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MY NIGHTINGALE
“He sat on the old wharf till it was

Page 13,

 
Vi ING tT NIG See

 

A WELCOME VISITOR

Page 30

T. NELSON AND SONS

London, Edinburgh, and New York
- MY NIGHTINGALE

OR

The Story ot Little tbolger.

BY

BELLA SIDNEY WOOLF

 

T NELSON AND SONS
\ London, Edinburgh, and New York

 

1898
CONTENTS.

 

MY NIGHTINGALE,
THE STORY OF PAULINE,

LITTLE SUNSHINE,

33

60
MY NIGHTINGALE.

 

OLGER JESPERSEN and his

mother lived in a small street in
the quaint old city of Copenhagen—a
very small street indeed, down by Chris-
tian’s Harbour. They had one room at
the top of a big tumble-down house in
which numbers of other people lived,
many of them rough and all of them
poor. The street was called Liljegade,
(Lily Street), and it almost seemed as if
it had been named thus as a kind of sad.
joke, because it was just the opposite of
all that a lily should be. The houses
i0 |. MY NIGHTINGALE.

were black and ugly and old, and many
of the windows were broken, and had rags |
stuffed in to keep out the cold. The
basements were occupied by small shops,
and you had to go down two or three
steps to them. Most of them sold fittings
for ships or seamen’s clothes, for you see
they were close to the harbour.

Holger’s father had been dead many
years, and. his mother earned bread for
herself and her little son by sewing. She
worked early and late, but still they
were very poor. Yet they were so fond
of each other that as long as they were
together life seemed pleasant enough.
Holger had no playmates of his own age,
for the children in Liljegade were mostly
rough and rude, and his mother did not
wish her boy to grow like them. When
Holger’s father was alive, they had been
quite well off, and had kept a nice grocer’s
shop; but soon after he died they found
MY NIGHTINGALE. 11

that the man whom he had asked to
manage things for his wife had run away
with all the money. So Holger and his
mother had hardly anything left in the
wide world, and had to leave their pretty
little home and live in Liljegade. Frue
_ despersen (rue means Mrs. in Danish)
-was too proud to ask her friends for help,
and perhaps she carried this feeling a
little too far, for she would not let any
one know where she lived, and con-
sequently was soon forgotten.

‘The years went by, and Holger was
seven years old, and was to go to school.
He was rather pale but tall for his age,
with blue eyes and fair hair—so fair as to
be almost white. He was a quiet and
thoughtful boy, old-fashioned and dreamy.
His great pleasure was to sit on the edge
of the wharf near by and gaze at the green
water playing in and out of the wooden
piles. Sometimes it was quiet there,
1 MY NIGHTINGALE.

except for the great steamers travelling
up and down and the small boats shooting
in between. That was towards evening,
when the sun lit up the windows of the .
old warehouses opposite, and made them
shine like sheets of red fire. The harbour
looked very pretty then with the soft pink
of evening over it. In the daytime it
was all life and bustle though, for the
great ships came in with their cargoes,
which had to be unloaded by the brown-
faced sailors in their blue jerseys. Holger
sat there for hours watching them pile up
the bales, and he loved to hear their
strong voices and catch the fragments of
songs they sang to make the hard work
easier. I think it was from sitting so
much by himself, while his mother stitched
away for the ladies who employed her,
that Holger began to make stories to
himself—stories so marvellous that some-
times he did not notice the evening
MY NIGHTINGALE. 13

coming on, and sat out on the old wharf
till it was quite dark, and the lights began
to shine out from houses and ships and
twinkle in the black water. Even then
he was always home before his mother,
for the house was but a stone’s-throw
from the wharf, and she had often some
way to walk after she left the houses
where she worked. Then they would
have supper together in their tiny room—
generally a dish of smoking rice and black
bread, or on grand occasions plum soup,
which I do not think many English little
girls and boys would have liked. After
supper his mother, if she were not too
tired; would read to him. out of the one
story-book he possessed, and which he
almost knew by heart now; but Holger
did not care for games, and was quite con-
tent to listen to the well-known stories.
Sometimes Holger would tell his mother
some of the stories he made up as he

a
14 MY NIGHTINGALE.

* gat by the water of Christian’s Harbour,
and she was often surprised that so small
a boy should have such sweet thoughts.
Now, as I told you before, at the time
my story begins Holger was seven years

old, and his mother was obliged to decide

to send him to school. She would dearly
have liked to teach him herself, but she
had no time to do so, and consequently
Holger only knew his letters. In a
week’s time from the opening of my
story, the school was to be reopened, and
Holger was looking forward with mingled
fear and pleasure to his school life. Frue
Jespersen would have sent him before,
only he was such a frail little fellow that
she could not bear to think of him
amongst the rough children of the Free
School. She knew that he could come
to no harm on the wharf, for he was well
known there ; and though the sailors were
rough men, they were good hearted and
MY NIGHTINGALE. 15

fond of the little fair boy. But at school
she feared his stronger companions might
bully him, and it was with a sad heart,
though with a cheerful face, that she hung
his little satchel over his shoulders when
the week had passed and the first day
of school dawned. She knew that he
would learn quickly, for he was most in-
telligent and very eager to learn to read.
She took him to the school-house door.

