the morning sunshine streamed through the lofty windows of the children’s ward, lighting up cheerfully the snowy beds and the pale faces of their little occupants, and waking berty from her feverish, uneasy slumber. she was puzzled at first by the unfamiliar objects around; but the bandage on her forehead, with the powerless arm and aching side, brought back the remembrance of the accident, even before the kind nurse appeared with her cheerful, motherly face and pleasant greeting. this good lady’s watchful attentions, the morning bath so tenderly administered, the delicate invalid breakfast so invitingly spread upon the little tray, and the bright room where even suffering was made to look so[pg 104] cheerful and comely, were all so new and so delightful, that berty thought it almost a privilege to be ill in such a place.
afterwards, too, when breakfast was over, and the nurse propped her up with pillows, and left her to attend to other duties, berty was very happy, though her arm and side were still very painful. she thought she could never tire of looking at the beautiful prints upon the walls, nor of watching and listening to her young companions, who seemed to be quite at home, and called to each other, from bed to bed, as merrily as any well children could do. but presently some one spoke of the doctor, hoping he would come early; and, at the mention of that name, all berty’s joy and contentment melted away in a moment, and she sank back upon her pillow, with a look of care and weariness upon her face which made all the children pity her very much indeed.
the old tormenting question, what to do, had come back again, and it seemed to berty more troublesome than ever before. the doctor had been so kind, both to her and to her little ones,—how could she bear to[pg 105] do him such injury as to keep his property? but he evidently knew nothing about her possessing it,—he had held it in his hand without seeming to have the least suspicion; and now she was ill she had no chance of earning anything: she could never accomplish her design in any other way.
just in the midst of these painful thoughts, the nurse came in ushering tim to pay her his morning visit. tim had left home with the firm determination to make berty do the right thing about the pocket-book, or else refuse to have anything more to do with it; but, remembering her strange conduct about it from the first, he was a little shy about beginning. so he sat down by the bed, and gave berty a long and glowing account of the doctor’s kindness to the children, and the great fancy they had taken to him,—a very good way of beginning, if tim had only known it. after he had spun this subject out as long as he could, and answered all berty’s questions about little fritz, he came to a dead stop for a moment, and was just mustering courage to commence his lecture, when a strain of sweet music floating in[pg 106] seemed to fill all the hall with a cheerful solemnity.
“what is it, tim?” asked berty, after listening a moment.
“it’s the organ, i think,” answered tim.
“the organ! where?”
“why, in the chapel, sure; don’t ye know, berty, there’s a chapel here, a little church like, right in the middle of the building? all the halls open into it; and it’s beautiful, i tell you.”
“but it’s not sunday, tim.”
“no; but i think they has service every day,—leastways, i saw the people sitting there whin i wint out last night, waiting like. but it’s a feast to-day, berty; it’s all-saints, ye know,—the first of november. belike they’d have service to-day, if ever. i was to go to mass meself but for you; thin i put it off till vespers,” answered devout tim.
“all-saints,” said berty, thoughtfully. “ah, yes, i know,—das fest allerheiligen: they keep it in my country, too. mother took us to die kirche last year, because of father, and now she is with him in das paradies.[pg 107] i meant to remember them to-day; i’m so glad this puts me in mind.”
the music ceased, and a nurse, watching her patient near, held up a warning finger. there was a moment’s silence, tim bending his head reverently, and berty closing her eyes, the only outward sign of which she was capable; then the service began. “if we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but if we confess our sins, god is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” a strange beginning, perhaps, for a service in commemoration of the saints departed; but very well suited, assuredly, to make saints of those who were left behind. perhaps the good clergyman had some such case as berty’s in his mind; certainly, he could have chosen no sentence which would have fixed her attention more securely.
the beautiful ritual which followed was quite unfamiliar to both tim and berty, the one being a lutheran, and the other a papist; but the slow, distinct utterance of the minister rendered every word perfectly[pg 108] audible, and the solemn confession of sin is fitted for all who have named the name of christ. when it came to the lord’s prayer, all the children joined. tim, recognizing the paternoster, fell upon his knees; and berty, lifting her well hand in supplication, repeated her vaterunser with the rest.
