“Somebody’ll have to open it for Bert,” said prudent Gottlieb, looking appealingly to Dr. John; “she never can.”
“Sure enough. Shall we want a hammer, think you, or is it locked?” said Dr. Grey, bending over the chest with a puzzled look. “Ah, yes, here’s a lock,” he added, fumbling at the side towards the wall. “Have your elves brought the key, Madam Fairy?”
Polly fumbled in her pocket a little, and brought out a huge bunch of keys, one of which Dr. John, with great jingling, applied to the lock. Tim had a shrewd suspicion that the chest was not locked at all, nor even fairly closed; but, before he had time to assure himself by nearer inspection, the cover flew up with a bang, and out sprang—what? A genie? All the children thought so at first, and shrank away, while Berty covered her eyes with her hands.
But the strange being, whatever it was, went straight to Berty’s couch, and bending down, whispered some German words close in her ear. Berty could not help peeping out between her fingers. Surely, it was no genie. Would a genie call her his darling, his goddaughter, his dear, dear child? Would a genie look at her with blue eyes so like her mother’s? Ah no, this was no genie, though he had come to her as strangely as any genie could. It was, it could be, no one in the world but the dear, dear uncle Gottlieb, from the blessed old Fatherland.
So Berty let the stranger take her in his arms, and gave him kiss for kiss, and answered his caresses with her own, and called the children to her, one by one, to show this dear uncle who had come so far to see them all. It was so sweet to little Berty to feel that strong arm round her, and to know that it was ready to shield her from all care and harm; it was so sweet to hear him call her children his, and to know that he would care for them as she, with all her efforts, never could have done.
Yes, it was uncle Gottlieb, to whom Dr. Grey had written as soon as he heard of him from Berty, and who, hearing thus, for the first time, of his sister’s death, (for Madame Hansmann’s letter had miscarried,) had hastened to the orphans, and arrived just in time to be put into Polly’s strong box. He had entered heartily into the joke, though he declared that he had nearly smothered in carrying it out; and Dr. John averred that he had chuckled so much as nearly to discover himself to the children before the time. Polly produced from the chest a whole bundle of presents for Berty, which she had hidden there the better to carry out her scheme; but, though Berty was properly grateful, it was easy to see that uncle Gottlieb’s niece thought him the best present of all. There is no need that I should tell you they spent a merry evening,—what could prevent them? Uncle Gottlieb informed them next morning, for they all spent the night with hospitable Mrs. Grey, that he had risen in the world,—become a composer of music and leader of the band; and also that some old relative in Frankfort had left him a little house. He had been thinking, he said, of getting a wife to keep house for him; but he should take the children all back with him, and Berty should keep house: it would be much better, and leave him more time for his music.
And so Berty and her little ones went back to the dear Fatherland. It was hard parting from the Doctor and Mary and Tim; but Dr. Grey promised to bring Mary to see them at Frankfort, which promise he has kept. And as for Tim, I have a shrewd suspicion that that young gentleman has by this time paid uncle Gottlieb off in his own coin, and taken Berty another sea-voyage; but then Lina must be quite big enough for a housekeeper now.
THE END.