“Of course,” said Uncle Rutherford, that evening in family conclave, “this business settles the question of that scholarship for Theodore Yorke. He has proved himself more utterly without principle or common honesty, than I could have believed possible; and while, for poor old Yorke’s sake, I should be glad to give him another chance of redeeming his character, I do not feel that the boy himself is worthy of it. He is radically bad and vicious, with a natural leaning toward deceit and dishonesty, and a capacity for crime that is absolutely startling, or he never could have arranged so deliberate a plan to obtain money from these poor little cripples. It was absolute blackmailing; and the Yorkes, I fear, have sad trouble in store for them with the boy. All the better for your protege, Milly, if he continues to do as well as he has done lately. That fellow is in earnest, whatever may be the aims and influences which control him.”

“I think,” said aunt Emily, “that Mrs. Yorke is right, and that it would be best both for the captain and for Theodore to go home. The old man keeps her in a constant worry, by his very innocence and simplicity, which are so easily imposed upon; and it will be far better for that boy to be where he is not surrounded by so many temptations. Do you not think so, Nicholas? Better for him to be in his quiet, out-of-the-way home, than here, where there are so many inducements to evil for a boy without principle, such as has certainly proved himself.”

Before Uncle Rutherford had time either to agree or dissent, Thomas announced that Captain Yorke wished to see Mr. Rutherford and Mr. Livingstone, and was told to show the old man into the adjoining library, whither papa and Uncle Rutherford adjourned to see him.

But through the half-drawn portieres, the rest of us heard all that passed; and, indeed, the captain was not reticent, it was not in his nature to be, and he would have been quite as garrulous in the presence of an audience of any size, provided he knew all his hearers to be friends. And not even the gravity of his errand, or the subject on which he held forth, could restrain him from the various deviations and wanderings to which he was prone when talking. It will not be necessary to repeat all these here.

The old man had gone back to Johnny Petersen’s just as the florist was closing his shop for the night, timing his second visit after the hour at which he knew the cripples would have left, and asked Johnny if he had any further information for him. Johnny was not inclined to talk, he found, and tried to evade his questions; but he was obliged to allow that Theodore had appeared again; and finally, so determined was the captain, that he asked him to come with him to his home, where he would tell him all.

Seated in Mrs. Petersen’s cosey room, the poor old seaman heard the story in all its details, half bewildered by the good Dutchman’s broken English, but fully able to extract from it all the painful and shameful particulars of his grandson’s rascality. Once launched into his narration, Johnny spared nothing, and, at the end, rather glorified himself for having taken matters into his own hands, and administered condign punishment to the culprit upon the spot; nor did he deem it necessary to apologize to the grandfather for having done so, neither did Captain Yorke seem to expect this, or to think that he was not perfectly justified in all that he had done.

Theodore had gone home, after his encounter with Johnny, evidently suffering and much crestfallen; but when his grandfather had questioned him, he had added to his sins, and accounted for this, by saying that he had had a fight in school; he being quite unaware of the captain’s suspicions, and of his interviews with Tony and the florist in the morning. His grandfather had not yet confronted him with the discovery of his sin; for he had come directly from the Petersens to our house, deeming it best to take counsel with those whom he considered wiser and less interested than himself.

“I thought I had done with all sich work when I heered Tom was took,” said the old man pathetically; “but here it’s broke out agin, an’ me an’ Mis’ Yorke not so young as we was by a long shot, an’ can’t stan’ it so well. The Scriptur says, ‘Like father, like son;’ an’ I’ve faith to b’lieve it, seein’ I’m provin’ it in my own fam’ly.”

“No, no, captain,” said uncle Rutherford, holding out his hand kindly to the veteran, “you must not say that, for if Tom had been like his father, he would have been a man in whom all who knew him placed confidence. And” contradicting his own words spoken some time since “we will not despair of your grandson yet. He is young, and under good influences now.”

