Jessie Carlton Part 17

"Perhaps you would accept an old man's company," said her uncle, rising and b.u.t.toning up his coat.

"I should be very, very glad to have it, but I don't want to trouble you, Uncle," she replied.

"It's no trouble to go out with my little puss. Besides, by going, I can give this drone-like brother of yours a practical lesson in that love and politeness which he so much despises. I shall certainly be happier going with you, than he will be in the indulgence of his selfishness before the fire."

Hugh said something in a grumbling tone which neither his uncle nor sister understood.

In a few minutes the good old man, having firm hold of Jessie's hand, was breasting the cold wind as they walked smartly along the frozen road leading to the village.

"You will have a chance to try your new skates to-morrow if it is as cold as this all night," said Mr. Morris, as they crossed the bridge over the brook.

"Won't that be nice?" replied Jessie; "Carrie Sherwood has a pair too, and we will both try together. I guess I shall get some b.u.mps though before I learn to skate well. I wish we had some one to teach us how to use them."

"What will you give me, if I consent to be your teacher?"

"Oh, Uncle Morris! You don't mean it, do you?"

"To be sure I do. When I was young they called me the best skater in town.

I could go through all kinds of movements, and even cut my name on the ice with my skates. I guess I haven't quite forgotten how I used to do it. But what will you give me if I consent to teach you?"

"I will love you ever so much, and so will Carrie."

"But I thought you loved me ever so much already?"

"Well, so I do, Uncle. I love you better than I love anybody in the world, except ma and pa. But I will love you better and better."

"That's pay enough," said Mr. Morris, warmly pressing the hand of his niece. "The pure fresh love of a child's heart is worth more to an old man like me than much gold. It makes my heart grow young again--but what have we here?"

They had now reached a stone wall which fronted the estate of Esquire Duncan. An angle in the fence had made a corner, in which was seated a girl of about Jessie's age and size. She was clothed in rags; her feet were bare. She had no covering on her head save her tangled hair. Her face and arms were brown and dirty. She s.h.i.+vered in the piercing wind, and traces of recent tears were visible in the dirt which covered her woe-worn face.

"Poor little girl! I wonder where she lives?" exclaimed Jessie.

"Where do you live, my dear?" asked Mr. Morris, addressing the child.

"New York," replied the outcast curtly.

"How came you here?"

"Mother left me down yonder," said the girl, pointing to the four cross-roads just beyond.

"Where is your mother now?"

"Don't know."

"What did she say when she left you?"

"She told me to sit on the trough of the pump while she went to buy some bread. But she didn't come back, and I came over here out of the wind."

"How long since she left you?"

"Ever so long."

"Poor little girl! I'm afraid your mother brought you out here to cast you off, and so get rid of you," said Uncle Morris.

"Guess not! Guess she got drunk somewhere," said the girl, in a manner so cold and dogged that Mr. Morris shuddered.

Here, Jessie, whose eyes were swimming with tears, pulled her uncle's hand. Taking him a little aside, she said--

"Please, Uncle, take her home, and let me give her something to eat."

"Better take her to the alms-house, I'm thinking," replied her uncle. "She may be a wicked girl."

"Then we can teach her to be good," said Jessie.

This was a home thrust that went right to the good old man's heart. "The alms-house," he thought, "is not a very likely place to grow goodness in.

It is too chilly and heartless. There will be little sympathy there with the struggles and sorrows of a child like this; Jessie shall have her way this time. She shall go with us."

After forming this purpose, he looked at his niece, and said--

"Perhaps you are right, Jessie. The poor creature shall go home with us, at least, for to-night."

"Oh, I am _so_ glad, I'm _so_ glad," cried Jessie, clapping her hands, then running to the s.h.i.+vering child, who had been watching them during this conversation with a puzzled air, she said--

"Come, little girl, you are to go home with me. Uncle says so."

"I don't want to. I'll wait here for mother," replied the girl, shrinking back into her corner, against the rough stone wall.

"My child," said Mr. Morris, "I fear your mother has left you here on purpose, and that she will never come back. If she is in the place, you shall go to her as soon as we can find her. If you stay here you will freeze. Come with us and we will give you a supper, and let you warm yourself before a rousing fire, while we search for your mother."

The idea of supper and a rousing fire took hold of the little outcast's feelings. Gathering her rags close to her chilled body she stepped forward, and said--

"I'll go with you."

"What is your name?" inquired Jessie.

"Madge!" said the child, curtly.

"Madge what?" asked Uncle Morris.

"Madge Clifton!" said the child.

"Which means, I suppose, Margaret Clifton," said the old gentleman. "A pretty name enough, and I wish its owner was in a prettier condition. But come, let us hasten out of this cold biting wind."

Poor little, s.h.i.+vering Madge! Waiting so long for her mother, alone and in a strange place, had made her heart heavy and sad. Her limbs were so stiff with cold she could scarcely walk, at first. But the kind looks of the good old gentleman, and the loving words of Jessie, cheered her on; and in a few minutes they entered the back door of Glen Morris Cottage.

CHAPTER XI.