as the service went on with psalm, and lesson, and collect, tim noticed that the children seemed to consider themselves quite a part of the congregation, joining in the responses, and singing with a hearty zeal which pleased him very much; but as for berty, though she still lay with her eyes closed and her hand raised, her mind had wandered far away from the scene, around the dear ones she had lost. she tried to recall her father’s dying words, her mother’s parting counsel. she wondered in her troubled heart whether they could still look down upon their child,—whether they could know her uncomfortable secret. then she thought of the doctor again, and of his kindness to the little ones. ah, if her mother knew it, how grateful she would be, how she would[pg 109] think nothing too much to do for her children’s friend. what would she say, how would she feel, if she knew how her daughter proposed to requite him?
but, all at once, as the notes of a hymn died away and the clergyman’s voice was heard again, it seemed to berty that it took a more stern and solemn tone. she could not help listening, and, while she listened, the words seemed to carry her straight into the presence of him “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid.” she had thought of her mother, and of the doctor, and wondered what they would think if they knew; but here was one who did know, from whom she could not hide her secret if she would. what did he think? how would her “desires” bear his inspection?
berty trembled with terror as she asked herself this question, and, even as she asked it, the answer came; for the solemn voice went on to the rehearsal of the familiar commandments which she had learned at her mother’s knee; while, at the end of each one, the response swelled up from the[pg 110] chapel,—“lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law.” berty held her breath as if waiting for a blow; and at last it came, in that stern, solemn voice,—“thou shalt not steal.” tim, too, had been waiting for this, and his voice joined in the response, “lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law,” with a startling emphasis, which went to berty’s heart; then, almost before the words had left his lips, he leaned forward and whispered earnestly, “say it, berty,—say it for your life.” it seemed to berty almost as if her life did hang for a moment in the balance,—only a moment though, for she could not hesitate. she raised her hand again, and murmured the petition so faintly that tim could scarcely hear. another heard, and answered it, as we shall presently see; and tim heard, too, and gave thanks upon his knees that his berty was saved.
“now, berty,” said he, rising when the service was ended, and taking the package from his pocket,—“now, berty, you know what i’m going to do,—take this to the station right off.”
[pg 111]
“to the station! what for, tim? of course that would be easier; but maybe they wouldn’t find him; and then, tim, don’t you think he ought to know? it would be very hard, to be sure, but don’t you think i ought to tell him?”
“an’ who’s him, berty?” asked tim, quite puzzled.
“the doctor, of course. oh, tim, didn’t you know it was the doctor’s? that’s one thing why i couldn’t do it.”
“the docther’s! you don’t mane to tell me now, berty, that this pocket-book belongs to the docther?”
“yes, tim; he gave me a dime there at the crossing, and this dropped, and i ran after the stage, but they didn’t notice me, and then at first i meant to take it to the station or something; but i thought of my christmas tree, and so—and so—i didn’t.”
“well, berty,” said tim, after a long, thoughtful pause, “i’m glad i didn’t know the rights of the matther till ye had come to a betther mind, for i can’t say i think well of it. so it’s running away from him ye were, and no wonder; and he had it in[pg 112] his own hand too, sure enough. yes, it’s well i didn’t know, for i should have given it back to him straight, and it’ll look betther coming from you.”
berty quite agreed that it would look better coming from her, and yet her heart sank within her when she saw the doctor’s pleasant face appear at the door. he came straight towards her bed, only nodding to the other children as he passed them.
“good morning, berty,” said he; “how do you find yourself to-day?”
berty did not wait to answer. her courage was melting away so rapidly, that she felt she had no time to lose. she took the pocket-book from tim and held it out to the doctor.
“here it is. oh, take it! take it, quick!” said she, and burst into tears.
the doctor took the package in his hand, and stood looking from one to the other. he had put his suspicions so entirely away that they did not readily return.
“what is it, tim?” said he, at last.
“it’s a pocket-book, sir, that berty found. she says it’s yours.”
[pg 113]
the doctor changed color then, and tearing the cover away, examined the enclosure.
“yes,” said he, “it is mine. where did you get it?”
“please count the money then, sir,” said honest tim, before berty could command her voice to answer. “i kept it for her last night. i should like you to see if it’s all right.”