“It’s all the wus, Gov’nor,” said the captain, shaking his head, “all the wus to see him so young and so wicked. The Scriptur’ says, ’The ways of transgressors is hard;’ but I b’lieve the ways of them what has to do with the transgressors, an’ foller them up, is harder, an’ them’s my opinions.”

Father and uncle Rutherford each offered a few words of sympathy, and endeavored to comfort him; but he was not yet to be consoled, and could see no hope for the future. He was terribly distressed over the necessity of telling Mrs. Yorke, and said that he meant to “sleep over it,” and think of the best way of breaking it to her. But we all knew how much probability there was of that. No sooner would he see his wife, than his full heart would overleap all restraint he might have intended to put upon it, and she would be put in possession of all the facts, down to the smallest details.

In the midst of his own perplexities, however, the captain did not forget a piece of news he had brought with him, and which especially interested me, and speedily drew me into the library.

While he was still with the Petersens, but on the point of taking his leave, the sound of crutches had been heard on the stairs; and Johnny, turning to listen, said,

“Dems is Tony mit his crushes. Vat is upper now?” and opened the door to admit not only Tony, but also his sister. Tony was flustered and frightened, with eyes half starting from his head; but Matty was impassive as usual, and showed neither terror nor excitement.

“They’ve gone!” exclaimed the lame boy.

“Who are gone? Vat is de madder?” asked Johnny; then added, before Tony could answer, “Poor leetle poy, he is all upside down mit dis day. Shpeak, Tony.”

“They’ve gone,” repeated Tony; “an’ what is wus, the furnitur’ is gone too, an’ there ain’t no beds nor nuthin’.”

“Vat is gone?” asked Mrs. Petersen in her turn; then, jumping at her own conclusions, added, “De vater an’ de mutter?”

“Yes, and good riddance, too; on’y we ain’t got any place to sleep,” said Tony; which filial sentiment found an echo in the hearts of all present.

It was all true, as Johnny found on investigation. When Tony and Matty had gone home that evening, they found the wretched room on the top floor of a tenement-house, which they had inhabited with their father and mother, empty and tenantless; the few articles of worthless furniture (if furniture it could be called) which it had formerly held, taken away. But if there was no one there to welcome them, neither did there await them the abusive language and hard blows they too frequently encountered. They were not in the slightest degree troubled by the loss; their only feeling seemed to be, as Tony expressed it, that it was a “good riddance,” save that they had no other resting-place for the night. A pitying neighbor had given them their supper; and they were told that their mother had gone out early in the morning, soon after they had gone to business, and, re-appearing with a carter, had had her few possessions carried away, leaving no word whither she was bound, or message for the helpless children. The mystery was solved in a degree, when two police-officers appeared a few hours later, saying that Blair was “wanted” for a grave offence against the law; but the bird had flown, and so far left no trace.

I was delighted, and could almost have thanked Blair for committing a crime which rendered flight necessary, and seemed to leave the way open for a decent provision for the destitute children.

Captain Yorke told us that Mrs. Petersen was going to keep them for the night, and that they were already quite at home and comfortable, and Tony excitedly happy, happiness and Matty could not be associated, with the motherly German woman and her husband.

But our two gentlemen and Captain Yorke had not yet come to any conclusion as to what was to be done with Theodore; and it was an embarrassing question to decide. To take the boy, a boy who was making fair progress in his studies, and who was pains-taking and ambitious, from school, and bury him in the quiet sea-side home, where, save for three or four months of the year, he would be almost altogether cut off from association with any but the few still primitive inhabitants of the Point, and where he would be entirely deprived of any advantages of education, seemed almost too much punishment even for the grave offences which those three honorable, high-minded men found it hard to condone. But, again, it was not to be thought of, that, devoid of conscience and right feeling as he was, he should be left alone exposed to the temptations of the great city. For Captain and Mrs. Yorke must shortly return home, Mrs. Yorke’s physician having pronounced her sufficiently cured to be allowed to do so in the course of a few weeks; and, even as it was, the nominal protection of Theodore’s grandparents had formed no safeguard against evil. The evil was in his own heart, but he might be placed where there would be fewer opportunities for its development.

