A low tap at the door interrupted his meditations. For an instant he could not say, “Come in!” his heart was so very full; but quickly recovering himself, he turned with a smile to welcome a little village child, who timidly advanced to place both her tiny hands in his.
She looked into his face with eyes beaming with love and gratitude; but the joyful, sparkling expression soon faded away, for she saw that he was sadder than usual; and with the quick sympathy and natural grace of childhood she sat down quietly on the rug, and taking the stately head of the hound on her lap, pensively stroked his long, shaggy coat. Presently she ventured to break the silence in her gentle way—“I am so glad you are come back, sir; I have missed you so!”
Her companion’s countenance brightened, and he said with animation—“Have you, though, my poor little Mary? I thought you had forgotten me, being so long away.” And he stroked her bright brown hair.
“You should not have thought that,” said the child, earnestly; “I always remember you, for you taught me all I know. I was longing to come yesterday, and all day to-day,” she continued, “to hear if you had arrived. To-day has been so happy that I could not stay away any longer, and so here I am,” she added, with her merry laugh, which sounded pleasantly in that usually silent room. These simple words, that mute caress, had restored the confidence of the two friends. Mary was herself again, full of fun and prattle. Seated on the extreme edge of a huge Gothic chair, she balanced her little feet on the back of her friend Troy, who, far from resenting the liberty, fixed his dark eyes lovingly on her sweet young face, while she talked on, full of the details of her simple life. How she had gathered pine-cones for several evenings, because she knew he loved their cheerful blaze and sweet smell. How poor Turpin, who was always in trouble, had hunted a rabbit, and been caught in a trap; of her mad race over the hills for help; how she nursed the poor, poor foot afterwards; and how the faithful patient cried because he could not accompany her that night; the relation of all which very much affected his kind little mistress. Presently she produced with great glee her “Christmas present,”—several little bundles of bark, peeled with great care, from the silver birch-trees, cut into slips, and tied with red worsted. “I burnt a little bit the other day,” said she, “and the smell was so nice I thought you would like it, so I got some to light your taper with—do try it;” and the little creature soon held a blazing piece in her hand.
“It is delicious, Mary; and how good of you to collect it for me!”
“I was very happy getting it,” said the child; “but I wish you had not thought I had forgotten you. I could not forget you!” she continued, after a pause; “you, who have been so good to me, and taught me so much! I never looked at a book before you came. Oh, I was sadly wild! Mother said I made more noise than the boys!” And she laughed heartily.
The tutor laughed too, and told the often repeated story, which he knew she loved to hear, of how, in his walks, he had frequently listened to her little voice singing in a cornfield, while “minding” birds; how he had been surprised at her sudden disappearance on his nearer approach, and on making a voyage of discovery, had found her ensconced in the body of a broken-down post-chaise, that, singularly enough, lay between two old fir-trees at the foot of the wood! He did not describe to her how, in imagination, he had pictured the different and exciting scenes in which the once gay equipage might have borne its part; but went on to say how he had peeped in unobserved, and had seen her perched on one of the dilapidated seats, with a little piece of board on her lap, intently occupied in carving a morsel of meat into divers small pieces, which she divided, with impartial care, among three ragged starlings perched on the opposite beam, who watched her with glistening eyes! How merrily she talked to them, and how perfectly they seemed to love and understand each other! He reminded her of her surprise on being discovered, and her frank invitation to the intruder to “look in” on the wonders of the unique aviary, with its valuable illustrations of the “History of Red Riding Hood,” its bright jay’s feathers, and other childish treasures!
Heartily the little Mary laughed; and so the Christmas evening passed on.
“I must go now,” she said; “I promised to read mother the pretty story you gave me, ‘Simple Susan,’ and they will all sit up for it! Good bye! You will promise not to be so sad when I am gone as you were when I came in. You have been thinking of that pretty lady again!” she said, with a face of anxious love—pointing to the miniature—“that makes you so, I know! Why don’t you go to her?”
“Because she does not love me, Mary,” was the faltering reply; “and you know we are not happy with those who do not love us.”