There she was fitted with several pairs of shoes and slippers. Finally rubbers were slipped on and a pair of warm, black, woolen gaiters buttoned over them. Then gloves were chosen, and back they went to the fur department to buy a little muff which the Judge had forgotten.
“As for dresses and undergarments,” he said to Bethany, “Mrs. Blodgett must bring you here. Now we will go to see my friend.”
When they were again seated in the sleigh, and Bethany, with a bright pink spot on each cheek, sat holding her hands tightly clasped in her muff, the Judge said, “Did you ever hear of Mrs. Tom Everest while you were living on River Street?”
The child shook her head.
“No; you would not. Well, I must tell you that she is a very charming and philanthropic young woman, the granddaughter of a once eminent jurist of this city.”
Bethany had very little idea of what her companion meant, but she enjoyed being talked to as if she were a young lady, and she gravely bent her head and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Her grandfather was a much older man than I am, but I well remember him and his admirable wife, now also dead. Unfortunately, some time after his death the family lost their money and went to River Street to live. This girl Berty, or, rather, Mrs. Tom Everest, became greatly interested in the poor people about her, and when she married she persuaded her husband to come and live with her instead of moving to another part of the city. They seem to be quite happy, and are doing much good. I am going to see her to ask if she knows of any nice family where you would have young children to play with and be kindly treated.”
“Me, sir?” ejaculated Bethany, faintly.
“Yes; my house is not a suitable place for you. You see, I thought you were a boy when I brought you home.”
“A boy, sir?” said Bethany, still more faintly. “O, yes, I remember.”