party, and, when they were seated in the boat, and Bob was about to
shove off, he uttered some insolent remarks.

“Stand by the boat hook a moment, Ben,” said Bob, as he jumped on the
wharf again.

“What do you want now?” said the keeper. “Be off--quick as you can!”

“I can’t go till I have paid my respects to you!” replied Bob Bleeker.
“You are the meanest Hottentot that ever landed on this side of North
River! Couldn’t you let these children have a boat to get out of your
sight in?”

“Begone! None of your insolence here! I have got rid of them now!”
growled the keeper.

“But you haven’t got rid of me just yet! I want to leave you my card!
There it is!” he added, striking the brutal wretch in the face with
such force that the blow knocked him down. “I know how you’ve treated
these children; I have heard all about it; and I couldn’t leave you
without something to remember me by. My name is Bob Bleeker, of
Whitestone, and, if you want to meet me in a court of justice, I shall
be willing to pay ten dollars or so for the sake of showing up such a
villain as you are!”

The keeper picked himself up, and retreated from the spot, muttering
vengeance upon the head of the chivalrous “rough.”

Bob Bleeker did wrong to strike the keeper, however much the fellow
deserved a whipping for his brutality. Noddy stood by, and witnessed
the castigation, with a satisfaction that he expressed in the most
extravagant manner. Bertha alone condemned the conduct of Bob; but she
gave him credit for his good will.

The boat was pushed off, and in a few moments the fresh breeze
carried them over to Whitestone. Bob and Ben conveyed the trunks up
to the hotel, where they obtained two rooms. They were not such as
the children had occupied at Woodville, but they were cheerful and
comfortable. At an early hour Fanny, worn out by the exciting events of
the day, retired to rest, leaving Richard and Bertha to consider some
plan for the future.

Strange as it may seem, Bertha experienced a feeling of relief when she
found herself domiciled at the hotel. She had left Woodville--had been
almost driven from it; had been insulted and outraged in her feelings;
but the tie which bound her to the home of her childhood had been
snapped. There had been none of the sighs and tears with which she had
expected to bid farewell to Woodville; she and her brother and sister
had been too glad to get away from it. She felt stronger and more
hopeful than she had since the first note of disaster had sounded in
her ears.

However dark and forbidding the future might look, she was ready to
meet it, for it seemed as though all of grief and misfortune that the
world could have in store had already been hurled upon her afflicted
family.

“What are we to do, Richard?” said she, as she joined him in his room.

“I don’t know,” replied he, blankly; “I have not thought of that yet.”

“It is time to think of it.”

“What can we do?”

“There are a hundred things that we can do. You are strong and healthy,
and have been well educated. Perhaps you can find a place.”

“A place? A place for what?” said Richard, looking curiously into the
face of his sister.

“A place to work, of course,” answered she, with no attempt to soften
the words.

“A place to work!” repeated he, slowly, as if to obtain the full force
of the idea. “What do you suppose I can do?”

“You can get a place to learn a trade, or you can go into a store.”

“Get a place to learn a trade!” exclaimed Richard, rising suddenly from
his chair, and walking up and down the room. “Don’t you think the only
son of Franklin Grant would look very pretty learning a trade? Don’t
mention such a thing as that to me again!”

“Why, Richard, I am surprised to find that experience has taught you
nothing,” replied Bertha. “You surely do not expect to be a gentleman,
now that there is not a dollar of all your father’s wealth left?”

“I intend to be a gentleman as long as I live.”

“But you must work.”

“I have money.”

“Thirty-five dollars! How long do you suppose it will last? It will not
pay our board for more than two or three weeks.”

“Perhaps I can do something that is light and genteel. At any rate, I
will see what can be done to-morrow; but I shall not learn any trade,
I’ll warrant you.”

“You must conquer your pride, Richard, and remember that we are beggars
now.”

“Perhaps we are. I wonder when Uncle Obed is coming from Valparaiso? He
is immensely rich.”

“I don’t know; we might starve before we heard from him.”

“Starve? Pooh! What is the use of talking about such things!”

“We had better look things right in the face. I don’t think you have
considered our situation. We have neither money nor friends. We must
work for a living, unless you are willing to go to the almshouse and
live on charity. I am not, and I intend to go to work.”

“What are you going to do, Berty?” asked he, with an incredulous smile.

“I don’t know yet; I am going to work.”

“Don’t disgrace yourself and your family, Berty.”

“What nonsense you talk, Richard! We are beggars and outcasts, and it
is all folly to talk about disgracing myself or the family. I shall
find something to do in a few days. I wish I could see father. He would
tell me what to do.”

Richard’s pride could not yet be conquered, and Bertha retired, feeling
that the rude hand of necessity would soon make hard terms with them.
But, with such views as he held, it was not safe to remain at a hotel,
and she resolved to find a cheaper residence the next day.




CHAPTER X

BERTHA VISITS THE WIDOW LAMB


On the following morning Bertha, who, in spite of her cares and trials,
had slept well, rose early, and applied herself, with zeal and energy,
to the great work before her--a work so difficult and delicate that it
would have challenged the whole ability of a mature and experienced
mind. Her pathway was full of trials and perplexities, for she had but
little knowledge of the world, and was without the aid of influential
friends.

There were two very difficult problems, which required an immediate
solution. The first was, what to do with Fanny; and the second, whether
Richard would be a help or a hindrance to her. If there had been no one
but herself to provide for, the task would have been an easy one. Fanny
was too young to do anything for herself, and Richard’s pride was a
stumbling-block in his path. The thirty-five dollars in her brother’s
possession was but a small sum to pay the expenses of a family; but she
was not sure that even this would be devoted to the purpose.

Her father was languishing in prison. He was suffering for himself and
suffering for them, for she knew that his greatest grief would be the
thought of his children, now cast, penniless and unprotected, upon the
cold world. She wanted to do something for him, and she would gladly
have gone to his prison, and shared its gloom and its horrors with him,
if she could take the weight of one straw from the heavy burden he was
compelled to bear. But the nearer and more pressing duties of the hour
would not permit her to yield even this filial offering till she had
done something to prepare for the cold and forbidding future.

These were some of the perplexities; but the perils and difficulties
that surrounded her seemed to give her new strength and new courage.
The words of the Scripture, “As thy day, so shall thy strength be,” as
embodied in a beautiful and comforting poem by Mrs. Sigourney, lingered
encouragingly in her mind, to sweeten the cup of adversity and nerve
her soul for the conflict of the day. On this morning, therefore, she
was calm and resolute, and looked hopefully forward to what the day
might bring forth.

Her first care was for Fanny, and she had already decided what
disposition to make of her. She intended, with the assistance of Ben,
to find a place in some poor but respectable family, where she could
be boarded for a small sum. Bertha hoped that before many weeks the
family might be united again under one roof, however humble; and this
arrangement was to be only a temporary one.

While Richard and Fanny were still sleeping, she looked out of her
window, and saw the old boatman walking up and down in front of the
house. He had lodged with Bob Bleeker; but, very much as a faithful
watchdog keeps guard over the property of his master, he kept his eyes
upon the children, without being forward, or intruding upon them at
unseemly hours. Bertha passed through the silent halls of the hotel and
joined the boatman upon the piazza, where she informed him of her plan
in regard to Fanny.

“Now, Ben, can you help me find a good place where she can be boarded
for a small sum? For, you know, we cannot afford to pay much.”

“I know a poor widow woman, with whom I used to board myself, years
ago; but the place would not suit Miss Fanny. It wouldn’t be stylish
enough.”

“No matter for that, Ben. It will come hard to her, but she must learn
to live as poor folks live. Is she a good woman?”

“There isn’t a better on the face of the earth. She took care of me
when I was laid up with the rheumatism. Mrs. Lamb is a Christian woman,
if there is one in this world,” said Ben, with emphasis; “and, if I
had a daughter, I don’t know another person with whom I would more
willingly trust her.”

“Do you think Mrs. Lamb would be willing to take Fanny?”

“I think she would; only I am afraid Miss Fanny would give her a great
deal of trouble. You know, she has very fine notions, and Mrs. Lamb’s
house isn’t a bit like Woodville.”

“Of course not; but Fanny may as well begin first as last to learn her
lesson. I am sorry for her, poor child; I pity her, for I know it is a
terrible blow to her to be deprived of the nice things she had at home.”

“It is no worse for her than it is for you, Miss Bertha,” added Ben,
with a smile.

“I never cared so much for fine things as Richard and Fanny. It is no
credit to me, for I suppose I was born so.”

“Yes, Miss Bertha, one who has been rich and humble can be humble
enough in poverty, but pride and want don’t go well together.”

“Where does Mrs. Lamb live?”

“About half a mile from here, just outside of the village. She has a
very pretty cottage, which her husband left her when he died; but that
is all she has, and she is obliged to work pretty hard for a living.
She does washing and ironing for the rich people of the place, and she
has as many friends as a member of congress. We will walk over to the
widow’s house, if you please, Miss Bertha. If you will walk along, I
will follow you.”

“Come with me, Ben,” said Bertha, with a smile, as she took hold of his
arm, and led him along for a few paces.

“I didn’t know as you would like to walk with a rough-looking man like
me,” added Ben, as he dashed away a truant tear, which his pride and
his affection had jointly contributed to form.

“I am not proud, Ben.”

“You never were, Miss Bertha.”

“What are you going to do, Ben? I have been so selfish that I have
hardly thought of you.”

“Oh, I shall do very well, Miss Bertha,” answered Ben, with a smile of
pleasure at this manifestation of interest on the part of his master’s
daughter.

“I had hoped you would always remain in our family; and it hurts my
feelings to see you now, an old man, and rather infirm, thrown upon the
world to take care of yourself.”

“Don’t think of me. I have my plans all formed.”

“My father never gave you large wages, for I know he meant to take care
of you as long as you lived. I suppose you haven’t saved much?”

“Hardly anything, Miss Bertha. I sent all the money I could spare to my
daughter, out West, after her husband died. I don’t know how she will
get along now. But I can manage to make some money. I have a matter of
a hundred dollars or so salted down in the savings bank in Whitestone
for a rainy day.”

“That will not support you.”

“No; I bargained for a boat, last night, with Bob Bleeker, and was to
have given him this hundred dollars in part pay, but I----”

The old man suspended his speech at this point, and walked along, with
his eyes fixed on the ground, while the long breaths he drew indicated
the emotion that agitated his bosom.

“What, Ben?” gently asked Bertha.

“I didn’t dare to pay away this money.”

“Why not?”

“Since you were driven out of Woodville, I have thought this hundred
dollars might be of some help to you.”

“To me!” exclaimed Bertha. “I could not think of touching your money.
Besides, we shall not need it. Richard has some money, and we shall get
along very well. Keep it, Ben, for you will need it yourself.”

“It is all at your service, Miss Bertha. It is little I can offer, but
you are welcome to it.”

“We shall not need it, Ben--really, we shall not.”

“Then, perhaps, I had better buy the boat. I am going boating. There
are plenty of people and parties in Whitestone who like to sail on the
river; and, since Bob Bleeker gave up the business, there has been no
regular boatman. I think I can do very well.”

“I hope so, I am sure, Ben,” replied Bertha, heartily. “I am rejoiced
to find you have something to do that will suit your taste.”

“I shall do very well, Miss Bertha. No one need worry about old Ben,
as long as he has the use of his limbs. There is one thing more, Miss
Bertha, which, I suppose, you have not thought about. What is to become
of Noddy Newman?”

“Poor little fellow!” sighed Bertha. “I suppose I can do nothing more
for him. Where is he now?”

“He slept with me at Bob Bleeker’s last night. I suppose he will take
to the woods, and become a vagabond again, if he can’t stay with you.
He don’t seem to care for anybody on earth, Miss Bertha, but you,
though he will mind me, for your sake. I believe the little fellow
would die for you in a moment.”

“Poor Noddy!” said Bertha. “I wish I could take care of him! He is a
smart boy. I have taught him to read, and I had great hopes that I
should make something of him.”

“I have been thinking, Miss Bertha,” added Ben, taking off his hat,
and scratching his bald head, as though a magnificent idea had taken
possession of his mind, “if you could induce the boy to stay with me, I
will do as well by him as I can. I can read, and write, and cipher, and
I will help him along with these things. He is smart and active, and
having him with me in the boat would ease my old bones a great deal.”

Bertha was delighted with this plan, and readily promised to do all she
could to make Noddy stay with Ben. At this point in the conversation
they arrived at the house of the Widow Lamb. The cottage, as the
boatman had represented, was very neat, and even pretty, and Bertha
thought her sister ought to be happy in such a place.

Mrs. Lamb was willing to take Fanny to board, for she was very fond
of children, but Bertha frankly told her that the little miss might
cause her a great deal of trouble, for she had been used to having a
great many servants around her. The widow thought she could manage
her; at any rate, she would try it, and she hoped she should be able
to make her happy and contented. Bertha thought her price--two dollars
a week--was very reasonable for one who was likely to be so difficult
to please, and she took her leave of the laundress, agreeing to bring
Fanny to her new home in the course of the day.

On their return to the hotel, Ben hastened back to Bob Bleeker’s, to
close the bargain for the boat, while Bertha went upstairs to announce
the new arrangement to Fanny and Richard. The former had not yet risen,
and as Bertha assisted in dressing her she told her what had been done.

“Then I am to live with a washerwoman!” said Miss Fanny, with a toss of
her head.

“It is a very pretty cottage, and Mrs. Lamb is a very nice woman. You
will be quite happy and contented there, if you are willing to be so
anywhere that our small means will permit you to live.”

“But only to think of it! Live with a washerwoman!”

“Fanny, we are all beggars now. We are poorer than Mrs. Lamb, with whom
you will board. Beggars cannot be choosers, you know.”

“Father will find me a better place than that.”

“Father can do nothing for us now, if he ever can,” replied Bertha, the
tears filling her eyes. “He is in prison, and you ought to be thankful
that you have a home at all.”

The tears in the eyes of her sister touched the heart of Fanny. Her
pride was the greatest defect of her character. She had never known
much of a mother’s care; if she had, she might have been a different
person.

“What are you going to do, Bertha?” asked Fanny.

“I am going to work. I shall find a place where I can earn money enough
to pay your board. I hope Richard will help me.”

“Of course he will.”

“Now, if you will go to your new place, and never complain of anything,
nor cause Mrs. Lamb any trouble, you will do all I can expect of you.”

“I will do the best I can.”

“That is all I ask.”

Bertha spent an hour in talking to her sister about her conduct in
her new home; and Fanny, who seemed to be in a better frame of mind
than ever before, listened attentively to all she said, and promised
faithfully to conquer her pride and give Mrs. Lamb no trouble. She said
she would wait upon herself, and never complain of her food or her
apartment. Bertha regarded this as a triumph, for she felt that Fanny
would try to do all she promised.

Richard turned up his nose at the idea of having his sister board with
a washerwoman; but, as neither his figures nor his common sense would
suggest a better plan, he was compelled to yield.

“Now, Richard, you must let me have some of your money, for, to guard
against any accident, I wish to pay Fanny’s board for two or three
months in advance.”

“I can’t spare any money now. What’s the use of paying her board before
it is due?”

“We do not know what may happen. You and I can take care of ourselves
and I think it is no more than right that we should provide for Fanny
beyond the chance of an accident.”

“But we must pay our own board.”

“Of course, we cannot remain at this hotel.”

“Certainly we can, at least for a time.”

“What do you intend to do, Richard, for a living?”

“I don’t know. I shall find something. How much money do you want?”

