Mary replied in the negative, and Judith continued: "Wall, now, you've got over the first on't, I reckon you'se glad the baby's dead, for she must have been kind of a bother, wasn't she?"
Instantly Mary's thoughts flew back to an empty cradle, and again a little golden head was pillowed upon her breast, as often in times past it had been, and as it would never be again. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed, "Oh, Allie, Allie! I wish she hadn't died."
Judith looked on in amazement, and for want of something better to do, placed a fresh stick of wood in the stove, muttering to herself. "Now I never! I might of knew I didn't know what to say. What a pity Harry died. I'll give her that big ginger snap the minute it's baked. See if I don't."
Accordingly, when the snap was done, Judith placed it in Mary's hands, bidding her eat it quick, and then go up and see the nice chamber Mrs. Mason had arranged for her.
"If you please," said Mary, rapidly shifting the hot cake from one hand to the other,—"if you please, I had rather go up now, and eat the cake when it is cool."
"Come, then," said Judith; and leading the way, she conducted Mary up the staircase, and through a light, airy hall to the door of a small room, which she opened, saying "Look, ain't it pretty?"
But Mary's heart was too full to speak, and for several minutes she stood silent. With the exception of her mother's pleasant parlor in Old England, she had never before seen any thing which seemed to her so cosy and cheerful as did that little room, with its single bed, snowy counterpane, muslin curtains, clean matting, convenient toilet table, and what to her was fairer than all the rest, upon the mantel-piece there stood two small vases, filled with sweet spring flowers, whose fragrance filled the apartment with delicious perfume. All this was so different from the bare walls, uncovered floors, and rickety furniture of the poor-house, that Mary trembled lest it should prove a dream, from which erelong she would awake.
"Oh, why is Mrs. Mason so kind to me?" was her mental exclamation; and as some of our readers may ask the same question, we will explain to them that Mrs. Mason was one of the few who "do to others as they would others should do to them."
Years before our story opens, she, too, was a lonely orphan, weeping in a dreary garret, as ofttimes Mary had wept in the poor-house, and it was the memory of those dark hours, which so warmed her heart towards the little girl she had taken under her charge. From Jenny we have learned something of her history. Once a happy, loving wife, surrounded by wealth and friends, she had thought the world all bright and beautiful. But a change came over the spirit of her dream. Her noble husband died,—and the day succeeding his burial, she was told that their fortune, too, was gone. One by one, as misfortune came upon her, did her fashionable friends desert her, until she was left alone, with none to lean upon except the God of the widow and fatherless, and in Him she found a strong help for her dark hour of need. Bravely she withstood the storm, and when it was over, retired with the small remnant of her once large fortune to the obscure neighborhood of Rice Corner, where with careful economy she managed to live comfortably, besides saving a portion for the poor and destitute. She had taken a particular fancy to Mary, and in giving her a home, she had thought more of the good she could do the child, than of any benefit she would receive from her services as waiting maid. She had fully intended to go for Mary herself; but as we already know, was prevented by a severe headache, and it was not until three o'clock in the afternoon, that she was even able to see her at all. Then, calling Judith, she bade her bring the little girl to her room, and leave them alone.
Judith obeyed, charging Mary to "tread on tiptoe, and keep as still as a mouse, for Miss Mason's head ached fit to split."