* From "Kristy's Queer Christmas," Houghton,
Mifflin & Co., 1904.
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
It begins with a bit of gossip of a
neighbor who had come in to see
Miss Bennett, and was telling her about a family who
had lately moved
into the place and were in serious trouble. "And
they do say she'll
have to go to the poorhouse," she ended.
"To the poorhouse! how dreadful! And the children,
too?" and Miss
Bennett shuddered.
"Yes; unless somebody will adopt them, and that's
not very likely. Well,
I must go," the visitor went on, rising. "I wish I
could do something
for her, but, with my houseful of children, I've got
use for every
penny I can rake and scrape."
"I'm sure I have, with only myself," said Miss
Bennett, as she closed
the door. "I'm sure I have," she repeated to herself
as she resumed her
knitting; "it's as much as I can do to make ends
meet, scrimping as I
do, not to speak of laying up a cent for sickness
and old age."
"But the poorhouse!" she said again. "I wish I could
help her!" and the
needles flew in and out, in and out, faster than
ever, as she turned
this over in her mind. "I might give up something,"
she said at last,
"though I don't know what, unless--unless," she said
slowly, thinking
of her one luxury, "unless I give up my tea, and it
don't seem as if I
COULD do that."
Some time the thought worked in her mind, and
finally she resolved to
make the sacrifice of her only indulgence for six
months, and send the
money to her suffering neighbor, Mrs. Stanley,
though she had never
seen her, and she had only heard she was in want.
How much of a sacrifice that was you can hardly
guess, you, Kristy, who
have so many luxuries.
That evening Mrs. Stanley was surprised by a small
gift of money "from
a friend," as was said on the envelope containing
it.
"Who sent it?" she asked, from the bed where she was
lying.
"Miss Bennett told me not to tell," said the boy,
unconscious that he
had already told.
The next day Miss Bennett sat at the window
knitting, as usual--for her
constant contribution to the poor fund of the church
was a certain
number of stockings and mittens--when she saw a
young girl coming up to
the door of the cottage.
"Who can that be?" she said to herself. "I never saw
her before. Come
in!" she called; in answer to a knock. The girl
entered, and walked up
to Miss Bennett.
"Are you Miss Bennett?" she asked.
"Yes," said Miss Bennett with an amused smile,
"Well, I'm Hetty Stanley."
Miss Bennett started, and her color grew a little
brighter.
"I'm glad to see you, Hetty." she said, "won't you
sit down?"
"Yes, if you please," said Hetty, taking a chair
near her.
"I came to tell you how much we love you for--"
"Oh, don't! don't say any more!" interrupted Miss
Bennett; "never mind
that! Tell me about your mother and your baby
brother."
This was an interesting subject, and they talked
earnestly about it.
The time passed so quickly that, before she knew it,
she had been in
the house an hour. When she went away Miss Bennett
asked her to come
again, a thing she had never been known to do
before, for she was not
fond of young people in general.
"But, then, Hetty's different," she said to herself,
when wondering at
her own interest.
"Did you thank kind Miss Bennett?" was her mother's
question as Hetty
opened the door.
Hetty stopped as if struck, "Why, no! I don't think
I did."
"And stayed so long, too? Whatever did you do? I've
heard she isn't
fond of people generally."
"We talked; and--I think she's ever so nice. She
asked me to come
again; may I?"
"Of course you may, if she cares to have you. I
should be glad to do
something to please her."
That visit of Hetty's was the first of a long
series. Almost every day
she found her way to the lonely cottage, where a
visitor rarely came,
and a strange intimacy grew up between the old and
the young. Hetty
learned of her friend to knit, and many an hour they
spent knitting
while Miss Bennett ransacked her memory for stories
to tell. And then,
one day, she brought down from a big chest in the
garret two of the
books she used to have when she was young, and let
Hetty look at them.
One was "Thaddeus of Warsaw," and the other
"Scottish Chiefs." Poor
Hetty had not the dozens of books you have, and
these were treasures
indeed. She read them to herself, and she read them
aloud to Miss
Bennett, who, much to her own surprise, found her
interest almost as
eager as Hetty's.
All this time Christmas was drawing near, and
strange, unusual feelings
began to stir in Miss Bennett's heart, though
generally she did not
think much about that happy time. She wanted to make
Hetty a happy day.
Money she had none, so she went into the garret,
where her youthful
treasures had long been hidden. From the chest from
which she had taken
the books she now took a small box of light-colored
wood, with a
transferred engraving on the cover. With a sigh--for
the sight of it
brought up old memories--Miss Bennett lifted the
cover by its loop of
ribbon, took out a package of old letters, and went
downstairs with the
box, taking also a few bits of bright silk from a
bundle in the chest.
"I can fit it up for a workbox," she said, "and I'm
sure Hetty will
like it."
