and desolate, inhabited only by spiders and crickets, who occupied them rent free. It might have been years, perhaps, since they had echoed to the steps of a human foot. They looked dark and gloomy enough to have been witness to many a dark deed of midnight assassination. But it was all fancy, doubtless; and in little Floy they produced no other feeling than that of chilliness. She rummaged all the closets with a feeling of curiosity, but found nothing in any one of them to reward her search until she came to the last. There was a large roll of something on the floor, which, on examination, proved to be a small carpet, quite dirty, and somewhat moth-eaten. It had probably been left there inadvertently, and remained undiscovered until the present moment. Floy spread it out, and examined it critically. An idea struck her, which she hastened to put into execution. Threading her way back to the miser’s room, she procured a stout stick which stood in the corner, and, going back, gave the carpet a sound drubbing, which nearly stifled her with dust. Nevertheless, she persevered, and soon got it into quite a respectable state of cleanness. She then managed, by a considerable effort, to lug it to Martin’s room, and, in an hour or so, had spread it out, and finally fastened it by means of some tacks which she found in one corner of the closet. The effect was certainly wonderful. The carpet actually gave the room a very cosy and comfortable appearance; and little Floy took considerable credit to herself for the metamorphosis.
“What will he say?” thought she. “I wonder whether he will be pleased.”
It was but a few minutes after this change had been effected that Martin came in. It was about three o’clock—sooner than Floy expected him; but he had thought she might require the materials early, in order to make preparations for the evening meal.
As he opened the door, he started back in surprise at the changed appearance of the room. It occurred to him, for a moment, that he had strayed into the wrong place; but the sight of Floy, sitting at the window, re-assured him, and he went in.
“What is all this?” he inquired in a bewildered tone.
Floy enjoyed his surprise. She told him in what manner she had effected the change, and asked him if he did not like it.
He could not do otherwise than answer in the affirmative; and, in truth, an unusual sense of comfort came over him as he sat down and looked about him.
Floy had taken possession of the flour, and was already kneading it.
“Now,” said she, after this was done, “I must put it down by the fire to rise; that will not take long; and then it will be ready to bake.”
“Have you got any shirts for me?” she inquired after a while.
“Yes,” said Martin, recollecting himself, and unrolling a bundle which he had placed on the table. “There are half a dozen for you to begin on; and, if you do them well, you can have some more.”
Floy looked pleased.
“Now,” said she, “I shall have something to do when you are away.”
“You like to be doing something?” said Martin, inquiringly.
“Oh, yes! I can’t bear to be idle.”
Martin did not go out again that afternoon. About six o’clock, Floy set the table, and placed upon it a plate of warm cakes which might have pleased the palate of an epicure. It was the best meal the miser had tasted for years, and he could not help confessing it to himself. Floy was gratified at the appetite with which he ate.
Thus matters went on. The presence of the little girl seemed to restore Martin to a part of his former self. He was no longer so grasping and miserly as before. Through little Floy’s ministry, he began to have more of a relish for the comforts of life, and less to grudge the expense necessary to obtain them.
It was not many weeks before he fell sick, in consequence of imprudent exposure to the rain. At first he did not regard it; but a fever set in, and he was confined to his bed.
At the urgent solicitation of Floy, he consented to have a physician called, though not without something of reluctance at the thought of the fee.
Then it was that he began to appreciate more fully the importance of Floy’s services. Ever ready to minister to his wants, no one could wish a more faithful or attentive nurse. As she sat by his bedside in the long days through which his sickness was protracted, busily engaged with her sewing, he would lie for hours, watching the motion of her busy fingers with pleased interest. Occasionally—for he had nothing else to do—his mind would wander back to the scenes of his early manhood, and he would sigh over the recollection of the happiness which might have been his. Then his thoughts would be borne along the dreamy years which had intervened, unlighted by the rays of friendship, and uncheered by the presence of affection. The image of his daughter, whom he had cast off, and of whose after-fate he knew nothing, came up before him, and he could not repel it. A change, a beneficial and salutary change, was rolling over his mind—the fruit of those long involuntary hours of sickness and self-communing.
On the first day succeeding his recovery, he invited Floy to go out with him. It was an unusual request, and Floy hardly knew what to make of it. She got her bonnet, however (for shawl she had none), and complied. It was a chilly March day, and the thin dress which she had worn from the time of her coming to Kendrick’s was but an ill protection against the weather. She shivered involuntarily.
“You are cold,” said Martin; “but you will not need to go far.”
He led the way into a dry-goods store.
“Have you any warm shawls suitable for a little girl?” he inquired. He selected one, and paid for it. “Show me some dress-patterns,” he continued.
Two different ones were chosen. Martin paid for them.
“Can you direct me,” he inquired, “to any good dressmaker’s?”
The clerk had at first been inclined to laugh at the old man, whose attire, though warmer, was no better looking than Floy’s; but the promptness with which he paid for his purchases, and the glimpse which had in this way been obtained of a well-filled pocket-book, inspired him with a feeling of respect, and he readily complied with his request.
“Now,” said Martin cheerfully to Floy, “we will have you a little better dressed, so that you need not fear the cold.”
“I am sure,” said Floy, gratefully, “that I am much obliged, and I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“You have already,” said the old man with feeling. “I don’t know how I should have got along without you when I was sick.”
“Floy,” said Martin, thoughtfully, as they came out from the dressmaker’s, “although you have been with me for some time, I have never thought to ask your name—I mean your other name besides Floy.”
“My name is not Floy,” said the child. “They only call me so. My real name is Florence—Florence Eastman.”
“Florence Eastman!” said the old man, starting back in uncontrollable agitation. “Who was your mother? Tell me quick!”
“Her name,” said the child, somewhat surprised, “was Florence Kendrick.”
“Who was her father?”
“Martin Kendrick.”
“And where is he? Did you ever see him?”