“You had better give me ten dollars. That will pay Fanny’s board for
five weeks.”

“Ten dollars! Why, that is a third of all I have!” replied Richard,
dismayed at the prospect of parting with so much of his funds.

Bertha had a double motive in asking for this large proportion of
Richard’s money. The first was to secure the payment of Fanny’s board,
in case her plans for the future should fail, and the second was that
she had but little confidence in her brother’s firmness. She feared
that, while his money lasted, he would do nothing to help himself;
that, while his pride had even thirty-five dollars for a foundation, he
would spend his time in idleness, and perhaps do worse.

Actuated by these motives, she reasoned with him so forcibly and
eloquently that he at last handed her the money, but he gave it up with
a protest, and with many regrets. After breakfast the bill at the hotel
was paid, and Fanny was taken to her new home. Bertha remained with her
that day, putting her room and her wardrobe in order, and instructing
her still further in the duties and relations of her new position.

Notwithstanding the odium of boarding with a washerwoman, Fanny liked
the place very well and even thought she should be contented with Mrs.
Lamb, who certainly did everything she could to smooth down the fall
from the palace to the cottage.

During the day Ben and Noddy paid them a visit. The little savage
seemed to take quite a sensible view of the new order of things, and
when Bertha told him what had been done for him he agreed to remain
with Ben, and be a good boy, if she would come and see him as often as
she could.

Toward night Bertha returned to the hotel, where she found a letter
from Richard.




CHAPTER XI

MASTER CHARLEY BYRON


Bertha was not a little startled when the clerk of the hotel handed her
the letter, upon which she recognized the handwriting of her brother.
It was ominous of disaster; at least, it suggested that Richard was not
at hand to speak for himself, and she feared that his quick impulses
had led him to take a step of which he had not, probably, considered
the consequences. It required some courage to open a letter from him
under such circumstances, and she held it in her hand for some moments
before she could muster resolution enough to break the seal; and, when
she did so, her worst fears were confirmed.

Richard wrote that he had been engaged by a gentleman to take his boat
down to New York. He was to receive five dollars for the job, and, as
it admitted of no delay, he had been obliged to sail at once, without
seeing her. At the close of the epistle, Richard boasted a little of
his first success in earning money, and declared that, when he got
to the city, he should certainly find employment which would be both
agreeable and profitable; and, when he did, he would inform her of the
fact.

The thoughtless, impulsive boy had actually abandoned his sister, and,
full of hope and conceit, had embarked in his career of life. Perhaps
he thought Bertha was abundantly able to take care of herself, and did
not need any assistance from him.

Bertha’s doubts and fears were not for herself. She knew that Richard
was thoughtless and flighty, and she trembled lest he should again
fall into evil company. The city would have been a bad place for him,
under any circumstances, but doubly so if he had no one to give him a
friendly word of advice. He had gone, and, whatever she thought or felt
in regard to him, nothing could be done to bring him back. She was now
alone. The family had separated, and the path of each seemed to be in
a different direction from that of the others.

She could not think of her situation without a feeling of sadness.
A sense of loneliness, which she had not before experienced, came
over her, which, with her anxiety for the fate of her father and her
brother, had a very depressing influence upon her. But she had no time
to indulge in sentimental emotions, for life had suddenly become real
to her, and stern necessity compelled her to make it earnest.

As she had now disposed of Fanny, and Richard had disposed of himself,
she had nothing to do but to apply herself to the remaining duty of the
hour. She must go to work; but what to do, and where to find a place,
were very perplexing questions. She was willing to do anything that she
could, even to labor with her hands, if it would afford her the means
of supporting herself and her sister.

With these thoughts in her mind, she walked through the principal
street of Whitestone, to obtain any suggestion which the stores and
other business places might give her. In her walks through the place,
in more prosperous days, she had occasionally seen a notice posted
in the windows of a “Saleswoman Wanted,” or “A Young Lady to Act as
Cashier.” She walked up the street on one side and down on the other,
attentively examining every window and door, in search of such a
notice. But Whitestone, at the present time, did not need a saleswoman
or a cashier. Disappointed and disheartened by her ill success, she
walked down to the river, not from any motive, but because she had
nowhere else to go.

Now for the first time since she had read her brother’s letter, the
thought came to her with fearful force that she had less than half a
dollar in the world. This was not enough to pay for her lodging at the
hotel, and she had not been to supper. Poverty seemed more terrible to
her now than ever before. She began to feel that her situation was not
only trying, but absolutely appalling. Even hunger and cold threatened
to assail her, for the little money she had would not supply the
necessities of life for even a single day. She could not dig, and she
was ashamed to beg.

It was now growing dark, and she could not with safety remain in the
streets any longer. There was only one house in the vicinity at which
she believed she should be welcome, and this was the house of the Widow
Lamb. It was revolting to her pride to force herself, as it were, upon
a stranger; but she could not go to the hotel, and there was no other
way to do. It was after the supper hour, and on her way through the
village she stopped at a restaurant, and had a very simple supper of
tea and bread and butter; but even this was purchased with a large part
of all her worldly wealth.

Mrs. Lamb welcomed her to her humble cottage, and she passed the night
with Fanny. But the future looked so blank and dismal to poor Bertha
that she was less cheerful than usual, though she tried to conceal
her doubts and fears from the widow and from her sister. Fanny had a
thousand questions to ask, to only a few of which Bertha could give
satisfactory answers.

“Have you got a place to work yet?” was asked a dozen times by the
inquisitive little girl.

“I have not,” answered Bertha, sadly; “and I am afraid I shall not be
able to find one in Whitestone.”

“What will you do?”

“I must go to the city, I suppose.”

“Then you will see father.”

“I shall certainly try to see him.”

“You will tell him that I am a good girl--won’t you?”

“I will, Fanny, and I am afraid that will be the best news I shall have
for him.”

“Tell him, too, that I am very sorry he is in prison, and I would do
anything to get him out.”

“I will, Fanny,” replied Bertha, as she threw her arms around her neck
and kissed her. “You have been a good girl to-day, and Mrs. Lamb says
you have not only given her no trouble, but that you have helped her a
great deal about her work.”

“I tried to be good, Bertha,” said Fanny. “I haven’t complained a bit.”

“I hope you never will.”

“But I don’t want you to go off and leave me.”

“I must go, Fanny; but one of these days we shall meet again, and be
all the happier for the trials and sorrow which we have been called
upon to endure.”

“I hope we shall,” replied Fanny, whose conduct during the first day of
her residence at the cottage had been very hopeful.

Fanny turned over and went to sleep after she had been duly praised and
encouraged for her excellent demeanor. But Bertha’s cup was too full to
permit her to sleep. The morrow’s sun promised to dawn upon a day of
greater trial and difficulty than she had yet known. Twenty cents was
all the money she had in the world, and Whitestone had no employment to
give her. She must go to New York; but how to get there was beyond her
comprehension. The distance was twenty-five miles, and she had not the
means to pay her fare by railroad or steamboat.

The thought of borrowing a few dollars occurred to her; but there was
no one, except the old boatman, of whom she would dare ask such a
favor. Her pride--that self-respect which gives dignity and nobility
to the character--revolted at the idea of asking even him for money,
which she might never be able to pay. But while she was perplexed and
agitated by these difficult problems, nature kindly came to her aid,
and she dropped asleep without any plan for the coming day.

She was going to leave the cottage at an early hour the next morning,
but Mrs. Lamb pressed her to remain until after breakfast; and then,
with many tears, she bade farewell to her sister, not daring to
believe that they would soon meet again. Bertha was stronger and more
courageous than she had been on the preceding evening; for the more we
look trials and troubles in the face, the more familiar we become with
them and the less terrible do they seem to us.

With a feeling that she had only half done her work the night before,
she again walked through the main street, and even had the hardihood to
enter several of the larger stores and apply for a situation. Although
she had no better success than before, she was strengthened by the
consciousness that she had permitted no false pride to come between her
and the attainment of her purpose. She had done all she could do in
Whitestone, and it would be of no avail to remain there any longer.

Then came up the question again, how should she get to the city; for
she had fully determined to go there. She could not walk, and she
could not pay her fare. Why should she not walk, she asked herself.
She was healthy and strong, and had always been accustomed to a great
deal of outdoor exercise. There were no impossibilities to one in her
situation, and whatever the result she would be no worse off on the
way than if she remained in Whitestone. She decided at once to start,
and leave the issue in the hands of that kind Providence which never
permits the true and the good to be utterly cast down.

She would not think of leaving Whitestone without saying good-by to Ben
and Noddy; and for this purpose she went down to the wharf, where the
boatman had the day before commenced business with his new boat. Much
to her regret, she found they had gone up the river with a party of
gentlemen, and would not return till late in the evening. Disappointed
at this intelligence, she went to the hotel, where she had left her
trunk, and wrote a short note to Ben, informing him of her intention.
The clerk kindly promised to take care of her trunk till she sent for
it, and she turned from the house to commence her weary pilgrimage.

Following the road near the bank of the river, she walked patiently
and perseveringly for three hours, till she heard a clock on a church
strike twelve. She was so faint and weary that she could walk no
further, and seated herself under a tree by the side of the river to
rest herself. She had retired a short distance from the road, so that
she need not be subject to the rude gaze of those who passed.

In the last village through which she passed she had bought three small
rolls; and upon these she made her dinner. A few blackberries that
grew in the field were a great addition to the feast. Refreshed by her
meal, and by an hour of rest, she resumed her walk. She had gone but
a short distance before her attention was attracted by the loud cries
of a child in a pasture adjoining the highway. The screams were so
piteous that she could not help getting through the fence and hastening
to the spot from whence they came, where she found a little boy, very
prettily dressed, and evidently the child of wealthy parents, sitting
on a stone. His eyes were red and swollen with weeping, and he was
sobbing and moaning as though he had some real cause of grief. He was
apparently about six years old. Bertha, moved by his distress, took him
tenderly by the hand and gently patted his head, to assure him she was
his friend.

“What is the matter, little boy?” she asked, when she had fully
convinced him that she was not an evil spirit sent to torment him.

“I don’t know the way home,” blubbered the little fellow.

“Don’t cry any more, and I think we can find your home. What is your
name?”

“Charley.”

“Haven’t you got another name?”

“Charley Byron. I am six years old last May,” replied Charley, suddenly
brightening up and wiping away the great tears that still lingered on
his cheek.

“You are a nice little fellow, and your education has not been
neglected, I see.”

“I can spell cat; c-a-t, cat,” continued Charley, who appeared to have
forgotten all his sorrows.

“You spelled it right,” said Bertha, with a smile. “Do you know where
your father lives?”

“My father lives in a great house on the hill; and I guess Mary’ll
catch it for letting me get lost.”

“Where is Mary now?”

“I don’t know where she is. She sat down on a rock and went to sleep.
I was looking for blackberries, and when I wanted to find Mary again
I couldn’t. I have been walking ever so long, and I can’t find Mary,”
said Charley, beginning to look very sad again.

“Don’t cry any more, and I will help you find your father’s house.”

Bertha remembered that she had passed a large house on a hill, only a
short distance back, and taking Charley’s hand, she led him to the road.

It was a hard walk for little Charley, for he was so tired he could
hardly move at all; but Bertha assisted him as much as she could, and
at last they came to the gateway of the great house.

“That’s my father’s house,” said Charley, just before they reached the
gate.

“You can find your way now--can’t you?” asked Bertha.

“Yes, but I want you to come up and see my mother.”

“I think I will not go any further.”

“Yes, but I want you to come up and see my mother; and you must come.”

“I am very tired, Charley--almost as tired as you are--and I do not
feel like walking up the hill.”

“You can rest in my house.”

“I think I will not go up, Charley.”

“But you must come. I can’t find the way if you don’t,” said Charley,
tugging at Bertha’s hand with a zeal which would permit no denial.

“If I must I must,” said Bertha, yielding the point.

“I want to show you my new rocking-horse. Father sent it up yesterday,
and it is a real nice one.”

Charley led the way up to the front door of the house and pulled Bertha
in after him. His mother, who had been terribly worried at his long
absence, greeted him in the entry with a kiss, and asked him where the
nurse was. Charley told his story in his childish way, and it was fully
confirmed by the presence of Bertha, who was warmly welcomed by the
grateful lady.

“Mary is growing very remiss of late, and I must discharge her,” said
Mrs. Byron, when they were seated in the sitting-room. “It isn’t safe
to trust Charley with her. The dear little fellow may get into the
river. I have been worrying this half hour about him.”

“He was crying bitterly when I found him,” added Bertha.

“It was very good of you to take so much trouble.”

“I couldn’t leave him while he was so full of grief.”

While they were talking the delinquent nurse arrived, very much alarmed
at the sudden disappearance of her charge. But when she saw Charley she
was greatly relieved, and invented a very plausible story to account
for the accident. The story disproved itself, without any help from
Charley or Bertha; and the result was that her mistress, provoked by
her falsehood as much as by her neglect, promptly discharged her.

While Mrs. Byron was paying the girl, Charley exhibited his new
rocking-horse and other treasures; but Bertha was absorbed by a new
idea; she did not pay much attention to his prattle.




CHAPTER XII

BERTHA BECOMES A GOVERNESS


“There,” said Mrs. Byron, as she joined her little son on the piazza,
when the nurse had gone, “that is the fourth person I have had to take
care of Charley. Now she is gone, and I don’t know where I shall get
another. It is not every person that I am willing to trust to take care
of my little boy.”

“It must be very trying to you,” added Bertha, thoughtfully.

“I paid her ten dollars a month for her services; but I tremble to
think of the dangers which Charley has escaped while in the care of
these negligent servants.”

“I suppose you would think I am too young to take care of Charley?”
said Bertha, while her cheek crimsoned and her heart seemed to rise up
into her throat.

“You!” exclaimed the lady, with a smile, as she glanced at Bertha from
head to foot.

“Yes, madam; if you could give me twelve dollars a month, I should like
to obtain the situation of governess of the child. I have had some
experience in teaching children.”

“You astonish me, miss. I do not even know your name yet.”

“Bertha----” She was about to give her whole name but the thought
suddenly occurred to her that, if she did so, her application would
at once be rejected; and, without stopping to consider whether it was
right or wrong to give a false name, she added: “Bertha Loring.”

No sooner had she given this name than she regretted it; but conscious
that she had no evil intention in doing so, she did not attempt to
correct the error.

“Bertha Loring,” added Mrs. Byron. “How old are you?”

“I am nearly fourteen.”

“But you said you had had some experience in teaching children,” said
the lady, rather incredulously.

“Yes, ma’am. It was in a kind of mission school, and it was voluntary
teaching.”

“Ah, that, indeed,” mused Mrs. Byron. “You are rather young, especially
for the salary you ask.”

“I have a sister who is dependent upon me for support, and I must do
something by which I can earn about three dollars a week.”

“Have you any testimonials of character or ability?”

“None, ma’am; I have never been in any situation yet.”

“It would hardly be proper for me to place my only child in the care of
a total stranger.”

“Very true, ma’am,” sighed Bertha; “but I have none.”

“But I like your appearance and manners very much, and I am very
grateful for what you have done for Charley. Perhaps you could refer me
to some person with whom you are acquainted.”

Bertha was about to mention the name of the clergyman in Whitestone,
whose church her father’s family had attended; but as the words were
upon her lips, she happened to remember that she had not given her real
name, and that the minister would not know any such person as Bertha
Loring.

“For reasons which I could give, if necessary, I would rather not refer
to any of my former friends,” said Bertha.