For many days after this Miss Bennett had her secret
work, which she
carefully hid when she saw Hetty coming. Slowly, in
this way, she made
a pretty needle-book, a tiny pincushion, and an
emery bag like a big
strawberry. Then from her own scanty stock she added
needles, pins,
thread, and her only pair of small scissors, scoured
to the last
extreme of brightness.
One thing only she had to buy--a thimble, and that
she bought for a
penny, of brass so bright it was quite as handsome
as gold.
Very pretty the little box looked when full; in the
bottom lay a
quilted lining, which had always been there, and
upon this the fittings
she had made. Besides this, Miss Bennett knit a pair
of mittens for
each of Hetty's brothers and sisters.
The happiest girl in town on Christmas morning was
Hetty Stanley. To
begin with, she had the delight of giving the
mittens to the children,
and when she ran over to tell Miss Bennett how
pleased they were, she
was surprised by the present of the odd little
workbox and its pretty
contents.
Christmas was over all too soon, and New Year's, and
it was about the
middle of January that the time came which, all her
life, Miss Bennett
had dreaded--the time when she should be helpless.
She had not money
enough to hire a girl, and so the only thing she
could imagine when
that day should come was her special horror--the
poorhouse.
But that good deed of hers had already borne fruit,
and was still
bearing. When Hetty came over one day, and found her
dear friend lying
on the floor as if dead, she was dreadfully
frightened, of course, but
she ran after the neighbors and the doctor, and
bustled about the
house as if she belonged to it.
Miss Bennett was not dead--she had a slight stroke
of paralysis; and
though she was soon better, and would be able to
talk, and probably to
knit, and possibly to get about the house, she would
never be able to
live alone and do everything for herself, as she had
done.
So the doctor told the neighbors who came in to
help, and so Hetty
heard, as she listened eagerly for news.
"Of course she can't live here any longer; she'll
have to go to a
hospital," said one woman.
"Or to the poorhouse, more likely," said another.
"She'll hate that," said the first speaker. "I've
heard her shudder
over the poorhouse."
"She shall never go there!" declared Hetty, with
blazing eyes.
"Hoity-toity! who's to prevent?" asked the second
speaker, turning a
look of disdain on Hetty.
"I am," was the fearless answer. "I know all Miss
Bennett's ways, and I
can take care of her, and I will," went on Hetty
indignantly; and
turning suddenly, she was surprised to find Miss
Bennett's eyes fixed
on her with an eager, questioning look.
"There! she understands! she's better!" cried Hetty.
"Mayn't I stay and
take care of you, dear Miss Bennett?" she asked,
running up to the bed.
"Yes, you may," interrupted the doctor, seeing the
look in his
patient's face; "but you mustn't agitate her now.
And now, my good
women"--turning to the others--"I think she can get
along with her
young friend here, whom I happen to know is a
womanly young girl, and
will be attentive and careful."
They took the hint and went away, and the doctor
gave directions to
Hetty what to do, telling her she must not leave
Miss Bennett. So she
was now regularly installed as nurse and
housekeeper.
Days and weeks rolled by. Miss Bennett was able to
be up in her chair,
to talk and knit, and to walk about the house, but
was not able to be
left alone. Indeed, she had a horror of being left
alone; she could not
bear Hetty out of her sight, and Hetty's mother was
very willing to
spare her, for she had many mouths to fill.
To provide food for two out of what had been
scrimping for one was a
problem; but Miss Bennett ate very little, and she
did not resume her
tea so they managed to get along and not really
suffer.
One day Hetty sat by the fire with her precious box
on her knee, which
she was putting to rights for the twentieth time.
The box was empty,
and her sharp young eyes noticed a little dust on
the silk lining.
"I think I'll take this out and dust it," she said
to Miss Bennett, "if
you don't mind."
"Do as you like with it," answered Miss Bennett; "it
is yours."
So she carefully lifted the silk, which stuck a
little.
"Why, here's something under it," she said--"an old
paper, and it has
writing on."
"Bring it to me," said Miss Bennett; "perhaps it's a
letter I have
forgotten."
Hetty brought it.
"Why, it's father's writing!" said Miss Bennett,
looking closely at the
faded paper; "and what can it mean? I never saw it
before. It says,
'Look, and ye shall find'--that's a Bible text. And
what is this under
it? 'A word to the wise is sufficient.' I don't
understand--he must
have put it there himself, for I never took that
lining out--I thought
it was fastened. What can it mean?" and she pondered
over it long, and
all day seemed absent-minded.
After tea, when they sat before the kitchen fire, as
they always did,
with only the firelight flickering and dancing on
the walls while they
knitted, or told stories, or talked, she told Hetty
about her father:
that they had lived comfortably in this house, which
he built, and that
everybody supposed that he had plenty of money, and
would leave enoughto take care of his only child, but that when he
died suddenly nothing
had been found, and nothing ever had been, from that
day to this.
