CHAPTER II.

AH! It is pitiful—a woman knocking at iron doors and tugging with feeble fingers at heavy bars, watching eagerly if perchance the great gates may open never so little and let them into a niche—to work for bread. It is not the laborers, at their posts from sun to sun, who need our sympathy, after all. It is the long line of discouraged men and women who cannot get the work to do, who do what is harder than work—wait.

One morning in November, business took Mr. Thornton to one of the banks of the city. While he stood waiting for his account to be balanced, he heard a low, clear voice not far from him that thrilled and interested him at once, because there was trouble in the tones. One needed only to be in misfortune to possess strong attractions for Mr. Thornton.

A young girl stood at the counter below, conversing with one of the bank officers. The interview was not intended to be public, but the tones of one speaker were gruff and loud naturally, and could not easily be softened, while those of the other were clear and penetrating as a flute.

"Mr. Haines," she said, "would you not be so kind as to allow us to remain in our—in your house for the winter? We can pay a small rent, and it will relieve us of much embarrassment and distress if you will."

The voice matched the face, pure, true, and sweet, and the brown eyes looked pleadingly into the dead eyes of the speaker.

Not a muscle of his face changed as he said, "The time cannot possibly be extended beyond what I mentioned—Christmas week."

How could he speak of the glad Christmas-tide, the blossoming out of "peace on earth, good will to men," in that stony way and with that eager face before him!

"Sir," she said, and a little flash came into the eyes now, "I would never ask it for myself, but my grandfather is growing old. It is very hard for him to be turned out of the home where he has lived for forty years. Will you not have pity on an old man?"

"My plans are all made; I regret that I cannot accommodate you, Miss Winthrop. You must excuse me now, as I have an engagement," was the answer to the appeal, in the same business-like tones that he would have used if reading from his ledger. Then he walked away, and she stood for a moment, indignation, mortification and disappointment struggling together in her face.

As she turned to go, her eyes met Mr. Thornton's; such true, kind eyes they were; if only this man were Mr. Haines!

And Mr. Thornton, looking down at her, thought, "If only she were a little girl, or an old lady, I could go to her and say, 'Tell me your trouble, won't you?' But now, how can I help her?"

While he asked it, she was gone, and, as he stood wondering where he had seen the face before, there came a dim memory floating about it like a frame, of a blue September sky, bright leaves and ferns, and then he knew where. He resolved to know more of one apparently in deep trouble of some kind. He searched the directory, found the street and number, and soon after walked by the house. Yes, there was the name "Winthrop" on the door-plate, the letters nearly defaced by time, and the grand old place giving evidence that its owner had been growing old and poor. He saw the grand-looking old man, too, walking up and down the long veranda, his white hair blowing in the November wind, his hands crossed behind him, his head down, musing, the young man thought, on the past that had been lived in that house, and the future that was to be lived—where?

His heart went out in tender pity over him, and Mr. Thornton's pity was not wont to spend itself in mere emotions. He stepped into a street-car on his way home. There were but two passengers besides himself for several squares—two ladies, who, living in the same vicinity, and having just passed the house, were, naturally enough, discussing the very persons who occupied his thoughts just then.

"I'm sure I don't know what they are to do?" one said. "They are obliged to leave that house by Christmas. Just think of that! As many grand Christmas doings as they have had there! Pretty gay the old house used to be when Lily's father and mother were living. I should think it would break the old man's heart to go then; the contrast would be so sharp; his children gone, his wife gone, and now the old place must go, too."

"Yes, it is hard," the other lady replied, "but he has a great deal to be thankful for yet. He has his religion left, and the dearest comfort in Lily that anybody ever had. Lily is a noble girl. It is perfectly marvelous what she has accomplished. She has taken the entire care of the greenhouse and worked like any market woman; sold plants and flowers enough to realize a nice sum, besides teaching two or three music scholars. They have a little money left yet, I hear, and could probably get along nicely, situated as they were, but, as you say, I don't see just what they will do now. Old Mr. Winthrop is so much respected people would help them, I dare say, if they thought of it, but he is the last one to give hints, or even let them know how he is situated; pretty proud, the old gentleman is, but it is not to be wondered at, he's always been up, and he don't know how to come down."

"Everything would have turned out all right," said the first speaker, "if Mr. Walters had just put into his will what he intended to. He mentioned to several that he should give the place in the end to Lily. If only people would not procrastinate."

"If only he had given it to her then, you mean," returned the other. "It is a good deal better to help people over a rough place when they need it, I think, than to leave them a great sum at death, just as they are getting ready to die, and are beyond wanting any help. If I had much money to give away I am sure I should want to see it doing good as I went along."

