“And you don’t think it’s Berty, cousin John?” said Mary, drying her tears; “so I may use some of my money for her and for the little ones, and I may hope it is like doing it for Him?”
“Certainly, Polly; how can you doubt it?”
“I was afraid,” said Polly, timidly, “if Berty was a thief, you know she would not be one of his brethren. Do you think it would be the same?”
“Just the same, if it is done for his sake.”
“Then, cousin John, will you tell me how to help them most?”
“I don’t think you can do much for Berty now,” said Dr. John; “you will have to leave her to the tender mercy of Mrs. Gantz and myself; but those little people down there are sadly in need of clothing. They are the oddest-looking little mortals; the girls’ dresses are like patchwork quilts, and as for the boy,—well, I shouldn’t care to have Berty for my tailor, poor child. I think the best thing you can do is to get Grandma to go with you there in the morning, and find out what they need. I dare say you’ll get rid of all your superfluous cash. I shouldn’t wonder if you had none left by the time I come to want, and then we shall both have to fall back upon Grandma.”
So Polly soon lost the sad suspicions in a vision of coats and frocks and shoes; but Dr. John, through all his kind plans, was tormented by an uncomfortable remembrance of that little package which Mrs. Gantz had taken from Berty’s bosom, and of the telegram which had passed between his little patient and Tim. I say uncomfortable; for, though Dr. John would have been very glad to find his purse, he would rather have found it anywhere else than in Berty’s or Tim’s possession.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CHAPEL SERVICE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