“Your former friends?” repeated the lady, who, by this time had begun
to obtain some idea of the circumstances of the applicant. “Are they
not your friends now?”

“I do not know, ma’am,” sighed Bertha. “As I have no references I think
I will take my leave.”

“Don’t go yet, Miss Loring. I assure you I feel a deep interest in you,
and only a necessary caution prevents me from engaging you at once. You
must perceive that your situation is quite peculiar.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know that it is; and therefore I am unwilling to trouble
you any longer.”

“You have evidently been well educated; and at your age you cannot
possibly be an adventuress.”

Bertha was not very clear what the lady meant by an adventuress, but
she hastened to assure her she was not one.

“And I should suppose from your name that you belong to a good family.”

“My father has been very unfortunate,” replied Bertha, “or I should not
be an applicant for this situation.”

“Where is your father now?”

“He is in New York City.”

“Possibly my husband knows him,” added the lady. “Loring? Loring?” she
continued, musing.

“I don’t think he does,” replied Bertha. “But, ma’am, my father does
not know that I am trying to earn my own living and that of my sister.
He has very recently failed in business. My friends don’t know that I
am an applicant for such a place; and, for reasons of my own, I wish to
conceal my movements, at least for the present. You will excuse me from
answering any questions in regard to my family.”

Poor Bertha! It was her first attempt at deception of any kind, and she
could hardly play the part she had chosen.

“I think I perfectly understand your position, and as Charley seems to
like you so well, I shall engage you at the salary you named.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” exclaimed Bertha, astonished at the decision of
Mrs. Byron. “You are very generous to take me without testimonials or
reference; but I assure you your confidence shall not be undeserved.”

“I am quite satisfied, or I shouldn’t have ventured to engage you under
these circumstances. Here, Charley, how would you like this young lady
to take care of you?”

“Oh, ever so much, ma!” exclaimed Charley, jumping off his horse and
seizing the new governess by the hand.

“She will teach you to read, Charley,” added his mother.

“Oh, goody! I want to be able to read my picture books; but I can spell
cat now; c-a-t, cat.”

“Till you learn I will read them to you, Charley,” said Bertha, who had
already begun to feel a strong interest in her young charge.

“Have you any taste for music, Miss Loring?”

“I can play and sing a little,” replied Bertha, modestly.

“Come and let me hear you play,” said Charley, as he tugged away at
the hand of Bertha, and finally dragged her into the parlor, where the
piano was located.

“He is very fond of music,” remarked Mrs. Byron, as she followed them
into the parlor.

Bertha played several simple pieces for the amusement of the little
boy, and played them so well that the mother was even more delighted
than the child. Then, at the special request of Charley, she played
and sang “Three Blind Mice,” which suited him so well that he called
for more. For an hour she engaged the attention of both her auditors;
and then the heir of Blue Hill, as the estate of Mr. Byron was called,
clamored for “pickers,” which, rendered into the vernacular, meant
pictures.

Charley produced pencils, paper and a slate, and insisted that Bertha
should “make a house.” She had early developed a decided taste
and talent for drawing, and, up to the commencement of the summer
vacation, she had taken lessons of an artist whose cottage was in the
neighborhood of Woodville. Her teacher declared that she would make an
artist, and quite a number of her pencil drawings adorned the walls of
her father’s house. In the extremity of her want and sorrow she had
thought of applying her talent to a profitable use, and she had not yet
given up the idea.

She took the pencil which Charley brought, and made a house which was
entirely satisfactory. Then she made men, and horses, and carts, and
other objects which the young gentleman called for, so that she soon
became a prodigy in his eyes, and, of course, as the mother saw with
the child’s eyes, she was equally a wonder in her estimation.

When Charley began to grow weary of pictures, both of them were well
rested from the fatigue of their walk, and the child proposed a
ramble in the garden, where Bertha was just as pleasing and just as
instructive as she had been at the piano and with the pencil.

At six o’clock Mr. Byron came home, and heard with astonishment the
change which had been made in the domestic affairs of the family.
Master Charley had considerable to say about his new governess, as his
mother had already taught him to call her, and he recommended her so
highly that the father was well satisfied with the change.

As soon as she had an opportunity she wrote to Ben, informing him
what and where she was, and asking him to send her trunk to her. On
the following day the trunk was brought down in the boat, and she had
a visit from Ben and Noddy. The old man was glad to see her so well
situated, but he had his doubts about the change of name. Noddy jumped
and capered like an antelope, and astonished Charley by throwing back
and forward somersets, and by such gyrations as the little fellow had
never seen before. The visit was a pleasant one to all parties, and Ben
and Noddy left with the promise to call again in a short time.

While Bertha was watching the boat as it sped on its way up the river,
she heard a sharp cry from Charley, and on turning, saw him lying on
the ground.

“Why, what’s the matter, Charley?” she cried, lifting him up.

“I bumped my head and hurt me,” replied he.

Bertha examined the injured member, and found a pretty smart bump on
the summit of his cranium, which she washed in cold water from the
river and rubbed it till Charley declared it was quite well.

“How did you do it?” asked she.

“I was trying to do what Noddy did, and hit my head upon a stone.”

“You mustn’t try to do such things as that.”

“Noddy did it.”

“Noddy is a little wild boy. I have told him a great many times not to
do such things. It isn’t pretty, and you must not try to do so again.”

“I should like to do what Noddy did, and I mean to try it again.”

“Don’t, Charley; you may get a worse bump than you did this time.”

“I don’t care if I do; if Noddy did it, I can.”

But before the forcible arguments which the governess brought forward
Master Charley finally promised not to break his head in vain attempts
to do what was neither pretty nor proper for the heir of Blue Hill to
do.

A few days after the visit of the boatman she received a letter from
Richard, which had been forwarded to her from Whitestone. He wrote in
excellent spirits, and said he had obtained a situation on board of a
gentleman’s yacht, and was about to sail for Newport. He had seen his
father in the Tombs. He was to be examined on the following day and
fully expected to be discharged. This was all Richard said about his
father. It was meager enough, and very unsatisfactory to Bertha. She
had not the money to pay the expense of a visit to the city, or she
would have asked leave of absence for a day to go and see him. She had
written several letters to him, but had not yet received any reply, and
therefore supposed they did not reach him.

Bertha soon found that her situation was not a bed of roses. Mrs. Byron
was not an angel. Her temper was not angelic, and the governess was
sometimes compelled to submit to harsh and unmerited rebuke, couched in
such language as she had never heard before.

The hopeful heir of Blue Hill, though he could spell “cat” and knew
who was President of the United States, was not yet fit to put on his
wings and become a cherub. He had some of his mother’s temper and a
great deal of his own obstinacy. He was an only child, and as such had
been indulged, as far as indulgence would go; and Bertha found that she
was expected to lead, not to govern, him. If Charley wanted to jump
into the river, she was to find arguments to convince him that the cold
water was uncomfortable and might drown him. If he wanted to eat green
apples, she was to persuade him not to do so, and not make him cry by
taking them away from him.

One day he took a notion that certain unripe winter pears would be
“good to take,” and had actually bitten one of them, when Bertha, with
as little force as was needful, took it from him and threw it away.
Charley set up a howl which made the ground shake under him and brought
his mother from the house. The heir of Blue Hill told his story, and
Bertha was sharply scolded for crossing the dear little fellow.

When Mrs. Byron suggested that the young gentleman ought to commence
learning his letters, the governess applied herself with becoming zeal
to the task of teaching him those mysterious characters. For ten
minutes Charley gave his attention; then he wanted her to read a story.
In vain she coaxed him to learn the letters; it was plain that he had
no taste for the heavy work of literature. Day after day she attempted
to fasten his mind upon the A B C, but with no better success. She
resorted to all the expedients she could devise, but Charley was as
obstinate as a mule.

These were some of her trials--trials with Master Charley; trials with
his mother. Bertha faithfully persevered and endured everything without
a murmur. But her charge was sometimes a little lamb, as pretty and as
cunning as child could be; and there were hours of sunshine--oases in
the desert of trial and care.

When Bertha had been at Blue Hill about a week Mr. Byron gave a large
dinner party, and the house was filled with all fine folks of the
surrounding country. Mrs. Byron was very much afraid Charley would get
into his “tantrums” in the presence of the company, and thus convince
them that he was not an angel, in spite of his velvet tunic and his
lace-frilled trousers. During the dinner hour, therefore--a period in
which Charley was peculiarly liable to be attacked by unaccountable
humors--Bertha was required to keep him in the nursery, and also to
keep him in excellent temper.

By dint of extraordinary tact and perseverance she succeeded in
accomplishing both these ends, and congratulated herself upon the
hope that she should thus escape the unwelcome infliction of seeing
any of the visitors. It was quite probable that among them were many
friends of her father, and the fear of being recognized, and her little
deception exposed, was terrible. The dinner hour was a fashionable one,
and before the party rose from the table Charley’s bedtime had arrived,
and she was on the point of disposing of him for the night, when Mrs.
Byron entered the nursery.

“The company have just gone to the parlor, and they all insist upon
seeing Charley,” said she.

Bertha was appalled; but it was useless to offer any objections, and
she proceeded to prepare her charge for the ordeal.

“I suppose it is not necessary for me to appear with him,” said she, in
an indifferent tone, which but ill concealed her anxiety.

“Certainly it is,” replied Mrs. Byron, sharply. “You must go with him,
and be sure that you make him appear to the best advantage. You can
tell him some cunning little things to say before he goes down. Let him
come into the room with his hat on and his little cane in his hand.”

“Wouldn’t you excuse me from going with him?” pleaded Bertha.

“Certainly not.”

“I will go with him to the door and tell him what to say,” added Bertha.

“I thought you were brought up in a good family,” sneered Mrs. Byron.
“You surely are not afraid to appear in company.”

“Not afraid to, ma’am, but I do not like to do so.”

“Whether you like it or not, you must do so. Now be sure that Charley
appears well and shows himself to the best advantage,” said Mrs. Byron,
as she sailed out of the room.

There was no alternative, and Bertha prepared for the trial. Charley’s
plumed hat was put upon his head, his cane placed in his hand and he
was duly marched into the presence of the company.




CHAPTER XIII

BERTHA LOSES HER SITUATION


Master Charley strutted into the parlor, cane in hand, and was warmly
greeted by the guests, who, as a matter of politeness, if nothing else,
were in duty bound to admire his curly head and his cunning manners.
For a time, therefore, Bertha escaped observation, and the heir of Blue
Hill was the center of attraction.

“I can spell cat; c-a-t, cat,” roared Charley; “and I can spell dog;
d-o-g, dog.”

“Now, who is governor of New York, Charley?” whispered Bertha.

“Oh, I know!” and Charley scratched his head and disarranged the curls,
to the horror of his mother. “Oh, I know who is governor of New York;
it is Capt. Kidd; and he buried lots of money round here, somewhere.”

The company laughed heartily at this sally, and thought it was very
cunning; but Bertha blushed at the carelessness of her pupil, and Mrs.
Byron looked daggers at the governess. The exhibition of Charley’s
quick points promised to be a failure; and Bertha was sadly perplexed,
for she felt that she was not giving satisfaction.

But there was still one more hope left. She had taught Charley to play
“Days of Absence” with one finger on the piano, and she thought he
might possibly make a sensation with this, if he had not forgotten it,
as he had almost everything else. She placed him upon the stool, and,
putting the finger in the right place, the young gentleman went through
this performance in a very creditable manner, very much to the surprise
even of his mother, who had not heard him do it. The guests clapped
their hands, and expressed their admiration in no measured terms, which
so excited the vanity of the child that he immediately proceeded to
perform another astounding feat, which was not put down in the program.
This was no less than throwing a back somerset, in imitation of Noddy
Newman.

If the experiment had not been a failure, no doubt it would have been
received with rapturous applause, as everything he did was received;
but Charley was not quite equal to a back somerset, and struck the
floor upon the top of his head. The new sensation was decidedly
unpleasant to the heir of Blue Hill, and was not at all agreeable to
the company. It was followed by a yell that would have been creditable
to a tiger in the jungle of Hindustan. Bertha ran to his assistance,
picked him up, and rubbed the bump which had been so suddenly
developed. It was the bump of self-esteem naturally enlarged, which
was entirely unnecessary, for Charley had a superabundance before the
accident.

The sympathizing guests gathered around the wounded hero, and
endeavored to console him; but he bawled incessantly, and refused to
be comforted. Mrs. Byron was shocked, and declared that the mishap
had resulted from the careless governess introducing the boy to bad
company. But whatever the cause, and whatever the efforts used to
induce Master Charley to moderate his excessive grief, he wept and
roared as one without hope.

“Take him to the nursery,” said Mrs. Byron, in a whisper to Bertha.

“Come upstairs with me, Charley, and I will make a house for you,” said
Bertha.

“I won’t go upstairs. I don’t want any of your old pictures,” bawled
the discomfited hero.

“Come up with me, and I will sing ‘Three Blind Mice’ to you.”

“I won’t.”

“We will play horse, then.”

“I don’t want to play horse. I am going to stay here as long as I
please.”

Bertha was tempted to pick him up, and carry him out of the room; but
this would be violation of all rule and precedent. In vain she coaxed
him; in vain she promised to play everything and sing everything.
Charley had lost his temper, and nothing could move him. A spoiled
child on exhibition, especially when he performs after the manner of
Master Charley on the present occasion, is disgusting to all except his
parents. Mrs. Byron was not satisfied with the conduct of her hopeful;
but instead of regarding it as the result of a want of discipline, she
attributed it all to the mismanagement of the governess.

Bertha would have brought the scene to a conclusion, however
unpleasant, without delay, if she had dared to do so; but as Master
Charley must have his own way, no matter who suffered, or what
consequences followed, he was not taken from the room by the strong
hand of authority. He bawled till his throat must have been sorer than
his head, and the company were tired of the music.

At last, a gentleman, despairing of any relief, took out his watch, and
offered to show the works to the disconsolate heir. This was a rare
treat, and Charley had the grace to yield the point, and submit to a
treaty of peace, or at least to a suspension of hostilities.

“How do you do, Miss Grant?” said a gentleman who had been observing
Bertha with close attention for some time, as he stepped forward and
extended his hand.

She took it, blushed deeply, and stammered out a reply, for Mrs. Byron
was standing by her side.

“How is your father?” asked the gentleman.

“He is not very well. I have not seen him lately.”

“I have frequently met you at Woodville; perhaps you do not remember
me.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“I have been at the South for some months, and returned yesterday. Do
you still reside at Woodville?”

“No, sir.”

“You are visiting your friends here, I suppose. It is very kind of you
to attempt to manage that child,” he added, in a low tone, as Mrs.
Byron’s attention was called to a rupture between Charley and his new
friend, whose watch the dear little fellow insisted upon picking to
pieces.

“He is very hard to manage,” replied Bertha.

“A spoiled child,” added the gentleman, as Mrs. Byron returned to the
spot.

“My governess is wholly incompetent,” said she, angrily, for she had
heard the last remark. “Charley is a good boy, and, when properly
managed, is as gentle as a lamb, Mr. Gray.”

“He appears to be,” added the gentleman, satirically. “He evidently has
a sweet temper, and in due time will make a great and good man.”

Mrs. Byron did not understand these remarks, but took them as a
compliment, and her anger was partially appeased.

“He has had enough to try the temper of a saint. He nearly died with
cholera three days ago from eating green apples, of which the governess
permitted him to partake.”

Mr. Gray looked at Bertha, and evidently did not believe this
statement, for the sudden coloring of Bertha’s cheek seemed to refute
the falsehood.