They said much more, thoroughly discussing the situation as two women will who have no troubles of their own on their minds, and are free to attend to their neighbors. But then this was not ill-natured gossip, and Mr. Thornton really felt obliged to them for telling him so many things he wished to know.

Later in the day Mr. Thornton called upon Mr. Haines to inquire about the property, hoping that he might be able to get it into his own possession, but he was informed that it was not for sale—that the location was the choicest in the city, and the house was soon to be remodeled for the owner's own residence. Moreover, he could not extend the time, as carpenters were to commence work on the inside as soon as possible. He considered it a marked favor that he gave the family as much time as he did, but then, some people were always ungrateful.

The more Mr. Thornton heard of this family the more interested did he become. This old man to be turned out of his home; this fair, brave girl battling with poverty appealed to everything sacred and chivalrous in his nature. How much he wished they were friends of his that he might say, "Share my home with me." He passed the house frequently the next few days and hunted his brain for a pretext for calling. The opportunity came in an unlooked-for way. One morning while he was passing, Mr. Winthrop happening to be coming down the stone steps leading from his lawn, lost his footing and would have fallen forward on the pavement had not Mr. Thornton sprang to his aid. As it was, one of his ankles was injured so that he was obliged to lean on Mr. Thornton's arm and return to the house. On examination both gentlemen agreed that it was probably only a slight sprain, not requiring the attendance of a surgeon. Mr. Thornton remained and assisted in bathing and bandaging it with his own hands, declaring that he was experienced inasmuch as he once had a sprained ankle himself.

Mr. Winthrop was slow to take in strangers, but who could wrap himself in cold reserve before the fascination of Mr. Thornton's manner? It was the perfection of kindness and delicate politeness. Mr. Winthrop found himself conversing with the freedom of an old friend, and begged him when he took leave, to come again.

Mr. Thornton in turn was perfectly captivated with the old gentleman. A most delightful plan began to loom up in his mind, and he betook himself to his favorite retreat to perfect it. The cottage had passed through the renovating process and was now as neat and pretty a home as could be desired.

Inside, it was finished up according to Mr. Thornton's own taste, which was of the best. He had pleased himself by fitting up one room in the style of the olden time. The modern wall-paper adorned with morning glory vines, and the fern leaf carpet chimed in with the idea sufficiently well. He procured a wide lounge covered with chintz, two high-backed old rocking-chairs, and several others of antique patterns and splint-bottoms. From an old aunt's possessions, he begged a tall secretary and bookcase, curiously carved, a table with claw feet, and a stand with three legs. He put tall candlesticks of silver on the high mantel, brass andirons in the broad fireplace, and when he had a veritable hickory log snapping on them, the firelight dancing on the wall, and gayly flowered damask curtains at the windows, he delightedly pronounced the room as much like his great-grandmother's as he could make it.

To-night he dropped the curtains, drew the arm-chair to the fire, and settled himself to the solving of a problem. He often came to this room when he wanted to be specially quiet; indeed, so fascinated was he by it that he would have enjoyed taking up his abode there. The old lady for whom all this comfort was intended, had not yet appeared. He had been quietly waiting and watching, certain that in due time his offering would be needed, and now he felt assured the time had come. But how to bestow it on Mr. Winthrop without bringing him under a sense of obligation that would be embarrassing whenever they met, for he had no idea of dropping the acquaintance just begun! His sympathies had a wide scope, and yet his friends were few and choice; he hoped to number this pure-hearted, clear-headed old man among them, and, mayhap, this maiden of heroic deeds.

Open fires must be favorable to untying hard knots, for after knitting his brows for a time he seemed to have arrived at some conclusion that pleased himself, at least, and he turned to his table and wrote a letter, sealed and addressed it, then sank back in his chair with the air of one who has dispatched his business and is free to dream dreams of firelight.

The letter was not the only result of the cogitations. It was but a day or two after that when workmen were busy with shovel and saw and hammer engaged in building a greenhouse. The season favored the plan; the frosts not having penetrated the ground yet. Mr. Thornton was there continually, directing, watching with as much interest as if he contemplated taking up the vocation of a florist at once.

One evening the postman brought a letter of importance to the Winthrops. It was just at dusk, and Lily, returned from another day of fruitless wanderings, sat by the fire, feeling more depressed in heart than was at all usual with her. The day had been "dark and cold and dreary," and chilled her through and through, soul as well as body. None of this appeared, though, in the cheerful words she forced herself to speak to her dispirited grandfather, who had almost lost hope, though struggling hard to keep up. He did not know that in the dark and drizzle of the November night a light was on the way to him.