“Good-bye, my darling Holger,” she
said; “be a good boy and obey thy
teachers, my little one.”

“Good-bye, sweet little mother,” said
Holger, lifting his face for a kiss. “Yes, —
I will be good. I don’t mind going so
mouch, because they will teach me to read
every book in the world.”

So his mother smiled and kissed him
many times and at last went away, while
Holger passed into the school with a

number of other children.
16 MY NIGHTINGALE.

Frue Jespersen could see from Holger’s
happy face when he came back from his
first day at school that her boy’s school
life had started pleasantly. Holger was
delighted with his teacher, and ambitious
to learn to read as quickly as possible.

‘She said I would soon learn, mother,”
. he said, as they sat at supper. “I shall
try to win a prize too.”

“And what are the other children
like?” asked Frue Jespersen.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Holger, and
a shade of annoyance crossed his face.
“They wanted me to play, but I said I
would rather learn some spelling. I don’t
think they like me much, but I don’t
mind as long as the teacher does. You
see, I don’t care for games,” he continued,
looking up to his mother’s face with his
brow puckered. 7

This was the only thorn in Holger’s

school life. Many a time he came home
~ @
MY NIGHTINGALE. 17

with traces of tears on his face, which °
only vanished under his mother’s caresses.
“Canst thou not be one of them?”
asked his mother, for it grieved her to
think that her boy was differ ent from
other children.
“You see, mother,” he would say, “T-
can’t join in their games, and they don’t
like that, so they tease me. But it
doesn’t matter, for I shall soon know how
to read, and that is all I care for. Don’t
worry, mother dear.”

And a kiss on his mother’s thin cheek
would end the matter.

The teacher, as she watched Holger’s
earnest face, and marked how quickly
and eagerly he learned, thought to herself,
“He will be a great man some day.”

' At the end of the term Holger came
home radiant with pleasure, and throwing
himself into his mother’s arms, cried, half
laughing and half sobbing, “My best,
1) 2
18 MY NIGHTINGALE.

sweet mother, I have gained a prize, and
can read it too. See here!”
“Thou, Holger,”.she said, and her face
lit up. “ Nay, it cannot be true.” |
“Yes, here it is, little mother,” and
Holger hastily took from its wrappings a
handsome book, bound in red, and con-
taining the most beautiful stories which
have ever been written—the Fairy Tales
(or the Aeventyr, as they call them in
Denmark), of Hans Christian Andersen.
Ah! how happy were two hearts that
evening in that little room in Liljegade.
From the day that Holger received his
prize, a new and beautiful radiance was
east over his life like the pink glow of
the sunset over Christian’s Harbour.
The stories of Hans Andersen smoothed
every little rough bit which lay in his
path. He no longer minded the teasing
of the children in the play-ground, but sat
with the dearly-loved book, forgetful of
MY NIGHTINGALE. 19

all around him. And at night he would
tell the stories to his mother, and his eyes
would glisten and his cheeks flush from
pure delight.

“Oh, if I could but write such a
story!” he said hundreds of times.

Although he was only a small boy, |
yet his whole soul was in the story; and
he made the words so living, as it were,
that his mother would sit and listen, for-
getful of all else. When she noticed this,
she left off grieving that he was not like
other children, and she saw that her boy
was to be something different from the
rest. She wisely encouraged his love for
the stories, for she knew that none sweeter
had been set down on paper. And Hol-
ger’s favourite story was that of ‘The
Nightingale,” which no doubt most of you
know. It tells how the Emperor of
China suddenly discovered that he pos-
sessed a treasure he had never heard of
20 MY NIGHTINGALE.

before—a nightingale, So he sent his
courtiers to ask the nightingale to sing to
him, and when he heard the bird he was
so enchanted that he showed it all pos-
sible honour, and no one in China talked
of anything else but this songster of the |
woods. In fact, when the nightingale
sang, tears stood in the emperor’s eyes;
and what more could a bird desire? But
one day an artificial nightingale, studded
with jewels, was sent to the emperor,
which, when wound up, could sing a
tune. And the emperor was so delighted
that he forgot his old favourite and
banished the bird from the country, while
the artificial bird took its place in the
emperor's and every one’s heart. Oh, how
sad it was! The artificial bird could only
sing one tune, but no one wearied of it,
till at last one day something went wrong
inside it, and it broke. They repaired it
as well as possible, but it was only allowed
MY NIGHTINGALE. 21

to sing’ once a year. That was a great
grief to the people of China, but a still
greater one was to befall them. Their
emperor, of whom they were very fond,
fell ill, and all thought he would die. He
lay cold and stiff on his bed, and every-
’ thing he had done in his life, both good
and evil, rose up before him, and weighed
like lead on his heart. He longed for
music to drive all the dreadful thoughts
away, so he begged the artificial bird to
sing to him.’ But the bird was dumb, for
there was no one to wind it up. The
whole court believed the emperor was
dead, and had already gone to make their
bow to the new ruler.

