“Oh, that’s settled; the notes are to be issued at once—are ready now, I believe.”
“That is a good idea,” said Burnham. “I’m pleased with that; we shall get the bridge and not feel it at all. That’s a sound idea of Frauenstein. Well, maybe he’ll make his big scheme work, and get his money back in fifteen years, but I don’t see it yet.”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
POETIC RETRIBUTION.—GROG-SELLERS INTERVIEWED BY WOMEN.
On a perfect morning in early May, the very day of the departure of the count and Madam Susie for France, a man prematurely old by dissipation, and destitute through wasting his substance by gambling, approached the town of Oakdale, which once had been his home. His last cent had been spent to bring him to a railroad station some miles distant, and from sunrise until ten o’clock he had walked, weary and almost fainting at every step.
He arrived by the least frequented road, and when a few rods from the house once owned by Mrs. Buzzell, he sat down under a tree by the roadside. The birds were singing and chirping in the branches, the sun was warm, and the air balmy and delicious. As he sat there, a little child approached and stood silently regarding him with evident curiosity. It was a lovely child, whose soft, golden hair descended to her waist from under a quaint little mushroom-shaped hat of white straw. She was dressed very coquettishly, her stockings nicely gartered above the knee, short white dress with embroidered flounces, and pretty bronzed gaiter-boots. Her dress was protected by a jaunty white apron, with bib and pockets trimmed with crimson braid. Her blue eyes showed traces of tears, and the man looking at the charming little picture before him, soon discovered the cause—a dead canary-bird whose tiny claws and yellow tail peeped out of one of her apron pockets.
“Well, I never before saw a little girl with a canary-bird in her apron pocket,” he said, trying to smile.
“You never had a birdie die. You never did; did you?” she asked, almost ready to sob.
“No, I never had a birdie. I am sorry yours died.”
The child took the dead bird from her pocket, and sitting down on a stone beside the man, caressed it and moaned pitifully, “Oh, birdie! birdie! I am so sorry Minnie gave you chocolate drops! Oh, birdie! birdie! How can I leave you in the cold ground! I shall never, never see you again!”
The child’s distress touched the rough gambler’s heart, and he tried to console her. “What a beautiful thing this child is! Some rich man’s spoiled darling,” were his thoughts, and he sighed heavily.