“No one else!” What was it, then, that put into Berty’s mind, as she lay there awake in the darkness, brooding over her fruitless plans, the remembrance of that old talk of the children which had given rise to them? What was it made her recall that sweet thought of little Rosa’s, that it was the Christ-child brought the gifts,—or that still sweeter faith of Lina’s, that Jesus would never forget them because they were poor. What was it? Oh, my children! rather, Who was it? Who but that Friend, the best and dearest Who watches over us all, even while we forget Him, and showers upon us new blessings, even while we are unthankful for those He has already sent.
Jesus would not forget them: they had no father, no mother; but they still had Him. I cannot tell you with what a flash of joy and hope this thought filled little Bertha’s lonely heart. I suppose you could never fully understand it until, like Bertha, you had “no one else”; which, God grant, may never be your case; for it is a hard trial, this having no one else, though it is an inestimable blessing to have Him. And so Berty found it when she rose from her bed, and, kneeling once more by the window, with her face turned toward the sky, laid all her cares and hopes and wishes at His feet.
And I cannot think that Berty was wrong or foolish in this, even though her trouble was about such a little thing; for I am sure that He who cares for the sparrows, and who has provided so many beautiful things for us to enjoy, cares even for our slightest pleasures, and helps us to gain them when they are right.
CHAPTER IV.
LITTLE MARY’S HOME.
Upon that same October evening, another little girl, near Bertha’s age, sat by the window, looking out into the twilight. It was no dreary back-court, however, which met her eye, but a broad, well-paved street, lined with stately houses, and a quiet park, where the graceful willows drooping round the fountain still showed a tinge of green, and the elms and maples still looked gay in their autumn livery of crimson and gold.
And the scene within presented as strong a contrast to poor Bertha’s surroundings as did the scene without. The cheerful parlor, with its rich curtains and soft carpet, its glowing grate and pleasant pictures and comfortable easy-chairs, was very unlike that dismal attic; but the gazer at the window seemed to give very little heed to its brightness. She, too, was looking up at the cloudy sky, and, with her pale little face and deep mourning-dress, made as sad a picture through the plate-glass window as did poor ragged Bertha behind her smoky panes.
Presently, however, as a footstep sounded along the pavement and up the steps, the pale, sad face lighted up and turned eagerly toward the door. A handsome, merrylooking, young gentleman came briskly in, shaking a tiny shower of rain-drops from his hair and dress. “Were you counting the rain-drops, Polly?” said he, “or looking for the moon?”