So the emperor lay quite alone and
suffering. Suddenly the most glorious
song sounded outside the window. It was
the real nightingale. |

The horrible thoughts vanished from
the emperor’s brain, and the blood ran
22 MY NIGHTINGALE. |

warm in his veins, and when the nightin-
gale finished he was once more well.
He thanked the little bird which had
come to him in his hour of need, although
it had been treated so badly, and he asked
the bird what reward it wished. But the
nightingale said that the tears it had
drawn from the emperor's eyes, when it
sang the first time, were sufficient reward.
Then the bird promised to sing to him of
everything it had seen in its flight.
“But,” said he, “tell no one that you
have a bird which tells you everything.”
When the servants came to look at the
dead emperor they found him in his impe-
rial robes, and he said, “ Good-morning.”
I have told this story for those who do
not know it, but I wish they would read
it in the words of Andersen himself, for
what are my words compared with his?
Holger never wearied of this story, and
he knew it almost by heart.
MY NIGHTINGALE. 23

Now one day when Holger came home
from school his mother noticed that his
eyes were unusually bright and his cheeks
very red. But she said nothing.

Whilst they sat at supper, Holger said,
“Six -of the children did not come to
school to-day; I suppose they are ill.
The teacher has sent to inquire. O
mother,” he continued, after a moment’s
pause, “I feel so queer.” And he held
the back of his chair for support.

His mother was by his side in a mo-
ment, and before long Holger lay in his
little bed tossing in high fever. The
doctor was called in, and pronounced it
influenza, in a very bad form. Next day
he was worse and quite delirious, talking
incessantly of Andersen and the well-
loved fairy tales. The poor mother was
nearly mad with grief as she sat by his
bed and listened to the disjointed sen-
tences which fell from his lips.
24 MY NIGHTINGALE.

“The nightingale,” he murmured, “how
sweetly it sings—it is like the water in
Christian’s Harbour—I am so hot—do
let the nightingale sing—don’t you see
the emperor—he has sent the real night-
ingale away—J would not have done it.
Oy pee is Andersen ?—do let him
come.” And so on all that day.

“Tf the fever would leave him, and if
he could sleep,” said the doctor, “he
might recover. As it is, he is so excited
that he is losing all his strength.”

“ Andersen, Andersen!” cried Holger.

Now I must tell you that Andersen
was living in Copenhagen at the time of
my story. Holger’s greatest wish was to
see him, but he had never had the good
fortune. He had consoled himself by
saving up the five-dre (halfpenny) pieces
which his mother occasionally gave him,
and buying a photograph of Andersen.
This was his greatest treasure, next to
MY NIGHTINGALE. 25.

the book itself, and he looked at it morn-
ing and evening and kissed it. He had
- decided to write to Andersen on the great
writer’s birthday, for, after discussing it
with his mother, they decided that it was
better than sending a present, as he could
not afford to buy anything worth giving.
The letter had already been written when
Holger was seized with influenza, for,
although Andersen’s birthday was-not for
a week or two, Holger’s excitement was
so great that he could not wait any longer.
He had bought. a sheet of note-paper
with a border of rosebuds and gilt edges,
and the letter now lay on the bureau,
addressed and stamped.

“T will take the letter up to Andersen
himself,” she thought, her heart beating,
“and ask him to come. I know it will :
save my boy’s life.”

On the floor beneath lived another
needlewoman whom Frue Jespersen knew
26 MY NIGHTINGALE.

and liked. She willingly agreed to watch
by Holger for half an hour. Then the
poor mother hastily put on her bonnet
and shawl, and hurried through the dimly-
_ lighted streets towards Havnsgade, where
_ Andersen lived. She clasped the little
letter to her heart, but her courage almost
failed her as she neared her destination.
She was a timid little woman, and she
feared troubling the great man.

“For Holger’s sake,” she repeated over
_and over again with trembling lips, as she
rang the bell.

The servant who answered it seemed
surprised at her request to see her master,
and was half inclined to refuse. But Frue
Jespersen’s haggard face and piteous eyes
moved her to pity.

“Tt is a matter of life or death,” said
the poor woman, leaning against the door
for support.

She was shown into a sitting-room, but
MY NIGHTINGALE. 27

in less than a minute the door opened and
she rose to her feet. Andersen stood be-
fore her. It was a tall, ungainly figure
that of the writer of the sweetest fairy- |
tales in the world; the face was thin and
clean shaven and the nose long. He was >
not handsome, but the eyes were kind and
helped to reassure Frue Jespersen.

She told the story simply, and the
writer's heart was touched. Tears stood
in his eyes as he read the letter, for this
is how it ran :— ;

“Dear, pear Herr Anpersen,—I am a
little boy called Holger, and I am nearly
eight, but I love you so that I hope you
will forgive me for writing. I kiss your
portrait every morning and every even-
ing. Once I loved mother and smor-
rekage (butter-cake) better than anything
else in the world, but now I love mother
and your stories best. I wish you a’
happy birthday and lots of presents. I
28 MY NIGHTINGALE.

would send you one, but I have only ten
dre (one penny). Of all your stories, I
love ‘The Nightingale’ best ; when I read
_ it, it seems like music and flowers. When
I grow up:I shall try to write stories ;
mother thinks I may, if I work hard at
school.

“ Dear, dear Herr Andersen, best love
from ~ ‘Horerr.”

The spelling was somewhat faulty, and
the writing cramped and childish, and yet
it had drawn tears from Andersen’s eyes.

“Tt may save my boy’s life, if you
come, Herr Andersen,” Frue Jespersen
pleaded tearfully.

