Berty rose next morning with the firm belief that her wish was to be granted, though in what way she could not tell. She was not so unreasonable as to expect the coveted pleasure to fall from the sky in answer to her prayers, however; and so she could not help feeling some curiosity about the means by which it was to come to her. Was it to be given her, or was she to be helped to earn it? The first plan seemed very unlikely, for she knew no one who had both the means and the will to do so much for her; and the second seemed, at first thought, more unlikely still, but she was fain to settle upon it at last, as being the more probable of the two. Yes: she would be very diligent in her work; and who knew but she might find something very valuable in the gutter, or do some great service to the people at the crossing, and so get money enough.
But how much money would it take, was another question, and a very puzzling question to poor Bertha, whose acquaintance with the prices current was very slight indeed. In this emergency she applied once more to Mrs. Flanagan. “Biddy, how much does a Christmas tree cost? Do you know?”
“A Christmas tree! Faix, Berty, what a child ye are for axin’ questions’. Sure they don’t be havin’ such toys in ould Ireland; and I niver bought one. Pounds and pounds, I suppose; but your Dutch folks be talkin’ of thim so much, they’d be liker to know than I.”
“And how many cents is in a pound, Mrs. Flanagan?”
“How many cints? Sure, child, I niver reckoned. There’s betune four and five dollars, I know; but I niver could remember rightly how much, to a penny,—the money’s so bothersome in this counthry.”
“And there’s one hundred cents in a dollar, I know: Tim Daly told me,” pursued Berty. “Pounds and pounds; and four hundred cents to a pound. Oh, dear! oh, dear! Mrs. Flanagan, do you think I could ever earn so much?”
“Hear till the child now! Is she crazy, d’ye think?” cried Biddy, in amazement. “Sure, you’re niver thinkin’ of buyin’ a Christmas tree! you, that haven’t shoes to yer feet, nor clothes to yer back, nor food to yer stomach!”
Poor Berty! the good Irishwoman’s words fell upon her heart with a heavier weight than even the “pounds and pounds”; but she would not wait to hear more,—she would not be talked out of her project at the very beginning,—so she caught up her broom and her basket, and scampered away as fast as her bare little feet could carry her.
Once safe round the corner, out of reach of Mrs. Flanagan’s astonished gaze, Bertha began to walk slower, and to revolve again in her mind that weary question of ways and means, which has puzzled so many wiser heads than hers. It was so hard to settle what to do; some adviser she must have; but who? She could not consult with her little prime minister, Gottlieb, for the project would lose half its charm if it were not to be a surprise to him. She thought of her Dutch acquaintance; doubtless they would know all about it; but she remembered Biddy’s amazement, and she had no mind to encounter a second edition of that. No; she wanted no prudent old heads shaking themselves so provokingly over her wild plan. What she wanted, after all, was some one to sympathize rather than advise.
“The top o’ the morning to ye, Berty,” cried a pleasant, cheery voice, breaking in upon her meditations; and her heart leapt within her at the sound of the merry brogue, and the sight of the round, rosy face of the little speaker. Here was just the adviser she wanted. Tim Daly, her master in the rag-picker’s arithmetic, her protector in all her street troubles,—honest, merry, wise, kind-hearted, blundering Tim, who always looked upon the bright side of everything, who always had a word of encouragement for everybody,—who could be a better confidant than he?