“Do I understand you that Miss Grant is the child’s governess?”

“Miss Loring,” added Mrs. Byron.

“But this is the daughter of Mr. Grant, of Woodville,” said the
gentleman, who was perplexed by the name and the relation which she
bore to the family.

“My father has met with some heavy reverses,” stammered Bertha. “I am
engaged as a governess here.”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Gray, who was now greatly embarrassed. “As I
said, I have recently come home, after an absence of some months, and
had not heard of the unpleasant position of your father’s affairs.”

“Miss Grant?” said the lady of the house. “Miss Loring, you can
retire,” she added, in a loud tone.

Bertha was too glad to obey this haughty command to object even to
the tone in which it was uttered. But when she had gone, Mrs. Byron
heard more about Mr. Grant and his affairs; for there were several
present who were acquainted with him, and all had read the history of
his alleged fall in the papers. She learned that the father of her
governess was even then a prisoner in the Tombs.

“To think that I have placed my only child in the care of such a
person!” exclaimed Mrs. Byron.

“Miss Bertha Grant is a very excellent young lady,” Mr. Gray ventured
to suggest.

“She is an impostor!” said Mrs. Byron, who seemed to feel that the
governess was the cause of all her mortal trials.

“At Woodville she was regarded as a young lady of splendid abilities,
and her mission to the poor children of Dunk’s Hollow was the
admiration of all the neighborhood,” added Mr. Gray. “I know of no
person to whom I would more willingly intrust my children.”

“She is an impostor!” persisted Mrs. Byron. “That is enough to condemn
her;” and leaving Charley to entertain the company in his fascinating
way, she flounced out of the room, and hastened to the nursery, to
which Bertha had already retreated.

“Miss Loring, you have deceived and disappointed me,” she began, still
flushed with anger.

“I am sorry I deceived you, Mrs. Byron, and I hope you will forgive me,
for I meant no harm to you.”

“You are an impostor!”

“No, ma’am, I am not. I am just what I represented myself to be.”

“Your father is in prison for fraud.”

“That is his misfortune, but it is not my fault,” replied Bertha,
indignant at this brutal treatment.

“Misfortune? Yes, that is what they always call it when a man commits a
crime.”

“My father has committed no crime.”

“You came here under a false name. You have imposed upon me. I don’t
know what you are, even now. At any rate, you are not a fit person to
watch over the innocent life of my only child. I tremble for him even
now, after you have been here only a week. Of course you understand me.”

“Your words are plain enough.”

“I don’t want you to remain here another night,” added the angry woman.
“I have trusted you too long.”

“I hope I have not abused your confidence,” said Bertha, overwhelmed by
this outburst of abuse.

“I have not counted my spoons since you came.”

“Madam, that is an insult that no lady would put upon an unprotected
girl. I will leave your house immediately,” answered Bertha, almost
stunned by this unfeeling charge.

“As quick as possible, if you please,” sneered the lady. “I dare not
lose sight of you.”

Bertha stepped into the adjoining room, and in a few moments was
dressed ready to leave the house.

“I should like to look into your trunk before you go,” said Mrs. Byron,
whose malice seemed to be unlimited.

“You cannot, madam,” replied Bertha, firmly, but respectfully.

“But I think I shall. Since I have found out what you are, I have a
great many doubts. Give me the key of your trunk.”

“No, madam, I will not. I will submit to no further insult.”

“I will see if you won’t.”

“If you proceed any further, madam, I will appeal to Mr. Gray for
protection. He was my father’s friend, and I hope he is mine. I will
leave your house at once, and send for my trunk as soon as I can.”

“Not till your trunk has been examined.”

“Very well, madam; I will appeal to Mr. Gray,” and she passed out of
the room.

“Stop, Miss Loring.”

Bertha paused in the hall.

“If there is nothing in your trunk but what belongs to you, you need
not fear to have it examined.”

“There is nothing but my property in it; but I will not submit to such
an insult.”

“You can go! and if Mr. Byron thinks it necessary to search the trunk,
he will do so.”

“You have forgotten to pay me my salary, madam,” said Bertha.

“Dare you ask for payment after what has happened?”

“I think I am justly entitled to what I have earned.”

“I don’t think so, and you can go.”

“But I want my wages, madam.”

“I do not owe you anything. You imposed upon me, and you have done
Charley more harm than good. He never behaved as he did this evening
before since he was born.”

“I think I have done my duty faithfully; at least I have tried to do
it. I have not money enough to pay my fare to the city, and I hope you
will not keep back my wages.”

“I shall pay you nothing.”

“I shall be very sorry to appeal to Mr. Gray for assistance, but I
shall have to ask him to lend me a few dollars.”

“You impudent hussy!” exclaimed Mrs. Byron, in a great rage, as she
again found herself in a difficult position.

Mr. Gray was a wealthy and influential person, and she would have given
any sum rather than permit him to know anything about the matter.
Bertha said no more, but walked down the stairs, intending to call Mr.
Gray from the parlor, and tell him the whole truth. When she reached
the lower hall, she heard the screams of Master Charley, who had
evidently had a falling out with the owner of the watch.

“I want Miss Loring!” screamed the little ruffian.

She was about to approach the open door of the parlor, when Mrs. Bryon
rushed down the stairs, and in more gentle tones than she had heard her
use since the first day she came into the house, called her by name.
She paused, and the lady joined her.

“Here is three dollars. I believe that is what I owe you--is it not?”

“Yes, madam; thank you.”

“Peter has a horse and wagon at the door, and he will carry your trunk
for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am; you are very kind,” said Bertha, surprised at the
sudden change in the manner of the lady.

The powerful name of Mr. Gray had wrought the change, with, perhaps, a
consciousness that she had exceeded the bounds of humanity and decency.

The lady stepped into the parlor and closed the door behind her, that
no one might witness the departure of the discharged governess. Bertha
found in Peter a ready friend, and in a few moments she was seated in
the wagon by his side, with her trunk in front of her.

“Where shall I drive you, Miss Loring?” asked Peter, as they proceeded
down the hill to the road.

“I hardly know, Peter,” replied Bertha, sadly. “I have no place to go.”

“No place to go!” exclaimed he. “What are you leaving at this hour of
night for, then?”

“I was obliged to leave.”

“Ah! I see how it is. I was afraid that brat would be the death of you;
and when I heard him screeching in the parlor, I thought there would be
a row for somebody. Then you have been discharged?”

“I have.”

“Turned out of the house at this hour of night, with no place to go!
That woman has no more soul than a brickbat.”

“Is there a hotel in the village, Peter?”

“There is; but it is no place for a girl like you. If you will go to my
cottage, you shall have a poor man’s welcome.”

“Thank you, Peter. I shall be very grateful to you if you will let me
remain with you till morning.”

“I will, with all my heart.”

Peter was head groom at Blue Hill, and his house was only a short
distance from the residence of Mr. Byron. Peter’s wife received
her kindly and conducted her to the little spare chamber which was
appropriated to her use.

The groom evidently understood the temper of the mistress of Blue Hill
well enough to comprehend the nature of the difficulty which had driven
Bertha from her place, and neither he nor his wife asked any questions.
Although it was quite early in the evening, the poor girl preferred to
retire, and her hostess offered no objection.

The events of the evening had been so rapid and unexpected that Bertha
was entirely unprepared for the shock which had so suddenly fallen upon
her. Again she was alone and friendless in the world, and she could
hardly expect another lucky incident would supply her with a home, as
had been the case only a week before. But she was a little better off
than she had been then, for she had three dollars in her purse, with
which to pay her fare to the city.

Before she went to sleep she committed herself to the care of her
heavenly Father, and felt confident that He would guide her steps, and
protect her in the midst of the trials which were before her.

At breakfast the next morning, when Bertha announced her purpose of
going to the city, Peter offered to drive her down to the ferry, where
she could cross the river, and take the train on the other side. She
accepted his offer, and as soon as he could get the horse, he returned
from the stable.

In a short time Bertha was embarked on the ferry, with many thanks
to Peter and his wife for their kindness, which, she assured him,
should never be forgotten. A ride of less than an hour brought her to
the great city, where everybody seemed to be rushing to and fro, as
though the salvation of the world depended upon the rapidity of their
movements. None of them took any notice of poor Bertha, and she was
more alone in the midst of the multitude than she had been amid the
rural scenes she had just left.

She knew not what to do, or where to go, and having left her trunk in
charge of the baggage master at the railroad station, she wandered down
Broadway.




CHAPTER XIV

BERTHA VISITS HER FATHER’S OFFICE


Bertha knew enough of the perils of the city to make her tremble, when
she considered that she was alone and unprotected. The prospect of
finding suitable employment was exceedingly hopeless. Though she had
often been in the city, and knew the principal localities, everything
seemed strange to her; the houses and the streets wore a different
aspect, for she was not now the daughter of the rich broker, but the
child of want, seeking the opportunity to fulfill what had become the
great mission of her existence.

Though her first object was to obtain a situation where she might
procure the means of subsistence, this was not the mission of Bertha
Grant. She had in her mind, clearly and hopefully defined, a higher and
holier purpose. As at Woodville, in the midst of luxury and plenty, she
did not live only to enjoy them; she now felt that she had been sent
into the world with a great work given her to perform. An earnest and
true man, from his pulpit in Whitestone, had given her the idea, and
she had pondered and cherished it till it became a principle.

She believed she had been created to do good to her fellow beings, and
with this noble thought in her heart she had gone upon her mission to
the poor children of Dunk’s Hollow. He who spoke in Whitestone the
words and the spirit of Him of Nazareth spoke through Bertha to the
friendless and despised little ones who gathered around her at the
Glen. His words and her words, spoken in faith and hope, and embodied
in good and generous deeds, were to yield their hundredfold; and though
Bertha had been withdrawn from her labors, the seeds which she had sown
were still growing. Though some might perish, others would live, and
thrive and mature.

In the same faith and hope which had led her to gather together the
children of Dunk’s Hollow, she was now laboring to save her father and
her brother--her father from suffering and sorrow, her brother from
himself. This was the present mission of Bertha Grant; and it was a
part of the great purpose of her existence. While she was in want she
could do nothing. The body must be fed and clothed, and if she could
obtain employment that would relieve her from absolute want, she would
be in condition to prosecute the greater work of the hour.

Full of these thoughts she walked down Broadway, with nothing to
encourage her, and without any plan or expectation to guide her
doubtful footsteps. Slowly she threaded her way through the dense crowd
that always throngs the street, till she came to City Hall Park. All
the way she had looked in vain for any suggestion that might aid her in
accomplishing her purpose. In a few hours more the night would come.
She dared not go to a hotel in the great city, and she trembled to
think of being friendless and homeless in those streets where villains
choose darkness for deeds of sin and violence.

The thought filled her with terror, but it inspired her with new
resolution. There was something to be done, and the time for doing
it was short. Yet where should she go? She could not answer this
question, and involuntarily she continued her walk down Broadway, till
she came to Wall Street. She was now near her father’s office, and she
determined to go and look at it, if nothing more.

It was a familiar locality, for she had often been to see her father
during business hours. To her astonishment she found the office open,
and her father’s clerk in his usual place at the desk. This looked
hopeful to her, and she entered, with a beating heart, to inquire about
her father.

“Miss Grant!” exclaimed the clerk, as she came in.

“Can you tell me anything about my father?” asked Bertha, as she seated
herself in the chair which the clerk offered her.

“I am sorry to say that I cannot give you any good news from him,”
replied Mr. Sherwood, gloomily.

“Where is he now?”

“He is where he was,” said the clerk, embarrassed.

“In the prison, you mean.”

“Yes, in the Tombs; but I am certain that he will come out without the
stain of dishonor upon him.”

“I feel, I know, that he has been guilty of no crime,” added Bertha,
earnestly.

“I suppose you understand the circumstances under which he was
arrested?”

“I do not.”

“It is a rather complicated affair. He was arrested on the charge of
fraud.”

“So I have understood.”

“But he is no more guilty of fraud than I am; and if we can only get
a chance to let the truth out, we shall make the matter plain to the
whole world. Grayle is at the bottom of the whole affair; he is your
father’s enemy.”

“He is a very rude and hard man,” said Bertha, recalling the incidents
of her departure from Woodville.

“Three or four years ago your father spoiled a dishonest speculation in
which Grayle and others were engaged; this made him an enemy, though
they still kept on good terms together. Some months since Mr. Grant
borrowed fifty thousand dollars of him, giving him certain English
securities as collateral.”

“I really don’t know what you mean,” said Bertha.

“The securities were certain papers, by which Brace Brothers, an
English banking firm, supposed to be very wealthy, promised to pay
certain sums of money,” continued the clerk, smiling at the perplexed
look of Bertha. “In other words, Brace Brothers promised to pay your
father--or the holder of the papers--twelve thousand pounds.”

“I understand that.”

“This money was to be drawn in bills of exchange, or orders. Now, when
your father wanted a large sum for immediate use, he gave them to Mr.
Grayle as security, because the bills of exchange were not to be drawn
till September. The very next steamer that came in brought intelligence
of the suspension of Brace Brothers--that is, they had stopped
payment--did not pay their notes and other obligations.”

“I understand it very well.”

“Well, Grayle declared that your father knew these securities were
worthless when he gave them to him, and immediately accused him of
fraud. He came into the office very much excited, and talked to your
father as no gentleman ever talked to another. Your father resented the
charge, which made Grayle all the more angry.”

“But how could he accuse my father of fraud, when all this happened
before it was known that Brace Brothers had suspended?”

“There was some reason,” said the clerk, after a pause. “One of
Grayle’s friends had a letter, which had come before the transaction,
in which Brace Brothers mentioned their financial embarrassments; but I
am certain your father had no suspicion that they were weak. In fact,”
said Mr. Sherwood, in a very low tone, “I have a letter, which I carry
in my pocket since your father was arrested, that will set the matter
all right. A friend of mine gave it to me. Grayle would give a thousand
dollars for this letter,” added the clerk, with a triumphant air.

“I hope you will save him,” replied Bertha.

“I know I shall. Our own correspondence with Brace Brothers shows that
they believed themselves to be sound. But this letter will save him, if
nothing else will. All we want is to get the matter before the court.
Grayle keeps getting it put off, for if the truth comes out it will
ruin him.”

“He has secured Woodville,” added Bertha.

“That was the only weak thing your father did. Grayle went so far that
your father was alarmed, and attempted to save his honor at the expense
of his property. He gave Grayle a bill of sale of Woodville and all
it contained, to keep him quiet for a few days, till he could raise
the money to pay him. The villain then arrested your father and took
possession of Woodville.”

“The paper said my father was going to leave the country.”

“All nonsense! He had no more idea of leaving the country than I had.
Grayle watched him all the time; and when he went over to the British
steamer to see a friend, who was going to Europe, he had him arrested,
and then circulated the story which you read in the newspaper.
Everybody believes just now that Mr. Grant is a common swindler; but we
will set that matter right before long.”

“I am sure I hope so. Could I see my father?”

“I am afraid not. Your brother got in, and saw him; but since then
orders have been given to admit no one but his counsel. They wouldn’t
let me in. Grayle is playing a deep game, and has probably used his
influence to prevent your father from seeing his friends. He is a
villain.”

Mr. Sherwood’s opinions were decided, and were very emphatically
delivered. They were full of hope and encouragement to Bertha, and she
rejoiced that she had been led to visit the office. But, although she
was comforted and assured by the intelligence she had gained, there was
nothing in it which promised to supply her immediate wants. She was
still homeless and friendless, for she had not the courage to place
herself under the protection of Mr. Sherwood. He was a young man, and
had been with her father but a few months. She was not prepared to
adopt this course until all other resources had failed.