He expected some friends that evening,
but what were they when compared to the
good deed which it lay in his power to do?

“Take me to your little son,” he said,
with such a look of sympathy that Frue
Jespersen caught his hand and kissed it.
They were soon in the street—he the
MY NIGHTINGALE. 29

greatest writer of his day, whom kings |
and queens honoured, and whose name
was known over the whole world, and the
poor needlewoman of Liljegade. An-
dersen hailed a passing cab, and as they
_ drove he drew from her the story of her
life, and the struggles to earn her bread,
as well as of Holger’s marvellous quick-
ness at learning, and the stories he made
and told her. The cab soon brought
them to Liljegade; they hurried up the
dark, rickety stairs, and quietly. eo
the sick-room.

Holger was still tossing on his pillow,
his eyes closed, his cheeks flushed a deep
rose-red, his thin little hands clasping the
fairy-tales.

And still he moaned, “ Andersen—An-
dersen—‘ The Nightingale’—read me
‘The Nightingale.’”

Andersen with one glance took in the
small room with its neatness and poverty.
30 MY NIGHTINGALE.

He stepped forward to the bed, and as
the light of the candle fell on his features
Holger’s blue eyes opened; a glad sur-
prise dawned in them, and with a cry of |
“ Andersen, you have come!” he raised
himself in bed.
The writer tenderly laid him back on
the pillows, and taking the book from the
hot hands, opened it at “The Nightingale,”
and sitting by the bed, commenced read-
ing the story in a sweet, clear voice.
After the first few sentences, a quiet
expression stole over Holger’s face; his
eyes were fixed on the reader, and as the
last sentence fell from his lips, Holger
murmured, “You are my nightingale,”
and sank into a refreshing sleep.
Andersen sat by the little bed till the
blue daylight came creeping in at the
window. He had made the poor worn-
out mother lie down to rest for a while.
At last Holger stirred and opened his
MY NIGHTINGALE. bl

eyes. He looked in bewilderment at the
figure by the bed.

“ Mother,” he cried, “it is a dreams;
Andersen is here!”

At the sound of his voice Frue Jesper-
sen came to his bed-side, and saw that
the fever had gone and her boy was saved.
Her heart was too full for speech

“Tt is no dream,” said Andersen, tak-
ing the little boy’s hand; “TI heard you
were ill, and came to see you. We are
going to be great friends now.”

Holger was too weak to do anything
but smile contentedly.

Andersen proved himself indeed a frend
to little Holger and his mother. As soon
as the boy was better, he sent them to
the country ; and when they returned, it
was not to Liljegade and its poverty, but
to a pretty little flat in a suburb of the
town. Through him Frue Jespersen ob-
tained almost more work than she could
32 MY NIGHTINGALE.

do, and at last she set up a little shop for
herself. Holger went to a good school
and worked hard, so that he might report
good progress to Andersen. For him
the world contained but two people—his
mother and Andersen.

Holger is grown up now, and the great
writer is dead, yet his love for Andersen
will last for ever. He still kisses the
portrait both morning and evening; and
Holger himself writes such beautiful
poems that those who read them some-
times weep for joy.

And do you know what Holger always
calls Andersen? “ My nightingale.”
THE

STORY: OF PAULINE

 

I

“FTEANETTE! Jeanette! Please
change my frock, quick,” cried a
little girl. The aged woman whom

she addressed laid aside her work, and

taking up a white muslin dress, said,

“What is the hurry, Miss Pauline ?”

“Why, nurse,” she said, “don’t you
know all the people will soon be here,
and: papa wished to see me dressed
first ?”

Jeanette took the little girl on her
knee, and it was not long before she

@) 3
34 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

put her down again in her pretty, white
frock, as beautiful a picture as any fond
father ever looked upon. Just then a man
‘came into the room. It was Jeanette’s
son, Henri. He was of about middle
age, dressed in a workman’s blouse, and
there was much about him that told how
hard a struggle life was to him, as to
many others in that beautiful city of
Paris.

He looked at the merry child, and say-
ing, “ You are well, little lady,” he added,
with a groan, as he seated himself at the
window, “ This world is ill divided.”

“Nay, Henri,” said Jeanette, “if you
have nothing better to tell me than that,
i don’t thank you for coming here to-
night.”

“T say,” retorted the man, “this world
is ill divided ; but there is a time coming
when we will have our rights, or die in
the getting of them.”
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 385

“Henri! Henri!” replied Jeanette, “TI
fear to hear words like these. ‘Who
maketh thee to differ?’ You speak as
if there were no heaven above us, and no
God ruling over all.”

“You see God’s doings, mother, where
IT don’t,” said Henri. “Look at that
little one—there’s more lace on her little
dress than would feed and clothe my
child for a month ; and my Marie starves,
while she flits about like a fairy, as
she is,” he added, as he looked again at
her sparkling eyes and golden curls
with an admiration which he could not
restrain.

Pauline drew near him. Children like
to be admired as surely as older people.

“Ts Marie like a fairy ?” she asked.

The man covered his face with his.
hands and did not answer.

“Ts Marie pretty, like me?” perisied
Pauline.
36 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

“No, no, little miss,” he answered
angrily ; “she is not at all like you.”

