In the middle of breakfast the vans rattled up to the door; they were decorated with bright ribbons and flags, and the drivers had flowers in their coats; the very horses wore rosettes. There were five vans, and they presented so gay an appearance that the street was filled with sight-gazers. Immediately the vans drew up--which they did smartly, as if they knew what they were about, and that this was a day of days--the children paused from their eating to give vent to another cheer, and another, and another. Their faces flushed, their little hands trembled, their restless limbs shifted and danced, and took part in the general animation. As for ourselves----Well, we paused also, and smiled at each other, and Ruth held baby's face to Charley to kiss.
'A fine sermon this, sir,' said Robert Truefit to me.
'Indeed, indeed,' I assented. 'Better than any that tongue can preach.'
There was no need to tell the children to hurry with their meal; they were too eager to be on the road.
'Now, children, have you finished?'
'Yes, sir! Yes, marm! Yes, miss!'
'Then thank God for a good breakfast!'
The simple thanksgiving was uttered by all with earnest meaning. Then out they trooped to the vans, the sight-gazers in the street waving their arms and hats at us. The deformed children were placed in advantageous positions, so that they could see the roads through which we were to drive, and were given into the charge of other children, who promised to take care of them; Jacky Brown had a seat on the box; we took our places on the vans; the drivers looked seriously at their reins; the horses shook their heads; and all was ready. If I had the space at my command, and were gifted with the power, what scenes I could describe here of mothers, sisters, friends, who showed their gratitude to us in various ways as we prepared to start! Not all of them as low as by their outward presence you would judge them to be. Written history--notwithstanding that we pin our faith to it, that we pride ourselves upon it, that we strive to shape our ends according to its teaching--is to unwritten history, in its value of example, as a molehill to a mountain; even the written history of great national conflicts, which strew the cornfields with dead and dying, upon whom we throw that sham halo called Glory, as compared with the unwritten history of courts and alleys, which we push out of sight with cruel carelessness.