So she turned upon the young Irishman a brighter glance of welcome even than he was accustomed to get. “Oh, I so glad to see you, Tim!” said she. “You’re just the very one I wanted.”
“Well, it’s good to be welcome, any way,” said Tim, who cared more for Berty’s smiles than he would have been willing to confess. “It’s good to be welcome. An’ what were ye wanting of me, Berty?”
“I’ll tell you, Tim,” answered Berty, eagerly. “I’ve got such a wonderful plan; and I can’t tell Gottlieb, you see, because it’s part to be for him; and I want somebody to talk it over with; and you’re better than any one.”
“Am I, though?” asked Tim, straightening himself up grandly. “You’re the broth of a boy, Berty.” Tim thought it very nice to be better than any one to Berty, you see; and as for Berty herself, she seemed quite contented to be called the “broth of a boy,” though it certainly sounded very much as if Tim was a cannibal, and not a very good judge of child-soup at that.
“Yes Tim,” said she, “you are,—because you’ve some sense, and you won’t fly out at one like Mrs. Biddy, I know.”
“I’ll never fly out at you, Berty, that’s sure,” said Tim, confidently.
“Well, then, you see, it’s just this:—There’s those poor children,—Lieb, and Lina, and Rose. They were so little when we came from the old country,—and Fritzy, he wasn’t born,—and none of them ever saw a Christmas tree in all their lives;”—and Berty held her breath here, as if she had made a very astonishing statement.
“No more have I,” said Tim; “but that’s nayther here nor there, Berty. Go on.”
“Didn’t you?” said Berty, casting a pitying glance up at the merry face beside her, and mentally fastening a present for Tim upon the green branches of her imaginary tree. “Well, neither did they; and Madame Hansmann, you see, has told them about it, and their heads are full of it. I heard them the other night talking, and wishing, and they said they could not have it because they had no father, no mother,—nobody but Bert. And oh, Tim, I promised mother to do everything for those children; and I wish so much, so very much, to do this. Oh, Tim, do you think I could? and will you help me?” finished up poor Berty, in a choking voice.
“‘Deed an’ I will, Berty,” cried Tim, with an encouraging slap upon Berty’s shoulder; “and ov course ye can do it. Sure, I’ve got fifty cints that I was laying by for the winter shoes; but what’s shoes to a Christmas tree? Sure, we’ll get it betune us, Berty. Don’t ye cry; we’ll get it, sure as fate.”