‘And Pauline, frightened by the tone —
of his voice, would have cried, had not
the sound of approaching wheels changed
the current of her thoughts.

“They are coming; brush my hair,
quick, quick, nurse!” she cried. And then
with a light bound she went singing down
the stairs. |

When she was gone, Henri began to .
pace up and down the room, uttering
many impatient words as carriage after
carriage rolled up to the door..

“ Henri,” said his mother, “it is not
-man but God you are fighting against.
Who set my master in high places, and
you in low, but God Himself?”

“God never meant the rich to grind
the poor as they do, and He never meant
us to let them do it,” said Henri, “and
we are the more fools that we do.”
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 387

“OQ my son,” replied the patient old
woman, “God reigns. Man can only
wrong us so far as He permits it. Take
everything from Him, Henri, the bitter
as well as the sweet, and all will work
together for good to you. Why is it
that you, with health and strength, are
miserable, and your little suffering child
is happy all the day? Is it not because
she takes all her trouble from the Lord’s
hands, and you are always growling about
the sins of the rich, instead of mourning
over your own? I can tell you—and I
have seen more of them than you—that
the rich have not their sorrows.to seek
either, and have their burdens to bear
too, Henri. I learned that long ago.
It was when my Amy died, and the
little one here too. I thought it hard,
the day after our baby was laid in the
churchyard, to have to begin and toil at
my work as if there had been no change
38 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

among us, when my heart yearned for
time to weep over the little darling’s
grave. Then my lady sent for me to
speak to her; and I remember, as I
walked for the first time up the great
staircase and through these long corridors
filled with beautiful things, I wondered.
what either death or I had to do coming
in there. But, O Henri, when I saw
the poor marchioness struggling alone
with her grief—the children away in the
nursery, and the marquis at court, and
she all day weeping for her lost baby—
then I thanked God that I had my hus-
band and children to work for. O
Henri, Henri, a gilded sorrow is hard to
bear !”

“That may be,” said her son, “ but
there is precious little gilding on mine,
I know.”

As he spoke Pauline danced in at the
door, holding out to him a large bag of
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 39

grapes. and biscuits. “These are fer
Marie,” she said in her sweetest tones,
and ran away again. |

“The dogs eat of the crumbs!” said
Henri; “but,” he added in a softened
voice, ‘it was kind of the child.”

When Henri Durant returned home,
it was to find his patient wife and his
little deformed daughter stitching as
usual by a very dim and uncertain light
indeed. Everything in the -house was
scrupulously clean, and there was even
a something of elegance in the arrange-
ment of the little room that showed an
amount of refinement and taste not com-
mon among the working poor. Elegance
implies leisure also, and Marie, being
debarred from the usual amusements of
children, had many spare moments, which
she spent in devising ways and means
of beautifying their little home. There
were few Protestant families also in the -
40 THE STORY OF PAULINE,

Faubourg St. Antoine, where they lived,
so that though Durant associated with
his fellow-workmen, Marie and her mother
remained nearly as solitary as Mrs. Durant
had been in the Swiss valley where she
was born and had lived until her marriage.

The mystery of such a blighted life as
little Marie’s is perhaps a problem which
it is harder for the parent than the child
to solve.

Marie had taken up her cross simply
as the will of God for her, and had found
such sweet rest in doing so, that many
a favoured child of fortune might have
envied her.

She was enchanted with her little
present, and as she obliged her mother to
eat some of the tempting fruit, she asked
the minutest questions about Pauline.

“How beautiful she must be, father,
and how kind! I wish I could see her,”
' she exclaimed, —
THE STORY OF PAULINE. . AL

“Why, what would she do coming to a
place like this, or speaking to a child like,
you? I tell you, child, the world is ill |
divided.”

Marie sighed. “Poor young lady,” she
said softly, “‘ poor young lady.”

“Why do you say that?” demanded
her father. ne

“Because she has no mother!” said
Marie; and throwing her arms passion.
ately round her mother’s neck, she cried,
“T would not give you, mother dear, for
thousands of gold and silver !”

-Her mother held her in a fond em-
brace, and whispered very softly, “A
little while, my child, and then we shall
understand it all.”

And even the dark and sullen man,
who was looking on them, that moment
caught a passing glimpse of the mighty
law of compensation which so equalizes
life on earth.
4 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

II.

It was not long before Marie’s wish
of seeing the little lady of the castle
was gratified. Pauline had asked many
questions about Jeanette’s grandchild.

« Always sick and always happy, nurse ;
how can that be?” she said; “when I am
sick I am not happy at all.”

“Ah, Miss Pauline,” replied Jeanette,
“Marie knows the secret of happiness.
Do you remember, my dear, how happy
you were the day before yours cousins
came, last year?”

“Oh yes, nurse,” said Pauline, “that.
IT do; and don’t you remember what
- pleasure I had, though it was such a
bad day, putting up the new pictures
on the wall, and preparing everything
for them ?”

“My dear,” said Jeanette, “ you were
happy preparing for their coming be-
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 43°

cause you loved them. Marie loves the
Lord Jesus Christ, and she knows that
He is coming soon. It is a bad enough
day with her now, poor dear, but she is
happy because she is preparing for His
coming.”