There was nothing in the facts she had just learned to change her
purpose. Her father might get out of prison, but he was a ruined man.
Mr. Sherwood might be mistaken in his estimate of the value of the
letter in his possession. The duty of providing for herself and Fanny
seemed to be just as imperative as ever.

Though she was not yet willing to ask the protection of her father’s
clerk, the time might come within a few hours when she might be glad
to do so. He was ignorant of her real situation, and supposed she was
comfortably located in the house of some friend or relative.

“Where shall I find you, Mr. Sherwood, in case I should wish to see you
again?” asked Bertha.

“You will find me here at all hours of the day and night. I have not
been out of the office for more than half an hour at once since your
father was arrested. I sleep on that sofa. Grayle is an unscrupulous
wretch, and I don’t think he would hesitate to take any papers in the
office which would serve his purpose; or even to break in, if he has
the courage to do so.”

“What a terrible man he must be!” added Bertha.

“He offered me a situation in his office the day after your father was
arrested. I think he would be willing to buy me up at any price.”

“I am sure my father will be grateful to you.”

“Your father always used me well, and I will not desert him if all the
rest of the world does.”

“I am very thankful that he has so good a friend.”

“Oh, I only wish to do as I would be done by. If you should want
anything, Miss Grant, you can call upon me. There was a small sum of
money in the office when your father was arrested, though I suppose it
will all come in use to pay the lawyers, and other expenses.”

“Thank you; I don’t need anything at present,” replied Bertha, who
would not have touched a dollar that could be serviceable in effecting
her father’s release.

At this point an elderly gentleman entered the office, and began to
make inquiries of Mr. Sherwood concerning her father. He looked at
Bertha for a moment, and appeared to be excited. She thought his
countenance seemed familiar to her, though she was confident she
had never seen him before. The clerk, perhaps thinking it would not
be pleasant for her to hear her father’s situation discussed by a
stranger, conducted her into the private office, and gave her the
morning paper--the _Herald_.

Bertha wondered who the gentleman was, as she glanced over the columns
of the paper. His face was strangely familiar, yet she was positive she
had never seen him. But her attention was soon withdrawn from him by an
advertisement in the paper, which caught her eye. An old gentleman, an
invalid, advertised for a well-educated young lady, to read to him, and
act as amanuensis.

“If I could only get that place!” said she to herself, as she wrote
down on a slip of paper the address mentioned in the advertisement.

There would be hundreds of applicants for the situation; but she could
try to obtain it, and she resolved to do so without a moment’s delay.
As she passed through the other office, where the stranger was engaged
in earnest conversation with the clerk, she said that she would call
again some other time, and hastened down the stairs to the street.

The house of the invalid gentleman was in the upper part of the city,
and she took the street car uptown, lest some other applicant should
obtain the place before her. Without much difficulty she found the
house. It was an elegant establishment, and on the door was the name
of “F. Presby.” With a trembling hand, she rang the bell, which was
answered by a man in a white jacket.

“I wish to see Mr. Presby,” replied Bertha.

“Which Mr. Presby?”

“The old gentleman--the invalid.”

“Another person to answer the advertisement,” said a female voice in
the entry, beyond the inner door. “Tell her he is not at home, John.”

“Not at home, miss,” repeated the man in the white jacket.

“When will he be at home?” asked Bertha.

“He has left town, and will not be back until next week.”

“But he advertised for a young lady.”

“Yes, miss, he did; but, you see, the old gentleman is crazy, and don’t
know what he wants. At any rate, he don’t want any young lady.”

Poor Bertha’s heart sank within her, as the nice place which she had
hoped to obtain proved to be a mere shadow, and she stood gazing at the
servant with a look of despair.

“Not at home, miss,” repeated the man, partially closing the door, as a
hint for her to leave.

She turned and descended the steps, the man closing the door with a
slam. But she had scarcely reached the sidewalk, before she heard the
door open again. She turned to discover the cause, and saw a tall, pale
old gentleman, with a dressing gown on, standing at the door.

“Do you wish to see me?” asked he, in feeble tones.

“I called to see Mr. Presby,” replied Bertha, a ray of hope again
lighting up her soul.

“Come in, if you please.”

But the servant had told her that old Mr. Presby was crazy, and did
not want a young lady to read to him. The thought of throwing herself
into the company of a lunatic was not pleasing; but the sad, pale old
gentleman looked so mild and inoffensive that she concluded there must
be some mistake, and she followed him into the house.




CHAPTER XV

BERTHA MYSTIFIED BY STRANGE THINGS


The old gentleman conducted Bertha up the stairs to the large front
room which was fitted up as a library. It was furnished in a plain,
old-fashioned manner, and was well supplied with sofas, lounges and
easy-chairs. As they entered this room, the old gentleman closed the
door behind them, and offered her a chair.

Bertha almost wished she had not come in, when Mr. Presby closed the
door, for being alone with an insane man was the most terrible thing
she could imagine. She did not at first dare to take the chair to which
the old gentleman beckoned her, but lingered near the door, ready to
make her escape when she should discover the first symptom of insanity
in the invalid.

“Be seated, if you please,” said the old gentleman.

“Thank you, sir,” stammered Bertha, keeping near the door, and gazing
at the invalid with the deepest anxiety.

But then it occurred to her that the rude servant had told her Mr.
Presby was out of town, which was certainly a falsehood; and perhaps
the statement that he was crazy was equally false. She had never seen
an insane person; but Mr. Presby did not look any different from any
other person. He was sad and pale, and seemed to be harmless.

“Won’t you take a seat?” asked he again, in a tone so mild that she was
almost convinced he was not crazy.

She had heard that insane people are sometimes quite rational, and only
have fits of madness at times. This might be the case with Mr. Presby,
and he might, at any moment, become a raving maniac. But she took the
chair, though she trembled as she did so, and kept one eye upon the
door all the time.

“You wished to see me,” continued the old gentleman, as he seated
himself near her--much nearer than she wished to have him under the
circumstances.

“Yes, sir,” replied Bertha, looking him in the eye, that she might
discover the first symptom of wildness in season to make her escape
before he could proceed to violence.

“Don’t be alarmed,” added Mr. Presby, with a smile, as he evidently
noticed her agitation.

“I--I’m--not alarmed,” stammered Bertha, in doubt whether she should
apply for the situation.

“You are, I presume, an applicant for the place which I advertised in
the morning paper.”

“Yes, sir; I called to see about that; but--I--I don’t know as the
place will suit me,” answered she, still very much embarrassed at the
thought of becoming reader and amanuensis for a crazy man.

“Well, my child, I don’t wish you to take the situation if you think it
will not suit you,” added Mr. Presby, with a fatherly smile. “What is
your name?”

“Bertha Grant, sir.”

“Why do you think the place would not suit you?”

“Because--I, really, sir----”

“You seem to have changed your mind very suddenly.”

“The servant told me you were out of town----”

“And out of my head,” said the invalid, with a smile. “I begin to
understand why you think the situation will not suit you. The servant
told you that Mr. Presby was crazy, and did not want any young lady.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bertha, frankly.

“I am not crazy. I thank God that amid the misfortunes He has visited
upon me, I am still permitted to enjoy my reason unimpaired. No, child,
I am not insane.”

“I am so glad to hear it!” exclaimed Bertha.

But the glowing expression with which she received this assurance
quickly gave place to a sad look again, as she considered that the
invalid might not be aware of his own infirmity.

“You have some doubts,” added he, as he observed the change upon her
face. “It is sad for me to have to defend myself from such a charge.
You know that John told you one falsehood.”

“Yes, sir; and I am satisfied,” replied Bertha; “but it seems very
strange to me.”

“If you would like the situation, I think I can convince you that I am
not crazy.”

“I would like it very much, sir, if you would please to give me the
place.”

“Perhaps you will not suit me,” added Mr. Presby.

“I will try to do so, sir.”

“You are very young.”

“I shall be fourteen in a short time.”

“Younger than I thought you were; it will be hard for a girl like you
to be shut up with an old man like me.”

“I shall not mind that, sir.”

“And there will be a great many annoyances and trials to endure.”

“I will try to be faithful and patient.”

“I suppose there have been a dozen applicants at the door for the
place this forenoon, but you are the first that I have seen. They were
all sent away, as you were. I should not have seen you if I had not
happened to overhear the conversation between you and John in the hall.”

“How very strange!” said Bertha, not able to comprehend this singular
state of things.

“You will understand it soon enough. I like your appearance, young as
you are; and as I may not see another applicant, I am the more desirous
of engaging you, if you will answer my purpose. I presume you have been
well educated, or you would not have applied for the place.”

Bertha briefly stated the history of her education, which seemed to be
satisfactory to Mr. Presby. He then questioned her in regard to her
family, and, without telling any more than was necessary, she informed
him in regard to her past life. He was not inquisitive, and she passed
the examination without informing him what her father’s first name
was, or where he had resided.

“Now, Miss Grant, I should like to hear you read.”

He then handed her Kirk White’s poems, and she read a couple of pages.

“You read very well indeed for one so young, and you appear to
understand what you read. Now I will dictate a letter for you to write,
and if your penmanship is plain and distinct, you will satisfy me in
every respect.”

Mr. Presby dictated to Bertha a letter of about a page in length. Her
taste and skill in drawing had materially improved her writing, and
she wrote a beautiful hand, much larger and plainer than fashionably
educated young ladies usually write.

“That is admirable!” exclaimed Mr. Presby, as she handed him the sheet.
“It is as plain as print. I commend your hand to the bookkeepers
downtown. I can read that writing.”

“I am very glad it suits you, sir,” said Bertha, delighted with the
success of her examination.

“You have spelled all the words right, and the letter is neat and well
arranged. I suppose you know something about arithmetic and geography?”

“Yes, sir; I am very willing to be examined.”

“No, I will not trouble you any further. If the place will suit you, it
is yours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Bertha was sure it would suit her, if Mr. Presby was not insane; and
she was well satisfied now that he was not.

“You have not spoken of the salary, sir,” suggested Bertha, who had
some doubts on this subject.

“You may suit yourself about that, Miss Grant,” replied Mr. Presby,
with a smile. “Money is the least of my cares in this world.”

“If you thought four dollars a week was not too much,” said she, after
some hesitation.

“I will give you five with pleasure,” added Mr. Presby. “It is of no
consequence what I pay, if you answer my purpose.”

“You are very kind and very generous, sir; and I will do the best I can
to please you.”

“That is all I require; and you need not come in the morning till ten
o’clock.”

Ten o’clock! Then she had no home, after all, and she must find a place
to board somewhere in the vicinity. The five dollars a week seemed
to melt away all at once, for it would take three dollars a week to
pay her board, and there was only two left to pay Fanny’s board, and
nothing for clothes and other expenses.

“Where do you live?” asked Mr. Presby. “I suppose you will want to go
home before it is very dark at night.”

“I have no home,” answered Bertha, sadly.

“No home! Poor child! Then your parents are dead?”

She did not dare to tell him that her father was in prison; so she made
no reply.

“But you shall have a home here,” continued Mr. Presby, rising and
opening a door which led into a small chamber over the front hall. “You
shall have this room, and take your meals with me.”

“Thank you, sir; I shall never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“Poor child! This is the happiest day I have known for a long time. I
thank the Lord for sending you to me, for we shall be a blessing to
each other.”

Bertha could not help crying, the old gentleman was so kind. She was
sure now that he could not be crazy; and she wondered more than ever at
the strange conduct of John, and the female voice she had heard in the
hall.

She looked into the chamber, and found it was nicely furnished, and had
a very pleasant aspect. With the devout old gentleman she thanked God
for conducting her to this new home. She felt Mr. Presby would not turn
her out of the house, even if he should find out that her father was a
prisoner in the Tombs.

“Poor child,” said Mr. Presby, which seemed to be growing into a
favorite expression with him. “You said your name was----”

“Bertha Grant, sir.”

“Bertha; I shall call you Bertha, for you are only a child now, and I
mean to be a father to you, if you are a good girl, as I am sure you
will be. Poor child! no home, and no friends.”

The old man walked slowly up and down the room, as he uttered these
words, and seemed to be thinking of something.

“I wish I had a better home than this for you, poor child,” said Mr.
Presby, stopping in front of her chair.

“I could not ask a better home,” replied Bertha.

“Poor child! It is hearts that make home, not fine rooms, rich carpets,
and costly furniture,” added Mr. Presby, with a deep sigh, as he shook
his head, and resumed his walk. “Hearts, not rooms and furniture,” he
murmured several times.

“I could ask no kinder heart than yours to warm my home,” said Bertha,
pitying the old man, he was so sad.

“Poor child! I love you already,” exclaimed Mr. Presby, as he paused by
her side, bent over and kissed her on the forehead, while a great tear
dropped from his sunken eye upon her brow.

Bertha thought the old gentleman acted very strangely. There was a
mystery connected with him which she could not penetrate. The conduct
of John, and the female who had spoken, added to the mystery, rather
than assisted in its solution. It was evident that they had prevented
several applicants for the situation she had obtained from seeing the
invalid, and had attempted to prevent her from doing so. Why they
should act in this manner was unaccountable to her; but she had no
desire to pry into matters which did not concern her.

“This shall be your home, my child,” said Mr. Presby, pausing again,
and looking tenderly upon her.

“Thank you, sir. You fixed my wages before you knew that I had no other
home. You will wish to change the sum now.”

“No, child, no!” answered Mr. Presby, impatiently. “Now, do not say
anything more about money. It has been the bane of my life. I do not
like the sound of the word. You shall have five dollars a week, or ten,
or any other sum you desire, only let me have one true friend in the
world, and I care not for all the gold in the universe.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Bertha, deeply moved by the earnestness of the
old gentleman; for, as he spoke, the tears coursed down his pale,
wrinkled cheek, and his soul seemed to be filled with anguish. “I would
not have mentioned the subject again, if it had not been a matter of
great consequence to me. I have a sister in the country, and I only
wish to earn money enough to support her.”

“I knew that one so young could not love money. It has been a curse
to me. God has punished me by making me rich. I am worth at least
half a million of dollars. I own houses and lands, stocks, bonds and
mortgages, I have the notes of rich men in my safe, and I have over a
hundred thousand dollars in the banks; but I would give all I have in
the world, every dollar, for a poor cottage in the country, if I could
have with it the respect and affection of my--of my--of those whom
Heaven sent to bless my declining years, and smooth my pathway to the
grave.”

The old man dropped into his chair, and wept as though his heart would
break. Bertha tried to comfort him. She brushed back the long, white
locks from his forehead, and kissed his wrinkled brow. Gentle-hearted
as she was, she could not help weeping with him.

“Poor child!” sobbed Mr. Presby. “You must not love me; if you do,
others will hate you.”

“I wish I could do something to make you happy,” replied Bertha.

“No; they will hate you, if you do.”

“Who will hate me?”

The old man looked at her in silence for a moment.

“I dare not tell you,” said he. “I am a great sufferer. God has sorely
afflicted me; but I try to be patient and resigned to my lot. It is
hard, very hard.”

Mr. Presby wiped his eyes, and, after a struggle, calmed his strong
emotion.

“Come, Bertha, you shall read to me now,” he added.

“What shall I read?” asked she.

“You shall select something yourself.”

She took the Bible, and read the twenty-third Psalm, and then a portion
of the Sermon on the Mount.




