A sausage or two, a pie, some tarts, and sundry other good things, were speedily transferred to William's basket, and with such unsparing hand, that it was filled to overflowing—in that respect resembling the heart of our little shoemaker, which was now filled with delight. He forgot that he was suffering from bodily ailment, that the past had been dark and comfortless, that on the morrow no new cheering was to be expected, but his sole enjoyment would be the remembrance of the transient gleam of sunshine now falling on his gloomy path. He tried to speak his thanks, but she would not listen. "It is nothing," she said; "we have to work hard, but still we have plenty, and why should we not give to others who have so little, and are not able to earn? Now do go along about your business, Bill, and let me take up the supper, for the chicken is stewing to rags;" and, quite as happy herself as she had made the orphan boy, she proceeded to finish her culinary work.
A few minutes' walk brought William to the room occupied by old Mrs. Graham. It was a poor place, in a basement half under ground. Cold and damp, it was altogether unsuitable for an invalid; but she said she liked it, for the other dwellers in the house, mostly washer-women, were decently-behaved people, and as kind to her as their means would allow them to be. Suffering so much from rheumatism that she was confined to her bed, she was, however, not idle, but propped up and busy knitting, when William entered.
"Ah, ah! William Raymond, is that you?" said she; "come in and tell us why you have stayed away so long."
This was soon explained, and the treasures exhibited. The miniature Christmas tree was lighted up, and made to stand, by some process of childish ingenuity, on the table; the shoes which William had made out of Jem Taylor's "upper leather" were displayed, and, on being tried on, were found to fit; and, last of all, the treasures of the basket were spread forth. It was long since such a meal had been eaten in that lowly room, or since its inmates had been so cheerful; and, dear reader, what was the cost of the whole? Happiness can be bestowed at small expense, and there are none so poor that they cannot give it. True charity, which some call "the first-born of religion," makes others' wants their own, and—
"Amid life's quests
There seems that worthiest one, to do men good."
The old grandmother looked with great interest on the sports of the children, and joined in the praises Ned bestowed on his semi-new shoes. It seemed surprising to the latter that his friend Bill could accomplish a task so wonderful as to make a pair of shoes; and while he danced round the room in perfect delight, he begged his grandmother to put him at once to a shoemaker, so that he, too, might do men's work.
William stood by the bedside of the aged invalid, and watched her faded lips as they moved in grateful prayer. His whole soul, filled with the secret pleasure of a generous act, was yet more moved by the blessings invoked on him by one so old, and, there was no doubt, truly sincere. It seemed as if nothing could increase his present happiness.
"Where did you get all these nice things?" asked the old woman; "this is an unexpected feast for me."
William, taking no more credit than truth demanded, explained how he had proceeded,—some, the smallest portion, was purchased, the other was from the kindness of others.