Pauline looked very thoughtful. “TI
love the Lord Jesus a little too, I think,
nurse,” she said at last; “but I do not
like to think much about heaven. This
world is a very happy place. It is so
beautiful to me, I do not think I would
like to leave it. Is it very wrong, nurse?”

‘Bless you, my darling !” said Jeanette.
“This world cannot but look different to
you from what it does to an old woman
like me, or to my poor Marie; but God
will take his own way of weaning you
from it; and now, child, what He is say-
ing to you is, ‘In the day of prosperity
be joyful,’ but ‘rejoice in the Lord.’”

The marquis seldom refused any re-
4A THE STORY OF PAULINE.

quest of Pauline’s, and though he did
refuse to allow her to go to the Fau-
bourg where the Durants lived, he sent
a carriage there to bring Marie to their
chateau. It was a few miles to the
east of Paris, and Marie had never seen
or fancied anything so beautiful.

These two little girls soon became
fast friends. Many might have thought
the gain all on the side of the poor
man’s child; but there were others who
thought differently, when they saw the
influence of her simple, holy life upon
the character of Pauline. Her gaiety
~ and cheerfulness remained, but there was
now a constant though childlike struggle
maintained against the vanity and pride
which everything around her seemed
made to foster.

“ Tt is nice to be pretty, Marie,” she said
one day, “but I often wish I were not; it
makes it so difficult to be good, I think.”
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 45

(322.

“ How strange!” replied Marie, “and
I have so often thought that beauty must
make it easy to be good. You will never
envy any one, Miss Pauline.”

“Q Marie,” she cried, “I am glad
you know, too, what it is to have bad
thoughts ; but what do you do then?”

“T try to say, ‘Get thee behind me,
Satan,” said Marie; “and it is that
which makes the thought of heaven so
“sweet. There will be no more sin, nor
sorrow, nor pain there.”

Pauline said no more when her friend
spoke of heaven; it awoke no joyful chord
in her heart, earth was still so fair to her.

While Pauline and Marie were thus
becoming yearly more attached to each
other, the angry feelings which had been’
roused in so many of the over-wrought
and over-taxed poor in Paris against the
higher classes were yearly increasing in
bitterness.
46 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

Under the iron but wise grasp of
Napoleon the people learned to respect
themselves, and it was too late for the
Bourbons to attempt again to reign as
_ despotic sovereigns over a nation of serfs.

When Louis the Eighteenth was suc-
ceeded by the weak and obstinate Charles
the Tenth, the struggle between arbitrary
and real power soon came to a close.

Two years after my story begins,
Pauline and Marie were seated one
sultry July evening under the shade of
some chestnut trees.

“Miss Pauline,” said Marie, “does the
marquis ever speak to you of the things
that are coming, as my father does?”

“What things? I do not know what
you mean,” said Pauline.

“ My father says,” replied Marie, “that
another revolution is at hand, and that,
soon our poor little home will be a safer
place for you than this great castle.”
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 47.

“T do not know what you mean,”
repeated Pauline.

“T scarcely know either,” replied Marie,
“but my father says the king and the
nobles and the priests are determined to
' take away the charter of our rights, and
make us all little better than slaves, and
that it is time for us to resist and fight
for freedom. Perhaps it is true, but, O
Miss Pauline, war must be a terrible
thing, and I wish it had pleased God to
take me safe to heaven first, and you
too;” and the little girl burst into a
flood of tears. 2
. Pauline gave her what comfort she
could, but poor Marie was sent home far
sadder than her wont that night. Her
father returned earlier than he had done
for many weeks, but his brow was even
more clouded than usual. With an at-
tempt at mirth, he threw a handful of
silver on the table.
48 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

“There, wife,’ he said—‘ there is our
fortune ; make what you can of it, for it.
is not likely that a second will come our
way.” Then, as if answering the speech-
less terror of his wife, he added, “I mean,
Lotta, that M. Fernaux has paid us all -
off, and there is no more work in Paris’
for any honest man left.” Fat

' Waiting no answer, he left the house,
and did not return that night.

Soon after Marie had left the castle,
the marquis called for Pauline, and said,
“My child, tell Jeanette to pack such
things as you may need, for I intend
that we should go to-morrow to my
hotel in Paris.”

“Why, papa, why ?” asked Pauline.

“ Because,” said the marquis, ‘‘I wish
it. This is a lonely place, and I must
have you under my own care in such
times as these.”

Pauline thought of what Marie had

*
THE STORY OF. PAULINE. 49

told her, and did not wonder so much
as she would otherwise have done at this
sudden resolution.

_ $o, on the morning of July 27, 1830,
the household moved to the marquis’s
hotel, near the Tuileries—just the day
-on which the Revolution, which had been
so long pending, broke over the city.

When the marquis and his family
reached Paris, it was easy to see that
the ordinary state of things was at an
end. In all the thoroughfares knots, in
~some places crowds, of sullen, angry men
were gathered together; and as the mar-
quis’s equipage drove past, shouts of
“Vive la charte! Vive la charte!” were
raised every now and then.

“T doubt,” said the marquis, “if it
has been wise to return here at all; and
I cannot even stay with you to-day, my
child, for His Majesty has ordered my
attendance at court this morning. I

() 4
50 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

shall, however, return in the evening.—
And, Jeanette, you will go at once and
tell your son to come and speak to me
then. He will understand what these
people mean, and I shall be guided by
his advice.”

