"He will bless her; be sure of that," chimed in the good grandame.
"I wish you could have seen her—I only wish you could!" cried the child, in her sweet, eager gratitude, "perhaps you will some day, who knows?"
And in the same sweet, disjointed language, the child went on relating her adventures along the streets, and on the wharf, where for the first time she had seen an ocean steamer.
When she spoke of the lady and her strange attendant, the old people seemed to listen with more absorbing interest. They were keenly excited by the ardent admiration expressed by the child, yet to themselves even this feeling was altogether unaccountable. When the little girl spoke of the strange man whom she had met on the wharf also, her voice become subdued, and there was a half terrified look in her eyes. The singular impression which that man had left upon her young spirit seemed to haunt it like a fear; she spoke almost in whispers, and looked furtively toward the door, as if afraid of being overheard; but the moment she related how he drove away with his beautiful companion, her courage seemed to return, she glanced brightly around, and went on with her narrative with renewed spirit.
"He had just gone," she said, "and I was beginning to look around for some way to leave the wharf, when I saw a handkerchief lying at my feet. The carriage wheel had run over it, and it was crushed down in the mud. I picked it up, and run after the carriage, for the handkerchief was fine as a cobweb, and worth ever so much, I dare say. In and out, through the carts, and trunks, and people, I ran with my basket on my arm, and the muddy handkerchief in one hand. Twice I saw the carriage, but it was too far ahead, and at last I turned a corner—I lost it there, and stood thinking what I should do, when the very carriage which I had seen go off with the lady in it, passed by; the lady had stopped for something, I suppose, and that kept her back. She was looking from the window that minute. I thought perhaps the handkerchief was hers, after all; so I ran off the sidewalk and shook it, that she might take notice. The carriage stopped; down came the driver and opened the door, and then the lady leaned out, and smiling with a sort of mournful smile, said—
"'Well, my girl, what do you want now?'"
"I held up the handkerchief, but was quite out of breath, and could only say, 'this—this—is it yours, ma'am?'
"She took the handkerchief, and turned to a corner where a name was marked. Then her cheek turned pale as death, and her mouth, so full, so red, grew white. I should have thought that she was dying, she fixed her eyes on me so wildly.
"'Come in, come in, this instant,' she said, and before I could speak, she caught hold of my arm, and drew me—basket and all—into the carriage. The door was shut, and in my fright I heard her tell the man to drive fast. I did not speak; it seemed like dreaming. There sat the lady, so pale, so altered, with the handkerchief, all muddy as it was, crushed hard in her white hand—sometimes looking with a sort of wild look at me, sometimes seeming to think of nothing on earth. The carriage went faster and faster; I was frightened and began to cry. She looked at me very kindly then, and said—
"'Hush, child, hush! no one will harm you.' Still I could not keep from sobbing, for it all seemed very wild and strange.