“why did you not give it to me then?” asked dr. john, sharply, opening the pocket-book, and glancing rapidly over the contents.
“oh, sir,” said berty, finding her voice instantly,—“oh, sir, you must not blame tim; he did not know it was yours. i never told him, and he was always at me to find the owner. i meant to give it back at first, and i should, but for the christmas tree. i wanted it so much, so very much, and i could never earn enough. i’m very, very sorry; but you must not blame tim.”
“it is all right,” said dr. john, nodding to tim, and putting the purse in his pocket. “now, berty,” he added, soothingly, “you must not cry any more; it is all right and safe, and i’m very much obliged to you for[pg 114] bringing it back; it is not every one who would have done it. stop crying now, and tell me how you got it, and about this christmas tree. i do not understand.”
“i wanted one for the children, sir,” said berty, composing her voice a little; “they never saw one, you see, but i did; and madame hansmann told them about those in the old country. so i heard them one night wishing for one,—only they said they could not have it, because they had no one but me. then i wished so much to get one, because i promised mother to take such care of them; and i asked biddy, and she said they cost pounds and pounds; and i did not believe quite in the fairy, so i thought i must earn it; and i felt very bad, and almost gave it up. then i thought about jesus, and how mother said he would be our friend; so i prayed, and i hoped he would help me. then, the very first day, when you gave me a dime, the pocket-book came tumbling down beside me, and i did not know if it was yours; but i ran after the stage, but nobody noticed; and then i thought it might be sent because i prayed,[pg 115] you know,—only, when i showed it to tim he said it was as bad as stealing. that made me angry, and i would not speak to him; but i was not happy with it at all when i meant to keep it. then in the morning i saw you at the crossing, and i thought you were looking for me, so i ran away; and, while i was talking to the little girl, you came again, so i got all wild like, and ran into the street. then you were so kind, i did not know about keeping it last night, only for the tree; but this morning i thought of mother, because of the feast of all-saints, and the minister said the commandments, and i could not keep it any longer for the children, or anybody,—don’t you see?”
i am not at all sure that dr. john did see, for i know that his eyes were full of tears when berty finished; but he seemed to understand quite clearly for all that.
“yes, berty,” said he, “i see that you have had a great temptation, and have won through it bravely. and as for tim here, i beg his pardon; i perceive he is a very honest fellow. but he must bid you good-morning now, for i want to look at that side of yours.”
[pg 116]
tim felt a little disappointed that dr. john did not offer berty something as a reward for bringing back his money, for tim could not bear that the christmas tree should be given up after all; but still he had great confidence in the doctor, and did not doubt but he would make it all right somehow. so he went away to his peddling with a light heart.
as for berty, she thought she had never felt so happy in her life, even though her wounds were very painful, and the christmas-tree tapers had utterly gone out; for there was something shining upon berty which lighted up her heart far more brightly than any christmas tapers ever could,—her heavenly father’s smile. and the doctor, too, instead of being angry, seemed kinder than ever. he dressed her side and ankle very tenderly, and then sat down by the bed and talked for a long time, asking many questions about her family, and especially about the uncle gottlieb in the old country, of whom little mary had told him. berty knew very little about him, except that he was her mother’s only brother,—that he lived in[pg 117] frankfort, and belonged to one of the bands which she remembered with such delight as playing at the concerts on the feast-days. madame hansmann had written to him, it seemed, after her mother’s death; but they had never received any answer.
“well, polly,” said dr. john, when he went home that evening, “i have found my pocket-book; and, what is more, i have got hold of a famous plan for spending your surplus money.”
“i have a plan, too, cousin john,” said polly; “but let us hear yours first.”
so the doctor told berty’s story, which you will not care to hear for the third time; and as for his famous plan, i mean to keep that for a good ending to my story. polly liked it very much, and so i dare say will you; but she could not give up her own, and so it was decided that both should be carried out.
“i am glad,” said polly, when all was finally arranged,—“i am glad, cousin john, that you found your pocket-book, for i should not wonder if you had to lend me some money, after all;” and dr. john thought to[pg 118] himself, as he looked down at the little girl’s glowing, happy face, that any amount of money would have been well spent in working such a change as these kind schemes had made in his sad, little cousin.