Pauline listened in silent wonder. That
her proud father should ask advice from
Jeanette’s son made her feel as if the
very end of the world had come.

When they reached their hotel, the
marquis, taking one of the outrider’s
horses, started at once for the court, as
if he had quite forgotten the usual eti-
quettes of ceremonial altogether; and
again Pauline’s heart died within her.

“O Jeanette, take the carriage and be
quick,” she said, “and do bring Marie
with you. I shall be so frightened till
you come back.”

“Never fear, my lamb,” said Jeanette,
“no one will harm you here; and as for
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 51

the carriage, it seems to me that I will
_ be safer without it, for no one will take
notice of an old woman like me, unless
I am in a fine carriage.”

IIl.

Iv was with great difficulty that Jeanette
threaded her way through many of the
streets; not that any one would have
wished to harm her, but the crowds in
many places quite blocked up the way
‘ to foot-passengers. At last she reached
the Faubourg St. Antoine. “ You here,
mother!” exclaimed her son’s voice, be-
fore she had entered the house; “ what
in the name of wonder brings you here
to-day ?”

Jeanette hastily gave her master’s
message, and then would have returned,
but Henri said, “No, no, mother; you
‘have come unasked, but no woman leaves
this house to-day. Do not be afraid for
52 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

the little lady; I will soon bring her to
you, and both you and she will be safer
in this poor place than at home.”

So saying, he locked the door and
hastened down the street.

“O grandmother,” said Marie, “how
terrible this is! and how afraid poor
Miss Pauline will be when both her
father and you are away! Do you hear
that dreadful noise 2”

It was dreadful indeed, for the troops -
had begun to fire upon the enraged mul-
titude. They listened in silent terror,
till at last the old woman, taking refuge,
in the great stronghold of her faith,
murmured, “God reigneth!” and Marie
gently added, “ Blesséd for ever !”

Henri had truly meant to bring Jean-
_ette her young charge without delay, but
once out in the excited whirlpool of the
riot, all thought of her was driven from
his mind, and he was one of the busiest
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 53

in rearing barricades in’ the principal
thoroughfares to arrest the progress of
the military.

How long that day seemed to poor’
forsaken Pauline! She looked out at
the windows for hours, hoping to see
her father or Jeanette, but it was all in
vain; and as the noise grew more alarm-
ing, it was only occasionally that she had
courage to go to the window at all.

At last she became sensible that while
the noise out of doors increased every
moment, the stillness and silence in the
house was becoming greater. She rang
the bell, but no one answered. Going
into the principal corridor, she called
each servant by name, and received no
answer. One by one, during the day,
the servants had dropped away, some
only to see what was doing, others to
join heart and hand with the insurgents ;
and so, as night began to close in, the
54 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

poor little girl realized that she was all
alone. “What shall I do? what shall
I do?” she sobbed, forgetting that there
was none to hear. Then falling on her
knees, she prayed to God to take care of
a little, lonely child, for Jesus’ sake; and
the very act of doing this helped to
comfort her.

When it became very dark, she rolled
herself in a rug and lay quietly down
upon a sofa.

It was then that the holy lessons of old
Jeanette and Marie came to her mind,
and one favourite couplet of Marie’s was
as a sweet refrain to her all through this
long night,—

‘Quite alone, and yet not lonely,
Tl converse with God my Friend.”

When the morning came, and the warm
July sun shone into the room, she never
thought of moving, but lay quite ex-.
hausted with fear, fatigue, and hunger. —
THE STORY OF PAULINE. “55

At last she was roused by heavy foot-
steps on the stair, and she heard Henri
Durant’s voice calling, “Miss Pauline,
Miss Pauline, where are you ?”

She ran to meet him; and telling her
she must come at once with him, he
_ hastened her away. He could give her
no tidings of her father. Pauline had
always felt in some degree of awe of
Durant, and as he dragged her along she
did not dare to tell him how ill she was.

Every now and then they came. to
great barricades formed of overturned
omnibuses and carriages of every descrip-
tion. At another time a mob would
close round them, and they would be
constrained to go with it quite out of
their way. At last Henri, seeing that
his little charge could scarcely get along
at all, took her up in his arms; but the
moment he chose to do so was an un-
fortunate one. The crowd was great,
56 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

and a tall man coming to meet it threw
a heavy burden which he was bearing
into the heart of it. It was the dead
body of a woman who had been shot
by the soldiery! Pauline shrieked with
terror at the ghastly spectacle. Changed
as the features were, she recognized old
Madeleine, a washerwoman of some re-
pute, whom she had often seen coming
for her muslin dresses.

“OQ Henri!” she cried, “surely it is
Madeleine.”

“Yes, miss,” he answered, “yes; but
she’s better off now; it was harder for
Madeleine to live than to die.”

This was Pauline’s first sight of death,
but before reaching their destination they
had to pass many of the dead, and, what
was worse, of the wounded, whom it was
impossible to help. It seemed as if they
were never to get to the Faubourg St.
Antoine ; and when at last placed in the
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 57

arms of her faithful old nurse, it was long
before she could answer her or Marie
further than by sobs.