CHAPTER XVI

THE STORY OF A FAMILY QUARREL


Mr. Presby was comforted by the passages which Bertha read, and perhaps
the sympathy she extended to the suffering invalid was hardly less
soothing than the words of the Scripture. Though she had gathered some
idea of the nature of her patron’s troubles from the conversation she
had had with him, yet she was still ignorant of his relations with the
other occupants of the house. She comprehended that his children were
unkind and ungrateful to him, and this seemed so unnatural and terrible
to her that she pitied the old gentleman from the depths of her soul.

After she had finished reading the Bible, Mr. Presby remained silent
and thoughtful for a long time. He seemed to be meditating upon the
passages read, and she did not disturb him; but she could not help
calling to mind the statement of John that he was insane. His conduct
was certainly very singular; but if his children, those who should have
loved him, who should have comforted him and humored his weakness--if
they had turned against him, it would be quite enough to explain even
more strange behavior than he had yet exhibited.

He rose from his easy-chair, and paced the room, as he had done before;
but he was calm, and appeared to be more resigned. He did not talk
to himself, as he had done; and whether he was insane or not, Bertha
had ceased to be afraid of him, and even felt some confidence that she
could manage him if he should have a paroxysm.

“Poor child!” said he, at last, as he paused in his walk. “I am old
and thoughtless; you have no home, and I suppose you have no clothing.
Come, we will go out and buy some for you.”

“I have plenty of clothing, sir. My trunk is at the railroad station,”
replied Bertha.

“We will go out and get it, then. The carriage comes to take me out to
ride about this time every day. You shall go with me, and we will get
your trunk.”

Mr. Presby took off his dressing gown, and, retiring to his chamber in
the rear of the library, prepared himself for the ride. Bertha put on
her hat and jacket again, and soon both were ready. Before they left,
Mr. Presby gathered up some account books and papers that were on his
desk, and placed them in a small iron safe in one corner of the room,
which he locked, and put the key in his pocket.

The carriage was at the door, and Mr. Presby led the way downstairs.
John was in the entry; but he was very obsequious this time, and bowed
low as he opened the doors for them.

“Keep your eyes wide open, miss, or the old man will knock your brains
out when he has the fit,” he whispered in Bertha’s ear, as she passed
him.

“What do you mean?” asked she.

“Oh, Mr. Presby is stark, staring mad!” he replied, earnestly. “He will
take your life before you have been with him three days.”

Bertha’s old fears assailed her again for a moment; but she could not
believe, if Mr. Presby was such a dangerous person, that his friends
would permit him to ride about the city without any attendant. They
could have sent him to an asylum, for his family seemed to have no
tender regard for him which would restrain them from such a course.

The carriage was driven to the station, and Bertha procured her trunk.
It was placed in the little room adjoining the library, and then they
were driven downtown. Mr. Presby visited several insurance offices,
and other places of business, where he was treated with respect and
consideration by all whom he met. Bertha entered several of the
offices with him, and heard him talk about matters that were beyond
her comprehension; but, very clearly, no one seemed to be of John’s
opinion, that Mr. Presby was “stark, staring mad.”

On their return, at three o’clock, dinner was served. The table was
prepared by a colored girl, who waited upon them, and removed the
things when the meal was ended.

“Sylvia, is Mr. Presby--Edward--at home?” said the invalid to the girl,
as she left the room with the dishes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Has he dined?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him I wish to see him at his earliest convenience.”

“I will, sir.”

Bertha noticed that Mr. Presby’s lips quivered as he spoke to the
servant; and, as soon as she had gone, he seated himself in his chair,
and appeared to be much agitated. In half an hour, during which time
the old gentleman was silent and thoughtful, Edward Presby entered
the room. He was a man of thirty-five, elegantly dressed, in whom an
experienced observer would have detected what is called “a man of the
world”--a man who lives for its pleasures alone, ignoring its cares and
responsibilities.

“How do you do to-day, father?” said Edward, as he entered the room,
and cast a searching glance at Bertha.

“I am as well as usual,” replied the old man, coldly.

“You sent for me, father?”

“I did. John must be discharged.”

Mr. Presby spoke these words with firmness, but his lip quivered, and
his frame was slightly convulsed. It had evidently cost him a great
effort to utter them.

“John--discharged?” repeated Edward Presby.

“He must be discharged,” added the father.

“My wife would never consent to it. What has he done now?”

Mr. Presby explained the events of the morning; that John had refused
to admit those who answered his advertisement; that he had told Bertha
the “old man” was crazy.

“A mere pleasantry, father,” replied Edward. “Probably John didn’t know
anything about the advertisement.”

“Perhaps not. Does he believe that I am insane?”

“Of course not,” laughed the son.

“Will you discharge him?”

“I couldn’t think of such a thing. John is the most useful person in
the house.”

“Edward, I am in earnest. John must go, or I shall.”

“Come, father, you are out of humor. Have you lost any money to-day?”

“I have nothing more to say, Edward,” replied Mr. Presby, trembling
with emotion.

“I am sure I haven’t,” added the son, as he withdrew.

The invalid went to his desk and wrote a few lines, which he inclosed
in an envelope. Having written the direction upon it, he handed it to
Bertha, and requested her to go down to Wall Street, and deliver it to
the person for whom it was intended.

“I would not ask you to do such work for me if I could trust anyone
else,” said he, sadly.

“I will deliver the note,” replied she.

“In a few days we will change our residence, Bertha,” he added with a
smile. “I hope in our new home we may be happier than we can be here.”

Bertha knew not what to say, and therefore she said nothing. The father
and the son did not agree, and the house was divided against itself. It
was a very painful state of things to see this difference between those
who should cherish and sustain each other, and Bertha, who had almost
idolized her father, could not understand it. She put on her hat and
jacket, and was leaving the room, when Mr. Presby called her back.

“If you stay with me, Bertha, you must understand all these things,”
said he. “It is a sad story to tell a young girl like you, but you must
know it all. They will turn you against me, if you don’t.”

“No one shall turn me against you, sir. You have been very kind to me,
and I am grateful for it.”

“They will make you believe that I am crazy.”

“I will not believe it, sir.”

Mr. Presby seated himself again, and began to tell Bertha his troubles.
He had two children, a son and a daughter. His wife had died ten years
before, and soon after a difficulty between the father and son had
occurred.

Edward had never devoted himself to business of any kind, but spent
all his time in fashionable dissipation. He had married a gay and
extravagant lady, and, after the death of his mother, he had been
invited to “keep house” for his father. But the house was not large
enough for the fashionable lady, and both she and Edward had importuned
him to move into a magnificent palace of a house. Mr. Presby was simple
in his tastes, and refused to do so. His refusal to comply had caused
the first quarrel.

The daughter had joined with the son in the request to purchase the
palace, and had taken sides with him in the quarrel. She desired
to live in the style of a princess--to outdo all her neighbors and
friends. The demands upon the purse of Mr. Presby became so extravagant
that his fortune could not sustain such a pressure, and he had been
compelled to limit the son to six thousand dollars a year, and the
daughter to fifteen hundred.

Mr. Presby had been firm in his purpose, and every month he had paid
over to each the sum allotted. He positively refused to grant another
dollar, though he was continually annoyed by applications for more,
which were often accompanied by threats and abusive language.

The quarrel had never been healed; on the contrary, the estrangement
became greater every year. The son and his wife had obtained complete
possession of the house, except the floor which the old gentleman had
reserved for his own use. They managed its affairs to suit themselves,
without even consulting his wishes or his tastes, and he soon felt
himself a stranger there. They seemed to look forward with pleasure
to the hour which would end his mortal pilgrimage, and place them in
possession of his wealth.

Mr. Presby wept as he told this sad story, and Bertha pitied him more
than ever. She thought he had been very liberal with his children,
especially as the son refused to do any business, as his father wished.
She could not see that he had been to blame, and she wondered at his
patience.

“Now, Bertha, you understand it all,” said he; “and I see that you pity
me.”

“I do, indeed.”

“But they are my children, and I love them still. Oh, how it would
gladden my heart to hear them speak gentle words to me! They hate me;
they want my property, and would rejoice to have me die,” groaned he,
covering his face with his hands. “I would give all I have if they
would love me.”

“Perhaps they will.”

“Their hearts are hardened against me. They want my money. And I would
give it to them if it would make them love me. I would become a beggar
for their sake. But they would spend all I have in a few years, and it
would be folly to indulge them.”

“I think John is a very bad man,” said Bertha, recalling what he had
said to her in the hall.

“He is not only a spy upon my actions, but he is employed to thwart me
in my wishes. I cannot endure him. I have been peaceable and patient;
but I cannot be so any longer. Now you may go with the note, Bertha.”

“Shall I leave it if the gentleman is not in?”

“Yes; he will get it if it is left at his office.”

“I will do so, sir.”

“Stop a moment, Bertha. Have you any money to pay your fare?”

“Yes, sir; a little.”

“Here is five dollars; you may wish to purchase something. You need not
hurry back, for I shall try to sleep an hour or two, if I am not too
much excited.”

Bertha took the money, and thanked her employer for his kindness. As
she descended the stairs, John was in his accustomed place; for no one
seemed to pass in or out of the house without his knowledge.

“Where are you going, miss?” asked he, in conciliatory tones.

“I am going out,” she replied, without stopping.

“So I see; but where are you going?”

“Downtown.”

“Where?”

“Excuse me, John, but I am in a hurry to do my errand.”

“What is your errand, miss?” persisted he.

“I do not think it proper to tell my employer’s business to anyone, and
you will excuse me if I do not answer you.”

“Oh, certainly; it’s none of my business, of course, and I did not mean
to pry into the affairs of Mr. Presby.”

Bertha placed her hand upon the door; but the night lock was a peculiar
one, and she didn’t understand it. She kept working upon it, and John
did not offer to assist her.

“Have you seen Miss Ellen Presby?” asked John.

“I have not,” replied Bertha, still trying to open the door.

“She wishes to see you. I will call her, if you please.”

“I will see her when I return,” said Bertha; but John had gone.

Bertha had some ingenuity, and before the man came back, she succeeded
in opening the door. As she did so, she discovered a couple of night
keys hanging near the door, and in order to save John the trouble of
answering her summons, she put one of them in her pocket.

When she had seated herself in the car, she took out the note Mr.
Presby had given her. She doubted not it had some reference to the
matters which had transpired during the afternoon. She turned the
envelope, and read with astonishment the name of the man, who, a few
days before, had turned her out of Woodville. It was directed to
“Samuel Grayle, Esq.”




CHAPTER XVII

SORELY PERSECUTED


Bertha was alarmed to find the name of Mr. Grayle on the note. She
hoped Mr. Presby had no business relations with such a man, and she was
frightened at the thought of seeing him again. He had insulted her at
Woodville, and he might do so in New York. But her errand must be done;
and she hoped he would not be in his office.

Mr. Grayle was in his private room with several gentlemen when she
reached her destination. She gave the note to his clerk, and saw it
delivered. It was a lucky escape, and she retreated from the place well
satisfied with the result. As Mr. Presby had told her she need not
hurry back, she decided to call upon Mr. Sherwood again.

“I’m very glad to see you again, Miss Grant,” said the clerk, as she
entered the office; “I have good news for you.”

“Has my father got out of the Tombs?” asked Bertha, to whom this seemed
to be the only good news that could come to her.

“No; not quite so good as that,” replied the clerk, shaking his head.
“You saw the gentleman who was with me when you left the office this
morning?”

“I did.”

“Did you know him?”

“I did not, though his face seemed strangely familiar.”

“It was your uncle, from Valparaiso.”

“Uncle Obed?”

“Yes, I suppose that is his name; at any rate, he is your father’s only
brother.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” exclaimed Bertha, “for I know that he can save my
father.”

“Your father shall be saved, any way; but for the present your
uncle cannot do much. He is a stranger in New York. His business in
Valparaiso was entirely with English merchants.”

“Where is he now?”

“He is stopping at the Astor House. If your father can be set at
liberty, your uncle will take care of his pecuniary matters as soon as
his funds arrive from England.”

“I will call and see him.”

“I think he has gone to Philadelphia, to see a friend who will furnish
him with money to pay off your father’s most pressing debts.”

“That is just like Uncle Obed,” said Bertha.

“He remained with me all the forenoon. He knows about Brace Brothers,
and he says they have only suspended and will, eventually pay all they
owe. If this is the case, Mr. Grant will yet come out all right. As
the matter stands now, if your father could raise about fifty thousand
dollars, it would keep him out of trouble till the affairs of Brace
Brothers are settled up. This your uncle will endeavor to procure.”

“Will Mr. Grayle be paid then?” asked Bertha.

“Mr. Grayle has already been paid. He has taken Woodville, though he
says the estate will not pay him what he has advanced. I suppose it
would not, if sold at auction, and he does not like the bargain. As
soon as he pressed your father, and threw him into prison, others
became clamorous for their money. I hope your uncle will be able to
raise the sum needed.”

“I am sure he will.”

“He is very doubtful, for all his friends are in England, and all his
property is there. He has retired from business, and means to settle in
this vicinity, as soon as he can close up his affairs, and invest his
wealth in this country. He was very anxious to see you.”

“I will see him at once, if I can.”

On her way uptown, she called at the Astor House; but Uncle Obed had
gone to Philadelphia, as the clerk thought.

It was time for her to return to Mr. Presby’s. Her father and his
affairs now engrossed all her attention, and she even forgot those of
her invalid employer. It was certainly good news that Uncle Obed had
arrived. Her father had written to him several months before, and she
had felt that, if he would come, all would be well. He could get Mr.
Grant out of prison; he could recover possession of Woodville; and he
could advance money to pay her father’s debts, and thus save him from
his creditors till the affairs of Brace Brothers were settled.

But Uncle Obed seemed to be almost powerless, after all. He had come,
but he was a stranger in the land, with no means and no credit. He had
wealth enough, but it might as well have been at the bottom of the Red
Sea, so far as any present use was concerned.

Her father was still in prison.

Woodville was still in possession of Mr. Grayle.

Creditors representing fifty thousand dollars were still ready to
harass her father.

Here were three tremendous obstacles in the path of her father. Bertha
felt that she was but a child, and she could do nothing against such
fearful odds; but still her mission was to save her father. The coming
of Uncle Obed would keep the family from want; but all her father had
seemed to be lost, and nothing but beggary or dependence to be before
him. It was doubtful whether Uncle Obed could do anything before it was
too late to save her father from ruin. What could she do herself? Alas!
nothing.

Still thinking of these things, she arrived at the door of Mr. Presby’s
house. As she went up the stone steps, the thought came, that perhaps
she might do something; but it was too absurd to be cherished, and she
dismissed it at once. She was so absorbed with these reflections that
she did not think of the night key in her pocket, and rang the bell.
The summons was promptly answered by John, who opened the door about a
foot, and placed himself in the aperture.

“Who do you wish to see, miss?” asked he, politely.

“I wish to see Mr. Presby--the old gentleman.”

“Do you? Well, he isn’t at home.”

“Not at home?”

“He has just gone out of town, and won’t be back for three days.”

“If you will let me in, I will go to my room,” said Bertha, who did not
believe John’s ridiculous story.

“Eh?” added the man, with a kind of leer, as though he did not
understand her.

“I say I will go to my room, if you please.”

“Your room? Pray, miss, where is your room?”

“It is the small chamber over the hall.”

“Really, miss, I don’t understand you. I don’t see how your room can be
in this house.”

“Don’t you know me, John?” asked Bertha, astonished at this singular
reception.

