“Where I can. I generally walk about the streets in the daytime; and, when I feel cold, I go into some store to warm myself. They don’t always let me stay long. They call me ragged, and a beggar. I suppose,” she continued, casting a glance at her thin dress, which in some places was torn and dirty from long wearing—“I suppose it’s all true; but I can’t help it.”
“Where do you think of going to-night?” asked Martin, abruptly.
“I don’t know. I haven’t any place to go to; and it’s very cold. Won’t you let me stay here?” asked the child, imploringly.
The miser started.
“How can you stay here? Here is only one room, and this I occupy.”
“Let me lie down on the floor, anywhere. It will be better than to go out into the cold streets.”
The miser paused. Even he, callous as his heart had become, would not willingly thrust out a young girl into the street, where in all probability, unless succor came, she would perish from the severity of the weather.
After a little consideration, he took the fragment of a candle which was burning on the table, and, bidding Floy follow him, led the way into a room near by, which was quite destitute of furniture, save a small cot-bed in the corner. It had been left there when Martin Kendrick first took possession of the house, and had remained undisturbed ever since. A quilt, which, though tattered, was still thick and warm, was spread over it.
“There,” said Martin, pointing it out to Floy, who followed him closely—“there is a bed. It hasn’t been slept on for a great many years; but I suppose it will do as well as any other. You can sleep there, if you want to.”
“Then I shall have a bed to sleep in!” said Floy, joyfully. “It is some time since I slept on any thing softer than a board, or perhaps a rug.”
Martin was about to leave her alone, when he chanced to think the room would be dark.
“You can undress in the dark, can’t you?” he inquired. “I haven’t got but one light. I can’t afford to keep more.”
“Oh! I sha’n’t take off my clothes at all,” said the young girl. “I never do.”
She got into bed, spread the quilt over her, and was asleep in less than five minutes.
Martin Kendrick went back to his room. He did not immediately retire to bed, but sat for a few minutes, pondering on the extraordinary chance—for in his case it was certainly extraordinary—which had thrown a young girl, as it were, under his protection, though but for a limited time. He was somewhat bewildered, so unexpectedly had the event happened, and could scarcely, even now, realize that it was so.
But the warning sound of a neighboring church-clock, as it proclaimed midnight, interrupted the train of his reflections, and he prepared for bed; not neglecting, so strongly was the feeling of suspicion implanted in him, to secure the door by means of a bolt. When he awoke, the sun was shining through the window of his room. He had hardly dressed himself, when a faint knock was heard at the door of his room. Opening it a little ways, he saw Floy standing before him.
“What! you here now?” he inquired.
“Yes. Where should I go? Besides, I did not want to unlock the front door without your permission.”
“That is quite right,” said Martin. “Some one, who was ill-disposed, might have entered and stolen—that is, if he could have found any thing worth taking.”
“And now, sir, if you please, I’ll make your bed,” said the child, entering the room. “I’ve made the one I slept in.”
Martin looked on without a word; while Floy, taking his silence for assent, proceeded to roll back the clothes, shake the bed vigorously, and then spread them over again. Espying a broom at one corner of the room, she took it, and swept up the hearth neatly. She then glanced towards the miser, who had been watching her motions, as if to ascertain whether they met with his approval.
“So you can work?” said he, after a pause.
“Oh, yes! mother used to teach me. I wish,” said she, after a while, brightening up, as if struck with a new idea—“I wish you would let me stay here: I would make your bed, take care of your room, and keep every thing nice. Besides, I could get your dinners.”
“Stay with me! Impossible. I don’t have much to do: besides, I couldn’t afford it.”
“It won’t cost you any thing,” said Floy, earnestly. “I know how to sew; and, when I am not doing something for you, I can sew for money, and give it to you.”
This idea seemed to produce some impression upon the old miser’s mind.
“But how do I know,” said he, a portion of his old suspicions returning—“how do I know but you will steal off some day, and carry something with you?”
“I never steal,” said Floy, half indignantly. “Besides, I have no place to go to, if I should leave here.”
This was true; and Martin, considering that it would be against her interest to injure him in any such way—an argument which weighed more heavily than any protestations on her part would have done—at length said—
“Well, you may stay—at least, a while. I suppose you are hungry. There’s a loaf of bread in the closet. You may eat some of it; but don’t eat too much. It’s—it’s hurtful to the health to eat too much.”
“When will you be home to get some dinner?” asked the child.
“About noon. Perhaps I will bring some sewing for you to do.”
“Oh, I hope you will! It will seem so nice not to be obliged to be walking about the streets, but to be seated in a pleasant room, sewing!”
When Martin came home at noon, instead of finding the room cheerless and cold, as had been his wont, the fire was burning brightly, diffusing a pleasant warmth about the apartment. Floy had set the table in the centre of the room—with some difficulty it must be confessed; for it was rickety, and would not stand even, owing to one of the legs being shorter than the rest. This, however, she had remedied by placing a chip under the deficient member. There was no cloth on; for this was an article which Martin did not number among his possessions. Floy had substituted two towels, which, united, covered perhaps half the table.
A portion of the loaf—for there was but one—she had toasted by the fire, and this had been placed on a separate plate from the other. On the whole, therefore, though it was far from being a sumptuous repast, every thing looked clean and neat; and this alone adds increased zest to the appetite. At least, Martin felt more of an appetite than usual; and, between them, the two despatched all that had been provided.
“Is there any more bread in the closet?” asked Martin.
“No,” said Floy: “it is all gone.”
“Then I must bring some home when I return to supper.”
“I have been thinking,” said Floy, hesitatingly, “that, if you would trust me to do it, and would