“QO Jeanette! Jeanette!” she cried,
“JT have seen such horrible things, such
horrible things; I wish that I could
die!” :

They laid her on Marie’s little bed,
and did what their simple skill could
suggest to arrest the fever which it was
evident had laid hold on her.

One day more was sufficient to end
the brief Revolution and to establish the
just claims of the people, but for weeks
the little sufferer lay nearly unconscious
of all around her, only often repeating,
“Let me die! oh, let me die! I have
seen such terrible things!” And thus it
was that the love of life was taken away
from poor Pauline.
~ As rough handling soon rubs, the
beautiful down from the peach, so these
58 THE STORY OF PAULINE.

terrible days had for ever robbed earth
of its glory to her.

Do not think that she was thus a
loser. Truth is better than falsehood.
Earth is not heaven; and the sooner
we find this out the better.

Pauline did not die, but all things
seemed different to her now. She saw
that life was not, as it had once seemed,
a sort of walk through fairy-land, but
an earnest and often toilsome pilgrimage
towards a paradise fairer than the heart
_ of man can dream of.

Marie was before very long called to
lay down the cross which she had borne
so meekly, but Pauline’s lot was a very
chequered one. Much of the marquis’s
property had. been destroyed during the
Revolution ; and as he died soon after, and
his estates were inherited by a nephew,
_ only a very small portion of worldly goods
remained to Pauline.
THE STORY OF PAULINE. 59

Like most women in France, she mar-
ried early; and she lived to follow her
husband and children to the grave. Then
leaving the city where she had suffered
so much, she retired to a small property
of her husband’s in Auvergne, attended
by Mrs. Durant, who was then, like her- |
self, a widow and childless. :
_ There she lived as a shining light in
a dark place, until, her work on earth
being finished, she entered that holy,
- happy land, where “the former troubles
are forgotten,” where “there shall be no
more death, neither sorrow nor crying,
neither shall there be any more pain, for
the former things are passed away.”
Litieet SUNSTEIN E.

 

POOR old man with a bent back
was wheeling home a basket full
of linen which his wife had washed.

“You've no business on the footway,”
said a well-dressed woman whom he met.
“The place for barrows is the road.”

The path was just a little bit narrow
there, and she had had to move aside to
make way for him; but the road was full
of great rough stones.

“Tve as much right on the path as -
you,” he answered angrily, as he wheeled
by. “I wish her back might ache like
- LITTLE SUNSHINE. 61

mine,” he muttered; and he went his
way, his brow hard knit and his mouth
hard set, thinking many a hard thought.

It was a lovely morning, bright and
sunny, and the larks were singing’ blithely
all around. But the old man did not
hear the larks, nor did he see how blue
the sky was overhead. He only saw the
great, rough stones, and heard the echo
of his angry thoveht I wish her back
might ache like mine.’

Just then he came in sight of a oe
through which he had to pass. A-gentle-
man was going through, but he never so
much as took a thought for the poor
man; and the gate swung to again before
the poor old fellow could get up to it.

“Why couldn’t he ha’ fixed it open?”
he muttered angrily; and stopping his
barrow, he went round and threw it open.
with an angry swing.

Now it is never of much use being
62 LITTLE .SUNSHINE. |

anery with a gate. It only shivered for
a, minute, as if it had half a mind to drop
to pieces, then gently swung to. Before
the old man could get back to the handles
and wheel up, it was close shut.

- He went round again, and flung it wide
a second time—harder even than before.
But it only bounded back the quicker,
and shut to in his face again.

Then he stamped upon the ground and
spoke crossly.

“T wouldn’t lose my temper, my good
fellow,” exclaimed a voice behind him;
“it can do no good,” and a comfortable-
looking man slipped through the gate.
“Why not try a little gentleness?” he
added over his shoulder, with a half smile
as he went. “Gates want coaxing like
the rest. of us.”

The old man ground his teeth and
muttered. If only he had held the gate
open instead of reproving !
LITTLE SUNSHINE. 63

Just then a little fair-haired girl came
dancing along, her school-satchel on her
arm.

“Wait a minute,” cried she, seeing
what a worry he was in; and she held
the gate wide open for him, whilst he
wheeled his barrow through.

“T’m so glad I chanced to come this ©
way, cried she. ‘This gate zs tiresome,
and that’s such a heavy load for you.
When it’s wet I have to go round by the
‘road, you know; but it’s so fine to-day.”
And she danced along beside him as he
wheeled. “Do listen to that lark too,”
cried she. “There he is—look, right up
there.”

And the old man actually stopped and
set his barrow down; and up went one
hand to his eyes to shade them, so that
he might find the little black speck mak-
ing all that music in the sky. And all at
once he quite forgot the gate that would
64 LITTLE SUNSHINE.

swing to, and the man that jeered but did
not stop to help, and the selfish woman on
the footway farther back; and he only
saw the bright blue sky that told him
winter was quite gone, and only heard the
little bird that sang for very joy of heart
as it flew upward toward the sun.

Then he looked down at the happy
little face that smiled up into his.

“God bless you, little lady! God bless

you!” said he.
“ But I must run on; I’m afraid I shall -
be late for school,” cried she. “I am so

glad, though, that I came this way.”
“God bless her, Little Sunshine!” said

the old man, as he watched her trip away.
And the barrow seemed so light.

THE END.