“Don’t I know you? How should I know you?” replied he, with an innocent
look.

“I am the young lady Mr. Presby engaged to-day.”

“Mr. Presby didn’t engage any young lady to-day.”

“Why, yes he did, John. You know me very well. Didn’t you talk with me
when I went out, two hours ago, and ask me where I was going?”

“I? ’Pon my word, I never saw you before in my life!” protested John,
apparently amazed at this statement.

It was greeted by a loud laugh from the entry behind him. It was the
same voice she had heard before, and Bertha supposed it must be Miss
Ellen.

“Then, if you will call Mr. Presby, he will assure you I am the person
he engaged.”

“How can I tell him when he is out of town?”

“He is not out of town, John.”

“Oh, now, that does not sound like a lady, to doubt my word; but I will
call Mr. Edward Presby.”

“I do not wish to see him.”

“Then I can’t do anything for you, miss.”

“I will go up to my room.”

“We don’t let strangers into the house,” replied John, decidedly.

“What do you mean, John? You know me well enough.”

“Never saw you before in my life; and if you doubt my word, I shall
never want to see you again.”

“Send her away, John,” said the female in the hall.

“Good evening, miss; if you call next week, you may see Mr. Presby,”
said John, with one of those wicked leers with which he accompanied his
polite impudence, and closed the door in her face.

Bertha, astounded by this incident, retired from the door, and moved
down the street again. Such villainy and such trickery were beyond her
comprehension. She had actually been denied admission to the house of
her employer. But she had spirit enough not to yield the point. She
had walked down the street but a short distance before she thought of
the night key in her pocket, and then she determined to return, and
to make her way to Mr. Presby’s library, whether John was willing or
not, for it did not occur to her that he would carry his opposition so
far as to prevent her by force from doing so. It was evident that Mr.
Presby’s son and daughter intended to prevent her from remaining with
him. They feared her influence--that she might comfort and encourage
the invalid, and thus prolong his life; or be an available witness in
a contested will case; or that she might in some manner prevent them
from controlling the old man’s thoughts or actions. “You must not love
me, or they will hate you,” had been the warning of the father. If they
wished to prevent her from seeing Mr. Presby again, it would be hard
for her to do so.

Bertha felt that the old man was in the hands of his enemies, though
they were his own children, and higher considerations than her own
comfort and welfare prompted her not to yield to the conspiracy. She
could not desert the old gentleman when he had been so kind to her.
Obeying this generous impulse, she hastened up the steps, and inserted
the night key as quickly as she could. The door was opened without
difficulty, and, not stopping to close it, she hung up the night key
on the nail from which she had taken it, and opened the inner door,
intending to run upstairs before John should appear to dispute her
passage.

She was partially successful, and had ascended a few steps before the
vigilant manservant showed himself. But John, whom Mrs. Presby regarded
as a useful person in the house, was as active as he was keen. No
sooner did he discover that he had, in some mysterious manner, been
circumvented, than he sprang up the stairs, and, catching hold of her
dress, pulled her down to the door again.

“Who is it, John?” called the voice of the female from an adjoining
room.

“It is the girl that tried to get in a few moments ago.”

“A thief--isn’t she, John?” said Mr. Edward Presby, who now appeared in
the hall, followed by his wife and his sister.

“I suppose so, sir,” replied the ready John. “She has been prowling
about the house all day. I have sent her away twice.”

“But how did she get in?” demanded Mr. Presby.

“That’s more than I know; but this kind of folks always find a way to
open a door,” answered John, with a wicked grin.

“How did you get in?” said Mr. Presby, sternly.

“Hush, Ned,” whispered Miss Ellen, pointing upstairs.

“No fear of him; he is fast asleep in the back chamber,” muttered John.

But Mr. Presby acted upon this caution, and, taking Bertha by the arm,
led her into the dining-room, in the rear, where the invalid could not
hear what transpired.

“Now, how did you get in?” repeated Mr. Presby, in the same stern tone
he had used before, as though he were speaking to a common thief, whom
he hated and despised.

“I came in with the night key,” replied Bertha, appalled at the turn
which the affair had taken.

“Where did you get the night key?”

“I took it from the nail when I went out.”

“When you went out! When was that?”

“I know what she means. She stole the key when she came to the door
with the foolish inquiries,” observed Miss Ellen.

“Did you miss the keys, John?” asked Mr. Presby.

“I did not, sir. I don’t believe she got in that way. I will go and
see;” and he left the room.

In a moment he returned, declaring the two night keys were hanging on
the nail, where he had seen them half a dozen times during the day.

“She picked the lock, then,” added Mr. Presby.

“Well, I hope something will be done about it this time,” said Mrs.
Presby. “You caught a woman in the hall once before, and let her go
because she was well dressed.”

“That was a mistake of mine; and I will not make another of the same
kind. John, you may go for an officer.”

“For mercy’s sake, Mr. Presby, don’t send me to prison!” said Bertha,
terrified beyond expression.

“That is just what the woman said, in almost the same words,” added
Mrs. Presby.

“Don’t you know me, sir?” pleaded Bertha. “I was in the library when
you were there this afternoon.”

“No use,” replied Mr. Presby, shaking his head. “That kind of stuff
won’t go down.”

“The other thief said she wanted to see her sister, who was a servant
in the house,” said Miss Ellen.

“It is a plain case, miss, and there is no use of wasting words in idle
stories. I let one thief escape, and I will not permit another to slip
through my fingers.”

“I am no thief, sir. I beg you to send up to your father, and he will
assure you I am not a thief,” pleaded Bertha.

“My father is out of town.”

Poor Bertha could say nothing to move her persecutors; and, in despair,
she relapsed into silence. In a few moments John returned with a
policeman. Mr. Presby and his man told their story, and the officer
thought it was a very plain case.

“Come, miss,” said he, taking her by the arm and leading her out into
the street.




CHAPTER XVIII

BERTHA PROVES HER INNOCENCE


It was now quite dark, and in the friendly shades of night poor Bertha
was spared the shame of being gazed upon by unthinking people in the
street. The policeman took her by the hand, and conducted her to the
station, where she was to remain till morning, when she would be taken
before a magistrate to be examined on the charge of “breaking and
entering.”

She was so terrified by the scene through which she had just passed,
that she had not the courage to say anything to the officers in
vindication of her innocence. They looked at her with curiosity, and
some of them seemed to regard her as a different person from those who
were usually brought to the station.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed a sergeant, when he came to look at her. “I
have certainly seen that face before.”

“Oh, Nathan!” groaned Bertha, as she recognized in the officer a man
who had formerly been employed as coachman at Woodville.

“Bertha Grant!” ejaculated he, holding up both hands with astonishment.
“It can’t be possible!”

“I am innocent, Nathan,” sobbed Bertha. “I have not done anything to
bring me to this place.”

“Poor girl! I can’t do anything for you, I’m afraid.”

“You will not keep me in this terrible place? You will not let them
carry me before the court? It would kill my poor father.”

“I would not, if I could help it, Bertha,” replied Nathan, sadly; “but
we have to keep people who are arrested on such charges till they are
proved to be innocent.”

“I am innocent! I have not done anything wrong.”

“But I have no right to let you go--at least, while you stand charged
with breaking and entering. If I dared, I would let you go at once.”

“Let me tell you all about it, and then perhaps you will know what is
best to be done.”

“I will do everything I can for you, Bertha. You were always kind to
me, and I would do anything to get you out of trouble.”

“I don’t want you to do wrong, Nathan. I would not have you neglect
your duty even to save me from prison.”

Bertha then told the sergeant everything that had occurred at the house
of Mr. Presby during the day, from the moment she rang the bell in the
forenoon till she had been taken out of the house by the policeman.

“Poor girl!” sighed the policeman, when she had finished her simple
narrative. “I think we can get you out of trouble very soon. If Mr.
Presby, the old gentleman, will only say that you were lawfully in the
house, that you had a right to be there, we will not keep you a moment.”

“Mr. Presby would come to me at once, if he only knew I was here; I
know he would,” added Bertha.

“It is a plain case, and all we want is a word from him. Now I will go
right down to his house, and tell him all about it.”

“I am afraid they will not let you see him.”

“I will see him. Don’t disturb yourself about that, Bertha. I shall
certainly see him.”

The sergeant then spoke to the principal officers of the station, and
Bertha, instead of being put into a cell with the wretched thieves and
drunkards who had already been brought in, was permitted to remain in
the office.

At nine o’clock, Nathan had not returned, and Bertha was sure that
he had found some difficulty in seeing Mr. Presby; but she was sure,
too, that he would do all he could for her, and so she waited in hope
and patience. Occasionally a thief or a vagabond was brought in, but
Bertha did not even care to look at him. At ten o’clock, while she was
wondering that the sergeant did not come, an officer led a boy into the
room.

“What have you got there?” demanded the captain.

“A little fellow that I picked up in the next street. He is so tipsy he
can’t stand alone, and had stretched himself on the curbstone, where he
was near having his legs broken by a carriage.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t know, sir. He is well dressed. I asked him where his home was,
and he said he hadn’t any.”

“No, sir,” said the boy, rousing from his stupor, “I haven’t any home;
but I belong to the yacht _Whirlwind_.”

“Merciful heavens!” cried Bertha, rushing to the side of the
intoxicated youth.

“Do you know him, miss?” asked the captain.

“Yes, sir, I do,” stammered Bertha.

“Who is he?”

“He is my brother.”

“What! Is that you, Berty?” stammered Richard Grant. “Well, I am glad
to see you, Berty. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Richard!” was all that the poor girl could utter, as she threw
herself into a chair, and wept bitterly.

“Put him to bed,” said the captain, in a low tone.

The officers took the drunken boy out of his chair, and laid him in one
of the bunks of an adjoining cell. The captain gave Bertha permission
to stay with him, but he was unable to talk much, and soon dropped
asleep. She covered him up, and seated herself by his side. When she
heard the outer door open again, she hastened out to see if Nathan had
come.

“Where is she? Poor child!” said Mr. Presby, as he entered the room.

Bertha hastened to him, her eyes still filled with the tears called
forth by the new grief that had come upon her.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you, Mr. Presby!” exclaimed she, as she
grasped the old gentleman’s extended hands.

“Poor child! Poor child! I told you they would hate you if you loved
me. They sent you to a prison--did they? Oh, God! They are my children.”

“It’s all right, Miss Bertha,” said Nathan, who had already told the
captain that the girl had spoken the truth.

“May Heaven bless you, Nathan!” said Bertha, taking him by the hand.
“You have saved me from a world of anguish, and I shall be grateful to
you as long as I live.”

“Never mind that, Bertha. You were always good to me, and I am too glad
of a chance to serve you.”

“Poor child!” added Mr. Presby. “Are you satisfied now, captain?”

“Entirely; the girl can go as soon as she pleases,” replied the captain.

“Come, Bertha, let us get away from this place; but we will remember
your friend the sergeant. I have a carriage at the door. I will not let
you go out of my sight again while we remain in the city. Come, Bertha.”

“I can’t go now,” she replied, glancing at the cell in which Richard
was sleeping off the fumes of the liquor he had drunk.

The captain now kindly came forward, and explained what had taken place
during the absence of the sergeant. Mr. Presby was full of sympathy for
the poor girl, and at once proposed to take Richard away with them; but
Nathan promised to take care of him till morning, and detain him till
Bertha could see him again.

“Now, Bertha, we will be happy,” said Mr. Presby, when they were seated
in the carriage. “I have just purchased a fine house in the country,
and we will go there to-morrow. You shall not be persecuted any more.”

“I do not care for myself,” added Bertha.

“Your brother shall go with you. The poor boy had no home, and I
suppose he was lonely. We will take care of him, and he will never do
such a thing again.”

“I hope not.”

“The house I have bought is a beautiful one. I have purchased all the
furniture, horses, boats, and everything, just as its late owner left
it. I am sure we shall be very happy there.”

“I hope you will be happy.”

“I shall be; perhaps if I leave them, it will do them good. They do not
believe that I will go, for I have threatened to do so a great many
times. But the place is bought this time, and I have given my check for
it. Did you think I never would come to you?”

“I thought John would not let the officer see you.”

“I was not at home when he came. I was at Mr. Grayle’s office, where
the sale was completed, and the deed given.”

“Mr. Grayle!” exclaimed Bertha, a new light appearing to her.

“Yes, Mr. Grayle; I bought the place of him. The estate is known by the
name of Woodville. Quite a pretty name--isn’t it?”

“Woodville!” repeated Bertha. “And you have bought it?”

“Yes; you appear to know the place.”

“It was my home till a few days ago,” answered Bertha, sadly.

“Your home! Good Heaven! Then you are the daughter of poor Franklin
Grant.”

“I am, sir.”

“Poor child! I was slightly acquainted with your father; but he had a
quarrel with Mr. Grayle, which concerned me, and I haven’t seen him for
several years.”

“Is Mr. Grayle your friend?” asked she.

“Not exactly my friend. I have had some business relations with him;
but I have nothing against your father.”

Bertha, in her own simple style, then told him what Mr. Grayle had done
to her father, and that he had turned his children out of Woodville.
Mr. Presby was indignant, and declared that he would never trust him
again.

When the carriage reached the house, they were admitted by John, who
was as polite as a French dancing master. They had no sooner entered
the library than Edward Presby presented himself. He declared that the
arrest of Bertha was a mistake. He did not know her, and none of the
family had ever seen her.

“Edward,” said the father, sternly, “it is useless for you to say
anything. We part to-morrow; let it be in peace.”

“Part, father?” exclaimed Edward.

Mr. Presby briefly informed his son what he had done, and stated his
plans for the future.

“Surely you will not leave us, father,” said Edward, who probably began
to realize that he had gone too far.

“I shall go to-morrow.”

The son tried to explain, and said all he could to alter his purpose;
but Mr. Presby remained firm to the last, and he finally retired in
anger, and with threats on his lips.

Bertha went to her chamber, but she could not sleep, she was so excited
by the events of the evening. On the morrow she was to return to
Woodville, though not with the family; and she was sad at the thought
of going without her father.

Uncle Obed would return from Philadelphia the next day, and she hoped
he would bring some comfort for her; for with Richard intoxicated in
the station house, and her father still in the Tombs, her mission
seemed further than ever from its accomplishment.




CHAPTER XIX

UNCLE OBED


Mr. Presby called Bertha at an early hour on the following morning, for
the carriage had been engaged for her at seven o’clock. She had slept
but little during the night, for the terrible condition of her brother
haunted her thoughts when awake, and her dreams when she slept. She was
driven to the station house, where Richard had slept off the fumes of
the intoxicating cup.

He was glad to see her, but he was very much depressed in spirits, and
heartily ashamed of his conduct. He was more reasonable and penitent
than she had ever seen him before. He told her that the yacht had come
from Newport the day before, and that he had been discharged, because
they no longer wanted him. He had taken a room at a hotel, but he had
only two dollars left of the money he had brought from Woodville,
increased by a few dollars he had earned. He acknowledged that he
had been intoxicated twice while at Newport, and when he came to New
York he felt sad at the thought of having no home; and he had drunk
some wine to cheer him up, and make him forget that his father was in
prison, and the family scattered.

“Bertha, I never will taste any wine or liquor again as long as I
live,” said he, with solemn earnestness, when he had finished his
narrative.

“I hope you never will, Richard. My heart is nearly broken now,” added
Bertha, wiping away her tears; “but if you will be good and true, I
shall be happy again. Oh, you don’t know how much I have thought of
you!”

