‘Yes, darling, a story.’
‘Many years ago, a gentleman was passing through the streets of Vienna. He was a man about thirty years of age, but he looked older, for he had known sorrow and disappointment, and life appeared to him then nought but vanity and vexation of spirit. Yet many would have envied his position, for he possessed much of what the world most values. He was walking listlessly along, when his attention was attracted by a group of musicians, who were performing at the corner of a square. In the centre of the band stood a pretty little fair-haired girl about six years old. She was poorly clad. Her tiny feet were bare, and bleeding from contact with the sharp stones with which the roads were strewn; and tears were in her large blue eyes as, in her childish voice, she joined in the song. Her pretty yet sorrowful face and the plaintive tone in which she sang touched the stranger’s kind heart. He stood still to watch the group, and when the song was ended went forward to place some money in the child’s upturned palm. “Is this your little girl?” he asked the man by whose side she was standing. He replied in the negative. The little girl was an orphan, the child of an Englishman, who had formerly belonged to the band, but who had died some months before, leaving his little daughter entirely dependent on the good-will of his late comrades.
‘Well, darling, you must know that they did not object to keeping her with them, as her appearance was calculated to call forth pity, and thus increase their earnings. But it was a rough life for the child, and she suffered from the exposure to all weathers which it entailed. Her father, who it was believed had seen better days, had never allowed her to go out with the troop, and had done his utmost to shield her from hardships. But now there was no help for it; she could not be kept in idleness. Moved with pity for the child’s hapless lot, the gentleman inquired where the musicians resided, and returned to his hotel to consider how he might best serve the little orphan. After much reflection his resolution was taken. He was a lonely man, with no near relative to claim his love. His heart yearned with pity for the desolate child, whose pleading blue eyes and plaintive voice kept appealing to his compassion, to the exclusion of all other considerations. He determined to adopt her, and provide for her for the rest of her life. With this intention he sought the street musicians on the following day, and easily induced them to commit the child to his care. After handsomely rewarding the musicians, he took her away with him that very day, and ever since she has had the first place in his heart. His loving care for the orphan child brought its own reward, for in striving to promote the happiness of little Rose he found his own.’
I was interrupted by a cry from my companion. ‘Rose!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘What are you saying, Miss Bygrave? Tell me—was I—am I that little child?’
‘You are, darling; and now you know how truly you are the light of Mr Aslatt’s life. He has no one to care for but you, and you alone can make him happy.’
‘And I have really no claim upon him, am in no way related to him, as I thought! I knew I owed him much, but I had no idea to what extent I was indebted to him. But for his goodness, what should I be now? Oh, if I had only known this before! How ungrateful I have been to him, how wayward and perverse! Oh, Miss Bygrave, I cannot bear to think of it!’
‘Do not trouble about that, dear,’ I said, trying to soothe her, for her agitation alarmed me; ‘it is all forgiven and forgotten by Mr Aslatt.’
‘But I shall never forgive myself,’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘To think that I have been receiving everything from him for years, living upon his bounty, and yet making no return, evincing no gratitude, taking all his kindness as a matter of course, just because I imagined I was dear to him for my parents’ sake!’
‘Nay; you are too hard upon yourself, dear Rose,’ I said gently. ‘To a certain extent you have been grateful to him; you have again and again acknowledged to me your sense of his goodness; and now that you know all, you will clearly prove your gratitude, I have no doubt.’
‘But how?’ exclaimed Rose. ‘How can I express—how can I shew my deep sense of all that I owe him?’