was the first word of kindness that the girl had heard for a long time, and the tears came in her eyes.
‘There, there, don’t cry,’ said Kornicker. ‘It bothers me; I don’t know what to do when women cry. But you haven’t a doctor; that will never do. Keep up your heart,’ said he, rising; ‘I’ll return presently.’ Saying this, and without waiting for a reply, he left the room.
Arriving in the street, his first impulse was not only to feel in his pockets, but with the utmost care to turn them inside out, and to examine them narrowly.
‘Not a copper—pockets to let!’ said he, restoring them to their former condition, after a long and unsuccessful search. ‘But this girl must be looked after; that’s settled. Now then,’ said he, in a very meditative mood, ‘who’s able to do it and will?’
This seemed a question not easily answered, for he stood for more than a minute in profound thought, in endeavoring to solve it; but apparently making up his mind, he hurried along the street. The direction which he took was toward the upper part of the city, and he was some time in reaching his destination, which was no other than Harry Harson’s house. He crossed the court-yard and knocked at the door, which was opened by Harson.
‘I want a word with you,’ said Kornicker, abruptly.
Harson told him to come in; led the way to his sitting-room, and pointing to a chair, told him to be seated.
‘I haven’t time,’ said Kornicker, shaking his head. ‘Do you know me?’
‘I’ve seen you, but I can’t recollect where.’
‘Here,’ said Kornicker, ‘here, in this room. I breakfasted here. I’m Michael Rust’s clerk.’
‘Then you can scarcely expect a cordial reception from me,’ said Harson, coldly.
‘I don’t care what sort of a reception you give me,’ replied Kornicker; ‘you may kick me if it will be any comfort to you, provided you only do what I ask. Michael Rust is dead, and his daughter is now dying, with scarcely clothes to cover her, or a bed to lie in; without a cent to buy her food or medicine; without a soul to say a single word of comfort to her. I wouldn’t have troubled you, old fellow,’ continued he, with some warmth, at the same time turning out his pockets, ‘if I had a cent to give her. The last I had I spent in getting a breakfast this morning; and although it’s the only meal I’ve eaten to day, damme if I would have touched it if I had thought to have found her in such circumstances. But since you won’t help her, you may let it alone; I’m not so hard run but that I can do something for her yet.’
Kornicker had worked himself up into such an excitement, owing to Harson’s cold reception of him, that he took it for granted his request was to be refused; and having thus vented his feelings he turned on his heel to go, when the old man laid his hand on his shoulder.
‘Nature puts noble hearts in very rough cases,’ said Harson, his eyes glistening as he spoke. ‘You’re a good fellow, but rather hasty. I didn’t say I would not assist the poor girl; on the contrary, you shall see that I will. She has no doctor?’
‘No.’
‘No nurse?’
‘No.’
Harson rang the bell. The house-keeper answered it.
‘Martha, put on your things,’ said Harson; ‘I want you to sit up with a sick person to-night. Bring a basket, and lights, and cups, and every thing that’s necessary for one who has nothing. I’ll return in five minutes; you must be ready by that time. Now then, Sir, come along; you shall see what I’ll do next.’
He went into the street, and walked rapidly on, turning one or two corners, but without going far, and at last knocked at the door of a small house.
‘A very excellent fellow lives here,’ said he to Kornicker; ‘he’s a doctor; and if this girl can be saved he’ll do it. Hark! there he comes. I hear his step.’
The door was opened by the doctor himself, and a few words sufficed to explain matters to him.
‘I’ll be ready in a minute,’ said he, darting in the room and as suddenly returning, struggling his way into the arms of a great-coat. ‘Now then,’ exclaimed he, buttoning a single button, and dashing into the street, ‘which way?’
‘Where does she live?’ asked Harson. ‘I’ll go back and bring the nurse.’
Kornicker told him, and was hurrying off, when Harson touched his arm, and leading him a few steps aside, said in a low voice: ‘You seem somewhat straitened for money, Mr. Kornicker; I wish you would accept a loan from me.’ He extended a bank-note to him.
Kornicker buttoned his pockets up very closely, not omitting a single button, and then replied coldly: ‘I ask charity for others, not for myself.’
‘Come, come,’ said Harson, kindly, ‘you mustn’t bear malice. I did not act well toward you at first; you must forget it; and to show that you do so, you must take this loan from me.’
‘I don’t wish to borrow,’ replied Kornicker.
‘Well, I’m sorry for it,’ said Harson, taking his hand; ‘but you’re not angry?’
‘No no, old fellow; it’s not an easy matter to keep angry with you; you’re a trump!’
‘Perhaps you’ll sup with me when we return?’ said the old man, earnestly.
‘I’ll see how the girl is,’ replied Kornicker; ‘good bye. We’re losing time.’
Saying this, he shook hands with Harson, and joining the doctor, they set out at a rapid pace for the girl’s abode.
They reached it without interruption, other than a short delay on the part of the doctor, who being of a belligerent disposition, was desirous of stopping to flog a man who had intentionally jostled him off the sidewalk. Kornicker, however, by urging upon him the situation of the girl, had induced him to postpone his purpose, not a little to the relief of the offender, who in insulting him had only intended to insult an inoffensive elderly person, who could not resent the affront.
‘Can it be possible that any thing human tenants such a den as this?’ said the doctor, looking at the half-hung door of the girl’s abode, and listening to the wind as it sighed through broken window-panes and along the entry.
‘Come on, and you’ll see,’ replied Kornicker; and seizing him by the arm, he led him half stumbling up the stairs, and finally paused at the girl’s room.
‘Look in there, if you want to see comfort,’ said he, with an irony that seemed almost savage, from the laugh which accompanied it. ‘Isn’t that a sweet death-chamber for one who all her life has had every thing that money could buy?’
The doctor glanced in the room, then at the fierce, excited face of his companion. ‘Come, come,’ said he, in a kind tone, taking Kornicker’s hand; ‘don’t give way to these feelings. She’ll be well taken care of now. Harry Harson never does a good action by halves. Come in.’
He pushed the door open very gently, and went to the bed. The girl seemed sleeping, for she did not move. He took the candle, and held it so that the light fell on her face. He then placed his hand gently upon her wrist. He kept it there for some