“Come, Berty, don’t cry. I have been selfish, but I will stand by you
to the last. I will do anything you wish.”

Bertha was very much comforted by Richard’s promises of amendment, for
she felt that he meant them, and she prayed that he might have the
firmness to keep them. She then told him what had happened during their
separation; of the sale of Woodville, and the return of Uncle Obed, and
that she was going to their old home with Mr. Presby.

This conversation took place in the carriage, and on the sidewalk
in front of Mr. Presby’s house. For some time, Richard could not be
persuaded to visit his sister’s employer; but he at last consented. The
old gentleman did not allude to the events of the preceding evening,
but talked about his plans in connection with Woodville. He insisted
that Richard should go with them, and occupy his old room; indeed, he
said he wanted him very much to assist him in finding the housekeeper,
the boatman, and the servants, for he intended to restore everything to
the condition in which Mr. Grant had left it.

Richard gladly consented to remain and assist him in moving his books,
papers, and other articles, which were to be conveyed to Woodville.
His wonted spirits seemed to return when his mind was occupied, and
before breakfast was over Mr. Presby and Richard were excellent friends.

The forenoon was occupied in packing up the books and papers, which
were sent off early in the afternoon, under the care of Richard, who
had instructions to find the old servants and send them back to their
accustomed places.

At one o’clock, when the Philadelphia train had arrived, Bertha
repaired to the Astor House, to ascertain if Uncle Obed had returned,
leaving Mr. Presby with his son and daughter. The latter were
astonished and alarmed at the firmness of their father, and the events
of years were rehearsed and commented upon. They promised to let him
have his own way in all things if he would remain, and were even
willing to discharge John. They asked him what the world would say;
but he was silent. They proposed to go with him to Woodville; but he
declined. He had gone too far to recede. Mr. Presby told them what he
had suffered, but he spoke kindly, and hoped they would visit him in
his new home.

Bertha was rejoiced to find that Uncle Obed was in the house, and she
was shown to his room. She had never seen him before they met in the
office of her father, but the picture of him that hung in the drawing
room at Woodville was so true that his countenance seemed familiar to
her.

“My dear uncle!” exclaimed she, as she rushed forward to grasp his
extended hand.

“Then this is Bertha,” replied Uncle Obed, kissing her.

“I am so glad to see you!”

“And I am as glad to see you; for when I heard what had happened, I was
very much alarmed about you.”

Of course the conversation immediately turned to the situation of her
father. Bertha told him what had occurred from the time of her father’s
arrest. Uncle Obed was sad and thoughtful. He was perplexed and
disappointed. He felt a strong desire to do something which he could
not accomplish.

“Mr. Sherwood told me you had gone to Philadelphia to obtain the money
which would save my poor father from ruin,” said Bertha.

“I did go, but my friend was not at home, and will not return for a
week. Bertha, I am sorely tried; I don’t see that I can do anything for
your father at present. I cannot raise the money.”

“I hoped you would be able to save my poor father.”

“I have done everything I could; but I am a stranger here now. Fifty
thousand dollars is an immense sum of money.”

“Perhaps I can raise it, Uncle Obed,” said Bertha, musing.

“You, child? Of course you cannot.”

“I can try.”

Uncle Obed laughed at the assurance of Bertha, and did not bestow a
second thought upon the absurd proposition.

“I must go to Woodville with Mr. Presby this afternoon,” said she, “and
I must leave you now, uncle.”

“I am sorry Woodville was sold, for I meant to buy it myself when my
funds arrive. I intended to have seen Mr. Grayle yesterday. I suppose
it is of no use to regret it, though. When shall I see you again,
Bertha?”

“I shall probably come to the city to-morrow with Mr. Presby.”

Bertha hastened back to the house of Mr. Presby, where he was to wait
her return.

“Did you see your uncle?” asked he.

“Yes, sir.”

“You told me he would release your father.”

“Yes, sir; but he cannot,” replied Bertha, bursting into tears.

“Poor child! Why not?”

“Mr. Grayle put my father in prison, and keeps him there.”

“I will see Grayle before I go to Woodville,” said the old gentleman,
jumping out of his chair.

“But that would not be enough,” added Bertha.

“What more, child?”

“My uncle has been trying to raise a large sum of money to satisfy the
creditors who persecute my father.”

“How much money?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” replied Bertha, drawing a very long breath.

“Fifty thousand!” exclaimed Mr. Presby.

“My uncle will be responsible for it; he is a rich man, but all his
wealth is in England.”

“You shall have the money, my child,” said Mr. Presby, after a few
moments’ consideration.

“May Heaven bless you as you have blessed me!” exclaimed Bertha,
clasping his hands and kissing his forehead.

“I will go down now and see Grayle; then I will meet you at the Astor
House. It will be late when we get to Woodville to-night, but your
father shall go with us, Bertha,” said the old gentleman, as he put on
his hat and took his cane. “Come, child; we will lose no time.”

“Oh, sir, I am so happy!”

“I didn’t understand before that Grayle caused your father to be
imprisoned. If I had, I would have seen him before.”

Bertha hastened back to the Astor House, while Mr. Presby took a
carriage and drove to the office of Grayle.

“Oh, Uncle Obed!” cried Bertha, as she rushed into his room, out of
breath with the exertion of running upstairs.

“What now, Bertha?”

“I have got the money!”

“What! Impossible!”

“I have; Mr. Presby will let you have it, and father will be set at
liberty to-night!”

Uncle Obed was incredulous, and seemed to be of John’s opinion, that
Mr. Presby was crazy. He absolutely refused to believe the good news,
and the nonappearance of Mr. Presby seemed to justify his want of
faith. It was three hours before the old gentleman came, and Bertha
began to fear that her enthusiasm had deceived her. But he came at
last, and the two gentlemen were introduced to each other.

Mr. Presby opened the business of the meeting by saying what a good
girl Bertha was; that, though he had known her only two days, he
loved her as his own child. He then inquired particularly into Uncle
Obed’s business affairs, and having satisfied himself in regard to his
financial soundness, he produced checks for fifty thousand dollars.

“Business men would call me a fool or a lunatic, after what I have
done; but if I knew I should lose every dollar I have advanced, I
should do just as I have done,” said Mr. Presby, placing Uncle Obed’s
notes in his pocket-book.

“You shall not lose a penny of it, Mr. Presby,” said Uncle Obed. “I can
pay these notes three times over.”

“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Grant. Now, if the business is finished, we will
call in somebody else,” added Mr. Presby, as he rang the bell.

He whispered something very mysteriously to the bell boy who answered
the summons and then continued the conversation with Uncle Obed.

“I have purchased your brother’s estate--Woodville; but whenever he
wants it again, he shall have it,” said he. “I must be in sight of
Bertha; and I suppose I can buy a piece of land and build a cottage
upon it.”

“Nay, sir, you shall always have a home at Woodville. I can promise
that for my brother,” replied Uncle Obed.

“Oh, yes!” said Bertha. “I should be so happy to have you at our house!”

“Brace Brothers will certainly pay all they owe. I fully understand
the cause of their suspension. When your father gets out of this
difficulty, he will be as well off as ever he was,” added Uncle Obed.

At this moment the door was thrown open by the waiter. A joyful cry
from Bertha revealed the nature of Mr. Presby’s mysterious proceedings
with the bell boy.

“My father! My father!” exclaimed Bertha, as she rushed into his arms,
and kissed him over and over again.

“My dear child!” said Mr. Grant, as he pressed the overjoyed daughter
to his heart, while the great tears rolled down his thin, pale cheek.

Bertha felt that her mission was accomplished--at least her present and
most urgent one. Tenderly caressing her father, she told him how kind
Mr. Presby had been to her.

“This is all Bertha’s work, Franklin,” said Uncle Obed. “She raised the
money, and procured your release.”

“No, father; it was Mr. Presby.”

“For your sake I did it, my child,” added Mr. Presby. “But come; we are
all going to Woodville to-night.”

The next train bore the whole party from the city. On the way all the
incidents connected with the release of Mr. Grant were rehearsed. At
first Grayle would not consent to it; but Mr. Presby had compelled him
to do so by threats which he had the power to carry out, for the wretch
owed him large sums of money. Mr. Presby had become his bail till the
action could be disposed of; but Grayle admitted that the charge of
fraud couldn’t be proved. He declared that the affair would ruin him
when Mr. Grant was released.

It was dark when the party arrived at Woodville; but the house was
lighted up, and they were greeted by the housekeeper and the old
boatman, whom Richard had summoned back to the mansion. Noddy Newman
turned half a dozen back somersets on the lawn when he saw Bertha
running up the walk. Several of the servants were in their places, and
dinner was on the table, just as though no break had occurred in the
household arrangements. Ben was sent after Fanny, and that evening the
family were reunited in the sitting-room.




CHAPTER XX

BERTHA VISITS THE GLEN AGAIN


The next day Mr. Grant and Uncle Obed went to the city to arrange the
business of the former, leaving Mr. Presby at home with the children.
Bertha spent the whole forenoon in showing the old gentleman about the
estate, and leading him to all the pleasant places in the vicinity.

After luncheon, Richard took them over to Whitestone in the
_Greyhound_, and on their return they visited Van Alstine’s Island
and the Glen. Even Dunk’s Hollow had heard the glad tidings of the
return of the family to Woodville, and the children of the little
mission school had gone to the Glen in the forenoon, and again in the
afternoon, in the hope that Bertha might meet them there.

As the party landed, they were received with shouts of rejoicing.
Gretchy von Brunt danced with joy, and Grouty von Grunt leaped up in
the air as though the ground had been too hot to stand upon, while the
other members of the school manifested their satisfaction in a manner
not less equivocal, though rather more dignified. Bertha kissed all the
children, boys and girls; for they all had clean faces, and wore the
new clothes which their teacher had provided.

The whole troop ran before Bertha as she conducted Mr. Presby up to the
Glen, and seated themselves in their accustomed places in the arbor.
The visitors spent a very pleasant hour with them, and left, with the
promise to come again on the following day.

“Now, Bertha, you must go on with your school, just as you did before,”
said Mr. Presby. “If the children want clothes or books, or anything
costing money, you must let me know. And you must let me help you teach
the school.”

“Thank you, sir. It is very kind of you to feel an interest in these
poor children,” replied Bertha.

“It will make me happy, as it does you. Of course your school can last
only four or five months?”

“No, sir; it is too cold after October to meet at the Glen.”

“Well, Bertha, we must build a nice little schoolhouse, so that we can
meet the children in the winter.”

As the boat bore them down to the Woodville landing, Mr. Presby and
Bertha formed many plans for improving the condition of the poor
children of Dunk’s Hollow; but the limit of our story does not permit
us to follow them in the execution of those notable schemes. The little
schoolhouse was built; other children were induced to join the number;
all the scholars were supplied with warm clothing for the winter; and
as the pupils could all read very well, a library was provided for
their use. From the children, the mission of Bertha and her wealthy
colaborer extended to the parents, and Dunk’s Hollow itself began to
wear a new aspect. Mr. Presby talked with the men, and many of them
changed their modes of life and became decent, not to say respectable,
persons.

Such was the result of Bertha’s mission to the poor children of Dunk’s
Hollow.

Mr. Grant made satisfactory arrangements with his creditors. Brace
Brothers, as Uncle Obed and others had anticipated, paid their
debts in full; and the money which Mr. Presby had advanced was not
only refunded, but Woodville was bought back again, and Mr. Grant
was congratulated by all his friends and neighbors upon the happy
termination of his troubles.

The only person who seemed to be a permanent sufferer by the
transactions we have described was Mr. Grayle. His conduct in causing
the arrest of the broker was generally condemned, for he was actuated
by revenge and a desire to make money out of the misfortunes of others.
As Mr. Sherwood had predicted, his course proved to be his ruin; for
when the whole truth came out at a meeting of Mr. Grant’s creditors,
a storm of indignation was raised against him. Losing the respect and
confidence of business men, he failed, and sought a new home in the
West to retrieve his fallen fortunes.

When Woodville again came into the possession of Mr. Grant, and his
credit was completely restored, a great dinner party was given in
honor of the event. Among those invited were Mr. and Mrs. Byron,
as well as Mr. Gray, and others who had attended on the memorable
occasion when Master Charley had made a sensation. Strange as it may
seem, Mrs. Byron came; and when she saw the gentle girl, whom she had
insulted and turned out of her house, honored and respected by the most
distinguished people in the vicinity, she blushed with shame.

Master Charley Byron, who always had his own way, insisted upon paying
a visit to his former governess on this occasion; and, of course, he
came. Bertha sang “Three Blind Mice” to him, and Noddy Newman turned
a hundred back somersets on the lawn for his special benefit; but
Charley was too wise to attempt the feat himself. The heir of Blue Hill
could spell “cat” and “dog,” but he had made no further progress in
knowledge; and it is not at all probable that he will ever be President
of the United States.

At other times, there came to Woodville Mrs. Lamb, Peter, the head
groom of Blue Hill, and his wife; Nathan, the sergeant of police; Bob
Bleeker, and others who had befriended Bertha in her want and peril.
They were kindly received, and encouraged to continue in the faith that
those who assist the needy shall not lose their reward.

Mr. Sherwood was a frequent visitor at Woodville, and his fidelity to
his employer was so highly appreciated, that he soon became the partner
of the broker; and a few years later, when Mr. Grant retired, he
succeeded to the entire business.

Noddy Newman was as full of “antics” as he had ever been; and when Ben,
the boatman, returned to his old position at Woodville, the little
savage came with him. But he was under the influence of Bertha, who
still persevered in her efforts to make a civilized man of him.

Mr. Presby proposed to build a cottage for himself near the mansion
house, but neither Bertha nor her father would permit him to leave the
family. An addition was made to the house, which afforded him a suit
of rooms, and every day Bertha wrote his letters and read to him. The
old gentleman increased the allowances of his son and daughter. They
occasionally made him a visit at his new home, and though they still
hungered for his money, they could not now do otherwise than treat him
with respect, and even with a show of affection.

Removed from his troubles, and surrounded by genial and loving friends,
Mr. Presby ceased to be an invalid, and lived ten years after his
removal to Woodville. When he died, Bertha Grant was made rich; several
charitable institutions received large donations; but the ungrateful
son and daughter did not obtain the rest; for it was left in charge of
trustees, who were instructed to pay them only the income of it during
their lives, the principal to be equally divided among their children
when they reached their majority.

Richard Grant, I am sorry to say, we must leave as we began with him.
Even the bitter experience at Newport and New York was not enough to
reform his life and character. He is almost the only trial of Bertha
and her father, though they hope and pray that he will yet become a
good and true man.

Miss Fanny’s pride, after its sudden fall, was more moderate and
reasonable, though there was still much to hope for, and, better yet,
much to expect from the improvement already made. We are happy to
inform her sympathizing young friends, that, when her next birthday was
celebrated, all who were invited attended her party.

Ben, the boatman, almost worships “Miss Bertha.” As he grows older, and
his rheumatism becomes more troublesome, he finds in her a constant
friend, who chooses never to forget his devotion to her in the dark
hour of trial and sorrow. He is still a strict disciplinarian, and,
though he makes Noddy “stand round,” he likes the boy, and feels a deep
interest in his future welfare.

Bertha’s mission is still unfinished; for as fast as one good work is
accomplished, another presents itself. The willing heart and ready hand
can never want a field of labor. “Whatsoever our hands find to do, let
us do it with all our might,” and then we shall realize the happiness
which crowned the mission of Bertha Grant.


THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.





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