It was a grave matter for consideration, and could not be hastily decided.

“Of course,” said uncle Rutherford, as he bid the captain good-night, “of course it is out of the question for Theodore to remain in the city after you and Mrs. Yorke leave, even under the care of the kind woman with whom you now board; he would not recognize her authority, and would consider himself free to go any lengths. No, that is not to be thought of; but we may devise some other plan by which he may have some schooling and be kept in proper restraint; and he may yet in time prove a help and comfort to you, Yorke. For your sake I would do much to set him in the right way; and his teachers think that he has the making of a clever man in him, if we can but instil something like principle into his character. Take heart, man.”

But the captain went out sadly and hopelessly shaking his gray head, over which twenty years seemed to have passed since the morning of that day.

It was not, perhaps, that his affection for his grandson had been so deeply grieved; for the boy had, until less than a year since, been quite a stranger to his grandparents, and Theodore was not an attractive boy even to his own family; and, had the choice been given to the captain, he would undoubtedly have much preferred to claim Jim as his own, his open, sunny, joyous nature responding much more readily to the old man’s than did that of the far less amiable Theodore. But he felt ashamed and disgraced, and as if he could not bear to look any one of the name of Rutherford or Livingstone in the face, while he still felt that to our family alone could he turn for help and advice in this sad business.

“Ye see, you and Mr. Livingstone knows a heap more ’bout wicked ways an’ doin’s than me an’ Miss Yorke does, Gov’nor,” he said to uncle Rutherford, altogether innocent of any uncomplimentary inference which might be drawn, “an’ so ye’d know the best ways out of ’em. Yes, I says to myself, says I, if there’s enny one knows the ways out of a bad scrape, it’ll be them city born and bred gentlemen; so I come along to tell ye afore I tole Miss Yorke or nothin’. Mebbe ye could tell me how to make it a little lighter for her,” he added wistfully.

Alas! beyond the promise to think the matter over, and to consider what was best to be done, his two friends could give him little consolation to convey to the poor grandmother, who had built so much on the opportunities offered to the boy who she had hoped and believed would prove a credit and support to the declining years of herself and her husband.

The next morning, directly after breakfast, I announced my intention of going immediately round to see cousin Serena, and asking her to go with me to Mrs. Petersen’s, to ascertain if there were any hope that she would take Tony and Matty, now that their father and mother had apparently deserted them. I would provide for Matty, and cousin Serena wished to do the same for the boy. I was very eager now to carry out my plans, believing that the lions in the way were entirely removed, and that no one could have any further objection to my doing so.

But, to my great disgust, again there were dissenting voices; for father and mother, aunt Emily, yes, and even impulsive, push-a-thing-ahead uncle Rutherford, said that it would not do to take it for granted that the elder Blairs would not return and claim the children. It was not probable, they agreed, but it was more than possible; and all my elders were quite positive that the Petersens would not undertake the care of Tony and Matty until they felt assured that the parents were not likely to meddle with them, or to make trouble for those who had them in charge.

“But I want to go and see,” I said, determined, if possible, to carry my point at once, “if the Petersens will do it and they may. There is no use in leaving Matty unprovided for. What will she and Tony do if Mrs. Petersen will not keep them while it is uncertain whether that man and woman return or not?”

I spoke in rather an aggrieved tone, feeling somewhat inclined to think my relatives hard-hearted.

“Interview Mrs. Petersen, if you choose, my daughter,” said papa; “only be prepared for disappointment.”

“I only want to see Matty provided for, papa,” I answered, a little ashamed of my former pettishness.

