V.
LIGHT THROUGH THE CLOUDS.
hristmas with all its pleasures had come and gone, enjoyed perhaps as much by the policeman's children as it was by the little Bradfords in their wealthier home. For though the former had not the means of the latter with which to make merry, they had contented spirits and grateful hearts, and these go far to make people happy. Their tall Christmas-tree and beautiful greens were not more splendid in the eyes of Maggie and Bessie than were the scanty wreath and two foot high cedar branch, which a good-natured market-woman had given Mrs. Granby, were in those of little Jennie Richards. To be sure, the apology for a tree was not dressed with glittering balls, rich bonbons, or rows of tapers; its branches bore no expensive toys, rare books, or lovely pictures; but the owner and the little ones for whose delight she dressed it, were quite satisfied, and only pitied those who had no tree at all. Had not good Mrs. Granby made the most extraordinary flowers of red flannel and gilt paper,—flowers whose likeness never grew in gardens or greenhouses of any known land; had she not baked sugar cakes which were intended to represent men and women, pigs, horses, and cows? Were not the branches looped with gay ribbons? Did they not bear rosy-cheeked apples, an orange for each child, some cheap but much prized toys, and, better than all, several useful and greatly needed articles, which had been the gift of Mrs. Bradford? What did it matter if one could scarcely tell the pigs from the men?
Perhaps you may like to know how Mrs. Bradford became interested in the policeman's family.
One morning, a day or two before Christmas, Maggie and Bessie were playing baby-house in their own little room, when they heard a knock at mamma's door. Maggie ran to open it. There stood a woman who looked rather poor, but neat and respectable. Maggie was a little startled by the unexpected sight of a strange face, and stood holding the door without speaking.
"Your ma sent me up here," said the woman. "She is busy below, and she told me to come up and wait for her here."
So Maggie allowed the stranger to pass her, and she took a chair which stood near the door. Maggie saw that she looked very cold, but had not the courage to ask her to come nearer the fire. After a moment, the woman smiled pleasantly. Maggie did not return the smile, though she looked as if she had half a mind to do so; but she did not like to see the woman looking so uncomfortable, and pushing a chair close to the fire, she said, "There."
The woman did not move; perhaps she, too, felt a little shy in a strange place. Maggie was rather vexed that she did not understand her without more words, but summing up all her courage, she said,—
"I think if you took this seat by the fire, you'd be warmer." The woman thanked her, and took the chair, looking quite pleased.