"Part of the place I let to John Thompson, Hetty,
and that rent is all
I have to live on. I don't know what makes me think
of old times so
to-night."
"I know," said Hetty; "it's that paper, and I know
what it reminds me
of," she suddenly shouted, in a way very unusual
with her. "It's that
tile over there," and she jumped up and ran to the
side of the
fireplace, and put her hand on the tile she meant.
On each side of the fireplace was a row of tiles.
They were Bible
subjects, and Miss Bennett had often told Hetty the
story of each one,
and also the stories she used to make up about them
when she was young.
The one Hetty had her hand on now bore the picture
of a woman standing
before a closed door, and below her the words of the
yellow bit of
paper: "Look, and ye shall find."
"I always felt there was something different about
that," said Hetty
eagerly, "and you know you told me your father
talked to you about
it--about what to seek in the world when he was gone
away, and other
things."
"Yes, so he did," said Miss Bennett thoughtfully;
"come to think of it,
he said a great deal about it, and in a meaning way.
I don't understand
it," she said slowly, turning it over in her mind.
"I do!" cried Hetty, enthusiastically. "I believe
you are to seek here!
I believe it's loose!" and she tried to shake it.
"It IS loose!" she
cried excitedly. "Oh, Miss Bennett, may I take it
out?"
Miss Bennett had turned deadly pale. "Yes," she
gasped, hardly knowing
what she expected, or dared to hope.
A sudden push from Hetty's strong fingers, and the
tile slipped out at
one side and fell to the floor. Behind it was an
opening into the
brickwork. Hetty thrust in her hand.
"There's something in there!" she said in an awed
tone.
"A light!" said Miss Bennett hoarsely.
There was not a candle in the house, but Hetty
seized a brand from the
fire, and held it up and looked in.
"It looks like bags--tied up," she cried. "Oh, come
here yourself!"
The old woman hobbled over and thrust her hand into
the hole, bringing
out what was once a bag, but which crumpled to
pieces in her hands, and
with it--oh, wonder!--a handful of gold pieces,
which fell with a
jingle on the hearth, and rolled every way.
"My father's money! Oh, Hetty!" was all she could
say, and she seized a
chair to keep from falling, while Hetty was nearly
wild, and talked
like a crazy person.
"Oh, goody! goody! now you can have things to eat!
and we can have a
candle! and you won't have to go to the poorhouse!"
"No, indeed, you dear child!" cried Miss Bennett who
had found her
voice. "Thanks to you--you blessing!--I shall be
comfortable now the
rest of my days. And you! oh! I shall never forget
you! Through you has
everything good come to me."
"Oh, but you have been so good to me, dear Miss
Bennett!"
"I should never have guessed it, you precious child!
If it had not been
for your quickness I should have died and never
found it."
"And if you hadn't given me the box, it might have
rusted away in that
chest."
"Thank God for everything, child! Take money out of
my purse and go buy
a candle. We need not save it for bread now. Oh,
child!" she
interrupted herself, "do you know, we shall have
everything we want
to-morrow. Go! Go! I want to see how much there is."
The candle bought, the gold was taken out and
counted, and proved to be
more than enough to give Miss Bennett a comfortable
income without
touching the principal. It was put back, and the
tile replaced, as thesafest place to keep it till morning, when Miss
Bennett intended to put
it into a bank.
But though they went to bed, there was not a wink of
sleep for Miss
Bennett, for planning what she would do. There were
a thousand things
she wanted to do first. To get clothes for Hetty, to
brighten up the
old house, to hire a girl to relieve Hetty, so that
the dear child
should go to school, to train her into a noble
woman--all her old
ambitions and wishes for herself sprang into life
for Hetty. For not a
thought of her future life was separate from Hetty.
In a very short time everything was changed in Miss
Bennett's cottage.
She had publicly adopted Hetty, and announced her as
her heir. A girl
had been installed in the kitchen, and Hetty, in
pretty new clothes,
had begun school. Fresh paint inside and out, with
many new comforts,
made the old house charming and bright. But nothing
could change the
pleasant and happy relations between the two
friends, and a more
contented and cheerful household could not be found
anywhere.
Happiness is a wonderful doctor and Miss Bennett
grew so much better,
that she could travel, and when Hetty had finished
school days, they
saw a little of the world before they settled down
to a quiet, useful
life.
"Every comfort on earth I owe to you," said Hetty,
one day, when Miss
Bennett had proposed some new thing to add to her
enjoyment.
"Ah, dear Hetty! how much do I owe to you! But for
you, I should, no
doubt, be at this moment a shivering pauper in that
terrible poorhouse,
while some one else would be living in this dear old
house. And it all
comes," she added softly, "of that one unselfish
thought, of that one
self-denial for others."