“And Matty, and Tony also, shall not be allowed to suffer, Amy,” said uncle Rutherford sympathetically; mindful, perhaps, of his own propensity for forcing things to a wished-for conclusion at once.

“I’ll see cousin Serena, and take her views, anyway,” I said, my good humor restored; and I lost little time in carrying out my purpose.

Miss Craven herself was so eager and earnest when in pursuit of any plan, especially when it was for the benefit or pleasure of others, that I built much on her co-operation in the work of persuading the Petersens to take the cripples under their protection at once; and I was proportionately crestfallen when I found that she took the same view of the case as my own family, saying also that she did not believe that Johnny and his wife would agree to my proposal, and that she did not think it advisable that they should. However, she willingly consented to go with me to the Petersens.

And, lo! I returned triumphant; for Mrs. Petersen, moved probably more by the utter desolation of the children than by any arguments or persuasions of mine, had consented without difficulty to take them for the present, and to retain them so long as the parent Blairs did not return or claim them.

And whatever his wife decided, that was sure to be the best in Johnny’s eyes; so, her consent being gained, there was no fear of a dissenting voice from him. Moreover, recollections of his own youth inclined Johnny’s heart to be merciful.

“Und why for no,” he said, when appealed to on behalf of the deserted children, “why for no? Sometime ven mine fader und mutter die mit me, und dere vas nopody to gif leetle Johnny notings, vat should he do, if did not come some goot peoples vat take und eat him und sleep him? I don’ forget; und how I vas done py, I do mit der oders. Mine wife she vas so goot as a mutter for dem.”

The arrangement was concluded to the mutual satisfaction of the Petersens and myself, to say nothing of that of Tony, Matty, as usual, showing no sign either of pleasure or the contrary. There was no time lost in settling the cripples in their new quarters, so superior in all respects to any they had ever enjoyed before. There was nothing to be moved from those they had occupied with their father and mother; not a splinter, not a shred, beyond the clothes they had on and those kept at Mrs. Petersen’s, was left to them; indeed, had there been, we never should have allowed them to claim it, nor would Mrs. Petersen have allowed it to come into her tidy apartments.

My day was occupied in a fever of energy, running from one place to another, providing beds and clothing and other articles, many of which, had I not been checked by wiser counsels, would have been unnecessary and unfit, dragging cousin Serena with me; begging from mother, aunt Emily, and Mrs. Sanford, and drawing somewhat heavily on my own resources. At last every thing was ready, to the serene content of Mrs. Petersen, who now seemed to feel as if she had really adopted the children; and when evening came, I rested in the happy consciousness that Matty was at last well provided for, as I would have her, and that I had carried my point with comparatively little trouble.

Jim beamed upon me every time he came near me, and he appeared to have a sense of partnership which was not a little amusing.

Amy had “taken it awfully hard,” my brothers, Norman and Douglas, said as they ran me on my new burst of philanthropy; but I was too complacent and well satisfied to be at all disturbed by their comments.

Little did I dream, while dwelling on the future I had planned for the little hunchback, that a higher hand than mine was so soon to take all provision for her into its own keeping.

On the afternoon of the next day, as Milly and I, just dressed for a very different scene from that to which we were suddenly called, were passing down the stairs to the carriage which was awaiting us, Jim came rushing up in a state of terrible excitement, with distressed, frightened eyes looking out of a deadly white face.

“Miss Milly! Miss Milly!” he gasped, all out of breath as he was with rapid running, and addressing first the one to whom he was accustomed to turn in all emergencies or need for help, “Miss Milly, oh, come quick! No, no it’s Miss Amy I mean. Miss Amy, come quick; she wants you!”

“Who wants me? what is the matter?” asked both Milly and I in one breath, and very much alarmed as we saw that there was really some serious trouble.

“Matty! She’ll be gone, miss. Oh, come quick!” he answered, still in the same breathless manner.