And now appeared Gretchen with a letter for Mr. Winthrop. Lily turned it over curiously, noting, as she passed it to her grandfather, that it was a city letter, and a feeble hope sprang up that Mr. Haines had relented, and would allow them to remain until spring.

Mr. Winthrop read it slowly through, once and again, and then almost sprang to his feet, forgetting his lameness in the excitement. "Lily," he called, "come here, quick! This is most extraordinary; read that—read it aloud! It must be that I have made some mistake." And Lily read:

"MR. WINTHROP:

"Dear Sir: I write to inform you that I have been entrusted by a dear friend of yours—who is at present absent—with a piece of property which he desires to bestow upon you as a Christmas gift. The cottage is in the city, pleasantly located, with a fine greenhouse in good order. The key and the deed of it will be sent to you in the course of a month, when it will be ready for occupancy. I advise you thus early that you may shape your plans accordingly.

"Yours truly,

"A. HATHAWAY.

"Now, dear child, what is the meaning of all this? Could anybody play such a cruel joke upon us?"

"Oh, no, no, Grandpa," Lily said, her face radiant. "It is the answer to our prayers. Have we not asked and asked Him for a home, and now he has sent it to us?"

Grandpa closed his eyes, and there was silence for a moment; each knew that the other was whispering thanksgivings too deep for spoken words.

"Bless the Lord, O my soul," Grandpa murmured at length. "This deliverance came for the sake of you, his little one; such stupid unbelief as mine could never have brought the blessing. But who is Mr. Hathaway, and why in reason did he not tell me the name of my friend? I will write to him this very evening, and know something more about this wonderful transaction."

It was as good as a play could have been to others, and much better than one could possibly be to Mr. Thornton, when he called later in the evening to inquire after the sprained ankle, to observe the change in the manner of both. The grandfather appeared to have chopped off ten years of age, and seasoned his speech with lively sallies and sparkles of wit as he had not done for a long time. The girl's eyes, too, had lost their look of patient care and sparkled with repressed joyousness. She seemed like one in possession of some happy secret, and in haste to be alone that she might turn it over and look at it. This was pure, exquisite pleasure to turn sighs into smiles. He knew us well who said, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

"Hathaway" was Mr. Thornton's middle name, after one of his ancestors, "Allan Hathaway." He had never lived in that vicinity, so his namesake knew that he might safely hide behind it, especially as there was no one of the same name in the city. He felt too that he could truthfully say that he acted under the directions of another, who was Mr. Winthrop's dear friend, for was not the Lord whom they served both Master and Friend, and who but he had put it into his own heart to remember his servant?

The sprained ankle, though doing well, yet gave Mr. Thornton continued pretexts for calling very often. He brought in new books and the daily papers, and sometimes stopped to read the news to the invalid; then the two held many arguments and discussions on the topics of the day. Their views were too nearly alike to make the discussions very lively, though the fact gave each an exalted opinion of the other. Lily seldom joined them; not that she was indifferent to the fascination of such brilliant society, but there was much work to be done, now that they were not to be bereft of their beloved plants, and she took the opportunity to attend to it while her grandfather was being so pleasantly entertained. Perhaps too, the fact that the visitor seemed indifferent to either her absence or presence made her less anxious to be present. She was not one to thrust herself upon any person's notice. She had not done that when she was a courted heiress, certainly not now, when in the estimation of the world she had fallen from a great height. Had her spirit, been less sweet she might have felt a degree of pique at not being considered the chief attraction in the house, especially to gentlemen from whom she had received homage enough to spoil an ordinary girl. She settled finally down to the theory that Mr. Thornton was a philanthropist, not a wholesale one, but a grand, loving-hearted Christian, doing his Master's will in small things as faithfully as if they were great; and that he considered it his Christian duty probably to extend kindness and good cheer to her grandfather—and that he was only one of many objects of his charity—for of course he must know by this time about their reduced circumstances. She would have enjoyed the sweet savor of his conversation, as did everybody who ever talked with him, but she declared within herself, "He shall never have a shadow of cause to imagine that I appropriate these visits to myself, and so be annoyed and cease to come—that is probably the reason he never inquires for me at the door. I do want him to come, he is such a comfort to Grandpa."

With this tormenting suggestion, that some officious elf thrust into her mind, she allowed herself but seldom to remain in the room during his visits, and, depriving herself of a pleasure she would have enjoyed exceedingly, rarely joined in the conversation, only occasionally forgetting ugly suggestions of prim propriety, and putting in her vivacious word or merry laugh with such childlike abandon as made Mr. Thornton remember the maple leaves and the violets.

