A sick girl, who had writhed upon her bed in pain all the day, heard the gentle singing voice, and it was like a charm upon her—she lay resting in a sweet calm, and said, “Hark! it is an angel!” A blind old man started up from a troubled slumber, and smiled a happy smile that said as plain as any voice, “It gives me back my youth, my children, and my country home;” and he smiled again and again, and listened at his window, scarcely daring to breathe lest he should lose a single word. A baby clad in rags, and sheltered from the cold with them, a baby in its cradle—what do you think that cradle was? as truly as you live, nothing but a box such as a merchant packs his goods in! that baby, sleeping, heard it, and a light like sunshine spread over its pretty face. A thief skulking along in the shadow of the great high building, heard that voice and was struck to the heart, and crept back to his den, and did no wicked thing that night. A prisoner who was condemned to die heard it in his cell near by, and he forgot his chains, and dreamed that he was once more innocent and free—a boy playing with his mates, and loved and trusted by them.
At length the mother of the crippled infant came back, and brought food for her child, and a warm blanket for it, and she, and Tiny, and the beggar girl, Tiny’s companion, ate their supper there upon the sidewalk of that dark, narrow lane, and then they went their separate ways—Tiny and his friend, taking the poor woman’s blessing with them, going in one direction, and the mother and her baby in another, but they all slept in the street that night.
The next morning by daybreak Tiny was again on his way down that same long, narrow, dingy street, the little girl still walking by his side. Swiftly they walked, and in silence, like persons who are sure of their destination, and know that they are in the right way, though they had not said a word to each other on that subject since they set out in the path.
“What is that?” at length asked Tiny, stopping short in the street.
“A tolling bell,” said the girl.
“Do you see a funeral?”
“Yes; don’t you?”
Tiny made no answer at first; at length he said, “Let us go into the churchyard;” and he waited for the beggar girl to lead the way, which she did, and together they went in at the open churchyard gate.
As they did so, a clergyman was thanking the friends who had kindly come to help in burying the mother of orphan children. Tiny heard that word, and he said to the girl, whose name, I ought long ago to have told you, was Grace—he said, “Are there many friends with the children?”
“No,” she answered sadly.