Visions of the drunken mother returning for the child, and striving to take her away against her will, at once presented themselves to my imagination; and now, indeed, my boasted interest in Matty was tried. Was I expected to face this worthless, angry woman, and rescue my poor little protegee? I could not do it; this was my first thought. Then, again, was I to abandon the poor child without one struggle, without one effort to prevail on the woman to leave the helpless child in the better hands into which she had fallen? Like a flash of lightning all this passed through my brain; then I said to Jim faintly and with a faltering heart,

“Is there any one there to help?”

“Yes, miss,” answered Jim; “there’s Johnny, an’ Mrs. Petersen, an’ the policeman brought her in, an’ the doctor. But, O Miss Amy, do make haste! she wants you so bad, an’ the doctor said to bring you quick.”

The doctor? Then was Matty ill, in danger?

“What is it, Jim? Do speak,” said Milly. “What is the trouble? Is Matty ill? do you mean she is dying?”

“The doctor said so, Miss Milly. ’Twas the fire-engine. But do be quick!”

A sickening horror came over me, and Milly turned as white as a sheet; but no more time was lost. We hurried into the carriage, bade Jim mount beside the coachman, and, not even knowing whither we were bound, left the directions to him.

But the drive to our unknown destination was not a long one; and in two minutes we drew up at Dutch Johnny’s little flower-store, around which a crowd had gathered, through which we had to push our way; or rather the policeman, who stood by the door, opened a way for us.

Stretched upon the floor, in the midst of all the delicate verdure and brilliant color in the florist’s small store, lay Matty, her little shorn head supported upon the breast of Mrs. Petersen, who was bending over her with the tears running down her cheeks. At Mrs. Petersen’s side was Tony, leaning his head against her other shoulder, his face a mixture of terror, grief, and bewilderment, both his hands clasping those of Matty; around were grouped Johnny, a doctor, and a second officer.

Matty’s eyes were fixed upon the door; and as we entered, a sudden gleam of intelligence and pleasure lighted them. She drew one of her hands from Tony’s clasp, and stretched it out to me.

Regardless of my light spring costume as it came in contact with the damp floor of the greenhouse, I knelt in front of Mrs. Petersen, and bent over the poor little creature. Only once in my life had I seen death; and then neither my affections nor my sympathies had been enlisted, and my sensations, from the nature of the circumstances, had been only those of horror and repulsion, and I had fled from the sight, while now the recollection of it was as some dreadful dream. Never before had I seen a soul pass from the one life to the other; but countless experiences could not have told me the truth more forcibly than did the look upon the face so small, so pitifully old and care-worn. The hand of God’s angel had already written it too plainly there.

A merciful angel, blotting out the traces of suffering and weariness and oppression such as, happily, few of God’s little ones are called upon to bear; and imprinting in their place rest and peace unspeakable.

For Matty was passing away without pain; the injuries she had received had dulled sensation, while they were destroying life.

She motioned for me to bend down, for she was almost past speech; then raising both hands she tried to push back my hat. I flung it aside, and she passed her hands over my hair again and again, and drew her thin fingers, from whose touch I did not shrink now, through the curling rings about my forehead and temples; then her lips moved, and Tony stooped to listen.

“She says hers ‘more purtier,’” said the poor little brother, half choking.

“Yes, Matty,” I said, “much prettier. You had the prettiest hair I ever saw.” Then, as a sudden inspiration flashed upon me, “I am going to that barber to buy back your hair, Matty; and Tony shall have it for his own to keep all his life.”

Her face brightened, and a smile, the first, the only smile I ever saw upon it, lightened it and almost transfigured it; then she turned her eyes from me, and looked around the little store till they rested upon a beautiful pink azalea which stood at a little distance, beautiful in itself, but not for the purpose for which Matty wanted it.

Taking one hand from my hair, while the fingers of the other still lingered among my curls, she pointed to the plant, and looked wistfully at Johnny. The good German was not usually quick of comprehension; but he understood the mute appeal now, and he asked in a voice even more husky than his usual guttural tones,

“Vat you vants, Maddy? Some dem vlowers?”