He did not mean to be an artful man, but the truth was, that there was not a look or tone or motion of this maiden's but he noted and studied, no matter how absorbed he pretended to be with the subject in hand. It puzzled him not a little that she seemed to avoid him, for he too was accustomed to being considered a person of importance. And yet it was almost refreshing to meet a young lady who did not constantly seek his society, oppress him with attention and smile approval upon him. Always smiling, it was restful to meet this face that could be grave, and lips that could be silent, or speak of something besides trifles and inanities.

And so the visits and the—studies—continued, twice, three times a week; if he were late, the old gentleman would fidget like a maiden waiting for her lover.

And now the greenhouse was completed, furnished with all the appurtenances that such an establishment requires. Some little changes, too, had been made in the cottage in consideration of the choice spirits who were to occupy it; in short, nothing more could be asked for it in the way of taste and convenience. The deed and the key had been sent as promised, and the Christmas gift had been searched out and found to be no myth, but a joyful reality; two delighted people had pronounced it "cosy," "lovely," "home-like." They were still in wonder and perplexity as to the donor. Mr. Winthrop lay awake nights, going as far back among the families of the city as his memory would travel, to find the name "Hathaway," but could get no clue. He turned over in his mind the names of all his acquaintances whom he knew to be abroad, and surmised it to be this one, and then that one, to whom he was indebted for this princely gift, but could never settle permanently upon any one. As much at home as Mr. Thornton had become in a short time in the household, Mr. Winthrop had never mentioned the matter to him; with true Puritan reticence, he kept his personal affairs, if possible, within his own family. So, as the time drew near for removal, the former could scarcely conceal a smile when Mr. Winthrop, with a touch of his old stateliness in his manner, said that he must make a disclosure that, perhaps, should have been made long ago; that he never liked to sail under false colors, and, while he would not hint that wealth was the sole standard Mr. Thornton set up for his friendships, still he wished him to know that he himself was a poor man, that his home had been taken from him, in fact, he was to leave it in a few days forever, for a small property that "was given to us by some unknown friend, and for which we hourly thank God," he said with moist eyes.

"But that is not all," he went on, as if determined to further mortify his remaining pride. "We are to be known hereafter as those who earn their daily bread by the toil of their own hands. I have been among the fools who thought it a disgrace to do so, but I have been rebuked for my foolish pride of birth, and now I lay it down forever; but I wish every one who seeks friendship with us to know the truth."

Mr. Thornton heard this speech with kindling eyes, and simply said, as he gave him a warm hand clasp, "Then, sir, you may have fewer friends, but truer.

"'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.'

"May I be so happy as to be one such friend?"

"What a thing it would be, eh? To be the father of such a son!" Mr. Winthrop said within himself, as he watched the young man spring lightly down the steps and walk away; and there were tears in the old eyes as he remembered a handsome profligate son who had found an early grave.

A few days before Christmas found the Winthrops established in their new home, happy, grateful souls as ever opened eyes on Christmas morning. The delightful old-fashioned house reminded one of a hen and chickens, so many small rooms joined on here and there clustering about it. Inside, it seemed to open in all directions, so that when you stood in the center you had a peep into every room. And each room, fitted up by Lily's artistic taste with articles that had long been heirlooms in the family, had an individuality of its own. The living room, warm and bright in rich colors, the dining room, with antique sideboard and a few old pieces of silver shining on it, the tiny green carpeted library, glimpses into one fair and white, the guest chamber, and another in rose tints, such as girls love, then the old-time room, which Mr. Winthrop declared was to be his the moment he saw it.

"It carries me back sixty-free years to my mother's knee," he said.

Mr. Thornton had come as soon as possible after the settlement of the new home and taken a delighted survey. He could scarcely have believed it to be the same, evidences of refined taste and deft fingers were everywhere.

"The most charming effect without exception that I ever saw in any house," he told his happy host, who took almost a childish pleasure in displaying his new possession, carrying his visitor at last in triumph to his own room and seating him in the arm-chair, with "Now did you ever see anything to equal this, even to the candlesticks and snuffer tray, all complete? This room does me more good than anything that has come to me in years."

And Mr. Thornton, looking into the old man's happy face, the firelight throwing a halo about his white hair; thanked God for money. His pleased eyes took in the fact, too, that the room remained unchanged in every particular, a tribute, he smilingly thought, to the taste of Mr. Hathaway.