The next afternoon had come, and was nearly gone. There had been a crowd of people at the opening of the Milligan Wharf Park. Ragged children, sailors, day-labourers, and poor women of the neighbourhood had stood shoulder to shoulder with some of the first citizens of the town—citizens who in the whole course of their lives had never been on this street before.
The well-dressed spectators had looked about them with interest. This fad of Mrs. Travers’s young granddaughter had excited much attention. She had carried her scheme through, and many curious glances had been sent in the direction of the suddenly shy, smiling girl, trying to hide behind the stately little grandmother, who sat looking as if the opening of parks for poor children were a daily occurrence in her life.
There had been room for some of the audience in the long, low shed erected for a playroom for the children on rainy days; however, many persons had been obliged to sit on benches placed in the hot sunlight, therefore the opening exercises had been arranged to be exceedingly short.
The Mayor, unfortunately, had transgressed, as he had prophesied he would do. However, in his speech he had, to Berty’s delight, carefully abstained from mentioning the part she had taken in procuring the park for the children of River Street. But succeeding speakers had so eulogized the self-sacrificing and public-spirited girl, that finally she had slipped away into one of the summer-houses, where, now that all was over, she was talking with her grandmother.
They had the park to themselves as far as grown persons were concerned. The rich and well-to-do people had filed away. The poor men and women of the neighbourhood had gone to their homes for their early evening meal.
“They say every rose has a thorn,” exclaimed Berty. “Where is the thorn in this?” and she waved her hand about the huge playground where scores of children were disporting themselves.
“It is here,” said Grandma. “Don’t lose heart when you see it.”
“Do you see it?” asked Berty, pointedly.
“Yes, dear.”