She nodded assent, and the florist hastily cut a cluster, and put it in her hand. With fast-failing strength she tried to place it in my hair; but the effort was too much; and Milly, who stood behind me, assisted her to arrange the blossoms as she would have them. A look of intense satisfaction passed over the pallid face, as though to her untutored taste this glaring adornment was all that could be desired; then the hands fell, and the lips moved.

Both Tony and I tried to hear; but the only word I could hear was, “suffer.”

“Do you suffer so, poor little Matty?” I asked, for the doctor had assured us that she did not.

She shook her head feebly, and I heard the word “children.”

“What children? Do you mean you want to see my little sisters, Matty?” I asked.

“No, miss,” interposed Tony. “I knows what she means. It is a teks was hung up in the Sunday-school room right forninst where she sat, an’ she used to sit starin’ at it like she hadn’t nothin’ else to think on; an’ the lady what run the class teached it to her one day, ’cause it was the Golden Teks for that day, an’ she’s made me be a-hearin’ ov it a many times since. She did set sich a heap by that teks as I niver saw, an’ I’m thinkin’ she wants yer to be a-repeatin’ of it to her, miss. Does yer, Matty?”

Again she nodded; and I said as well as my sobs would let me, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

“More, more,” she whispered faintly; and I repeated over and over again the sweet, gracious invitation which has lasted and shall last through all time, gathering into those loving arms the little ones of every degree, the beautiful and the uncouth, the happy and the oppressed; until to the echo of that golden text poor Matty’s soul floated away peacefully and quietly.

Unsightly, unhappy, and unloved, save for the faithful young brother to whom she was all in all, to her, little had been given; and we may surely believe that from her little would be required.

So was Matty provided for, and the care of her taken from my hands and those of generous Jim, who really seemed to mourn for her as though she had been his own sister.

The particulars of the circumstances which led to her death, as related by Johnny Petersen, Tony, and the policeman who had witnessed the accident, for accident it was, were these.

Matty had had the most unbounded terror of the fire-engines, perhaps owing to the fact, stated by Tony, that her deformity had been occasioned by her being thrown from a window during a fire when she was a very young child; and she probably associated the engines with all the misery, both mental and physical, which she had ever since suffered. However that may be, the sight or sound of them was sufficient to rouse her from the state of dull apathy usual to her, into a paroxysm of alarm and nervousness; and if Tony were anywhere within reach she always sought his side with some fancied idea of protection, until the terror was beyond her vision and hearing.

Tony had been sent by Johnny on some errand, and was returning, and had nearly reached the opposite corner of the avenue, when the sound of the galloping hoofs and rattling wheels of a fire-engine were heard.

Matty at her stand without the florist’s shop was out of harm’s way; but no sooner did the clatter of the approaching steamer strike her ear, than she hastily rose from her seat, and started to meet Tony, who, pausing with boyish interest to watch the engine as it came up the cross street, did not see or heed his sister until it was too late. Johnny saw from within the shop, and started to hold back the child: but fear lent wings to Matty’s usually slow and faltering footsteps; she heeded not or heard not his calls; and, before he could reach her, the engine swung around the corner into the avenue, and the already so sadly disfigured little form lay among the trampling hoofs and crushing wheels.

Johnny himself had raised her, and carried her tenderly into his little bower, where he laid her down among the flowers to breathe away the few short moments of her waning life. Seeming to be conscious at once of what was before her, she had made Tony understand by signs and one or two faintly gasped words that she wanted me; and Jim, who had as usual stopped in on his way from school, had hastened to bring me.

Sobered and sadly impressed, and yet with a feeling that Matty’s release was a blessing beyond all expression, Milly and I returned home, with no heart, as may be supposed, for the entertainment for which we had been bound when we were called to her.