The Elm Tree Tales

Excerpt

CHAPTER I.

Poor little girl! How sadly came her wailing tones on the frosty air, while the multitudes that hurried past were hidden from the chilling blasts by warm and furry garments!

There were some humane ones who lifted her softly from the ground, and bore her carefully to the nearest apothecary's, to examine the extent of her injuries—and a slight figure clad in the deepest weeds, followed after and held the child's hand, and bathed her forehead, while the surgeon bound up the broken limb.

"She was such a pinched wee thing to be sweeping those dangerous crossings," said the lady; "no wonder the heedless crowd jostled her down, and nearly crushed her tiny body."

"Is not her consciousness returning, doctor?" continued she, addressing the surgeon, as a slight flush was beginning to be perceptible upon the little girl's cheek.

The child had lain in a kind of stupor from the time of the accident, and now, as her dark eyes slowly opened, she gazed faintly upon the curious faces that were gathered around her, until she met the sweet yet sorrowful glance of the strange lady—then, bursting forth into a wild and bitter sobbing, she cried, "Who now will help my poor weak mother, and my sick and dying father!—nine pennies only have I earned to-day, and all is lost in the muddy street—oh! who will get them bread and coals, now their Jennie can not work!"

"God will provide, only trust Him, poor child," said the kind lady, as she wiped the tears that had moistened her own eyes at sight of the child's grief.

"Where do your parents live, my little girl," asked the benevolent surgeon—"we must be getting you home, or they will be anxious about you now that the night is coming on."

The child started as she heard the word "home," and blushing the deepest crimson, replied, "If you please, sir, I am able to walk now, and will go alone, for dear mamma would be angry if I had strangers with me—she never sees any one but father, now."

"'Twould be madness to send her forth into this wintery air with a newly broken arm," said the lady—"if you will come with me, little Jennie, we will soon satisfy your parents that you are in comfortable quarters, my carriage is at the door, and John shall go alone to your home with a message"—and, calling her servant, she bade him bring one of the soft robes from the carriage, and wrapping it closely about the shivering child, she had her conveyed to her own noble home.

Up, up, up till you reached the very topmost room in a rickety building in —— street, and there they were—a woman in neat but coarse raiment, seated by a flickering candle, stitching for the life, and with every effort for the life, stitching out the life. Near her, on a lowly bed, lay her suffering husband, watching the wan fingers as they busily plied for him who would fain have spent his last strength for their rest.

The frosty breath of a December night came through the chinks in the roof, and around the windows, and left its bitter impress upon the sick and weary....