“Berty,” said he again, in his most persuasive tone,—“Berty dear, you’re not vexed wid me? Say you’re not.”
“Go off, I say, Tim; go away.”
“Say good night, then, Berty, and I’ll go.”
“Good night, Tim.”
There was a shadow of relenting in the voice this time; and poor Tim was fain to carry off this drop of comfort in his heart without running the risk of losing it by staying longer: so he put his lips to the crack again, and whispered softly, “Good night, Berty dear;” then added, with a sudden impulse, “Say your prayers before you go to sleep,” and ran away down-stairs again, to discuss with himself once more that momentous question—what to do.
One thing seemed plain, however, through all the puzzle: he must keep an eye on Berty so long as she had that pocket-book in her possession,—to save her, if possible, from herself, and to guard this property which had been so strangely committed to his care. So he got his blanket from uncle Teddy’s room, and curled himself up in it at the foot of the stairs. None of the lodgers, except Berty, came down that staircase; and she should never come down without his knowledge. So much was settled then. But what next? Should he send uncle Teddy to the station-house in the morning? The policemen would come then, perhaps, and drag poor Berty away to the tombs. Oh no, he could never do that! Berty would have a right to call him cruel,—she would have a right to hate him, if he did that. What then? Should he find out the stranger and let him know where his property was? Perhaps that would be best; perhaps the gentleman was a kind one, who would even give Berty something for keeping it safe.
But Berty would never let him see the pocket-book again,—never. Could he remember the number and the name? Ah, yes, “John Grey”; he had made that out quite distinctly;—that was the name. But about the number he was not so sure; indeed he was not sure that he had read it at all;—he had only noticed something printed after the name, which he had taken for granted was a number. And now all at once it flashed upon him that it was not a number, but two letters—M. D. Yes, he saw it quite plainly with his mind’s eye now,—“John Grey, M. D.” But what did M. D. mean? And how was he to find the gentleman if there was no number? Poor Tim! he was getting sorely puzzled and very sleepy; and so at last, lest he should forget them, he got upon his knees and murmured his Ave Maria and his Paternoster,—and one little Irish-English prayer, which perhaps mounted higher than either, that the dear Jesu would watch over him and Berty, and keep them from evil, and help them to do right, and bring them safe out of their trouble at last; and then laid down again and fell asleep.
Yes, children, I am sorry to say Tim was a Papist, and knew no better than to pray to the Virgin, who, if she heard him, was doubtless more sorry than you or I can be; but Tim was an honest, faithful boy, who tried with all his might to do his duty to God and his neighbor according to the light that was given him; and therefore I have a great respect for those Latin prayers of his, which, little as he understood them, were doubtless more acceptable than many an English one which goes up from a less earnest heart.
