# The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man/Chapter XI

CHAPTER XI.
AN ORPHAN GIRL.
Mr. Barlow (Barlow was the stranger's name) soon revived under the influence of the Aikins' hospitalities. As he himself expressed it, kindness was the medicine he wanted; and every day he felt its healing power.
"I am not two shillings out of pocket in a week for the poor man," said Aikin; "and I think, Susan, we take as much pleasure in seeing him refreshed at our table, as the rich do in their dinner-parties. To tell the truth, Susan, though I suppose no one but you would believe it, I never did wish to change conditions with them."
"Nor I, I am sure; they must have a great deal of trouble. I often pity them. Not but that I am willing to take trouble, but then it must be for something to be got out of it."
This remark of Susan's led her husband to suggest a project which, after various emendations from her, was soon after carried into effect. They, like all good parents, rich or poor, were steadfastly intent on the advancement of their children. It has been already seen how much our friends were benefited by their early education—the common and paramount blessing of New-England. They felt their children to be the gift of God, and, being religious and reasoning beings, they fully realized ​their responsibility to Him for the use and improvement of this best of his gifts. They were sufficiently acquainted with, the condition, laws, institutions, and capabilities of their country, to know how to train their children to profit by them, and, when they became men and women, to reflect honour on them. They sent them to school; but they well knew that schools could do but a small part towards their education. Home was the school in which they were to be taught, from the first year of their existence, by day and by night, in sickness and in health, and their parents were to set them the copies which they were to follow. Besides instruction in virtues and manners, which, if not learned at home, are learned nowhere, they improved every opportunity of adding to their knowledge. Henry Aikin often devoted a leisure moment to looking over a book-stall, where valuable second-hand books are frequently to be obtained at low prices. He had lately purchased a work on natural history, with good plates, and he now proposed that Mr. Barlow, who was well acquainted with the subject, should give the children some instruction upon it; which, with the aid of the books, might be made very attractive to them. Susan suggested, that it was a pity such an opportunity should be confined to their children, and mentioned two or three worthy families whose children might be included. This led to an extension of the plan; and it was finally concluded to propose a social meeting, to be held successively at the different families included. Mr. Barlow was to give a sort of lecture, and, after that was over, the evening was to be passed socially. "If we ​only had that little back room," said Susan, "we should want for nothing." The little back room was an apartment in a back building, with an entrance from the landing of the first flght of stairs. It was neatly finished, had a communication of its own with the yard, and a closet, large enough for a bed, attached to it. The Aikins had long wished to add it to their narrow accommodations, and more than ever recently, for it had been rented to a woman who, from her extreme shyness, her being visited only occasionally by a person who called himself her husband, and her having a little girl dressed in tawdry and shabby finery, they deemed a very undesirable neighbour. Uncle Phil, who was the kindest-hearted gossip in the world, but still a gossip, retained his country propensity to know all about his neighbours' affairs. He was much puzzled by the tenant of the back parlour, and day after day repeated to Charlotte and Susan, "Who can that woman be? I can't get sight of her face under that dum deep bonnet and veil; but her walk looks natural, and always puts me in mind of some of our Essex folks."
"That's odd, Lottie," said Susan; "don't you remember my telling you one day, when she was calling her little girl, that her voice sounded natural?"
"Yes; but she can't be any one we ever knew."
"I am sure I hope not."
"I hope not, too," said Uncle Phil, "but I do feel for the little girl; she looks so wishful after our children, and she's pretty spoken."
"I feel for her, too," said Susan, "but I must know something more about her before I should ​feel it to be right to let the children associate with her."
Uncle Phil was determined, as far as in him lay, to remove this objection, and to make the most of the first opportunity of finding out something about the little stranger; so, the first mild sunny day, he stationed himself at the street door, with the baby in his arms, sure that the little girl, who frequently passed in and out, would be attracted by the natural affinities of childhood. She soon appeared, with a pitcher in her hand, on her way to the pump. She would have been extremely pretty, but that she wanted the foundation of all childhood's beauty—health. Her eye was sunken; her cheeks pale, and lips blue; and she looked peaked and cold. Her dress was thin and shabby. She had a soiled silk frock; slippers down at the heel; a faded silk bonnet, with artificial flowers; a carnelian necklace and ear-rings; and a ragged French shawl. A sad contrast was she to Anne and Ruth Aikin, who, in their school-dress, with a pail between them, were preceding her at the pump. They were dressed in factory frocks, and aprons with pockets; gingham hoods; warm gray cloaks; calf-skin shoes, and nice woollen stockings, of Aunt Lottie's knitting. On they ran, chattering and giggling, while the little shivering stranger lagged alone behind them. "I know very well, Mary," said Anne, in reply to something from her sister, "mother don't like us to keep company with girls she don't know; but, then, I know mother would not object to our just speaking kindly to her: I'll tell mother about it. Little girl," raising her voice, "we've filled our ​pail—hold up your pitcher, and I'll pump that full." The courtesies of childhood have more expression than form. The stranger held up the pitcher till the water ran over it, and followed the, little girls back with a lighter step. As she reached the door-step, an impatient voice called, "Juliet! Juliet!" She ran up the stairs, set her pitcher within the door, and eagerly returned, apparently in the hope of again seeing the little Aikins; but they had gone in, and no one. was at the door but Uncle Phil and the baby. "So, your name is Juliet, is it?" he asked, eagerly seizing on a starting-point to begin his acquaintance.
"Yes, sir," replied Juliet, gently taking the hand the baby had stretched to snatch her ear-ring.
"Juliet what?" pursued Uncle Phil.
"Juliet Smith, sir."
"Smith?" ejaculated Uncle Phil, disappointed at hearing a name that afforded no clew.
"Yes, Smith—at least mother's name is Smith."
"Then yours is, sartin."
"No, it is not, sir—she is not my real mother."
"Is not? do tell! what is your real mother's name?"
"My own mother is dead, sir."
"Well, what was her name, child?" .
"I don't know, sir; take care, baby, don't pull my ear so."
"Be done, Phil—poor little captain, he never sees such notions—our gals don't wear them. But did you never ask your own mother's name?"
"Yes, sir; and she says she'll tell me all about her one of these days."
"Are you sure she is dead?"
​"Sure, sir!—I saw her buried up in the ground. "The tears poured down the child's cheeks.
"I declare," said Uncle Phil, brushing his hand across his own eyes, and then drawing Juliet close to him—"is that person you call mother kind to you?" he asked.
"Sir!—almost always she is—sometimes she is dreadful sleepy—and sometimes she—she don't feel well—and then she gets angry very easy."
"Was your own mother kind to you?"
"My own mother!—indeed, indeed she was—always."
"Poor little child! I feel for you. How long since she died?"
"I don't know; I know it was winter-time, and we had not any wood, when Mrs. Smith came into our room—but it was not last winter—and I don't know when it was."
"Was this woman up stairs any kin to you?"
"No, she did not even know mother before that time—she was angry about something when she came in; but, when she saw how sick mother was, and that I was lying close to her to warm her, for I told you we had not any wood, sir, she seemed very sorry for mother, and she cried—and mother sent me out of the room—and she took care of mother almost all the time till she died—it was not long, though—for I remember there was a bit of the loaf of bread she brought lying by mother when she died. Now I am afraid she is getting sick just as mother was, for she coughs all night."
Before Uncle Phil had time for any more interrogatories, Juliet was again called, and he went ​into his daughter's room to enjoy the next best pleasure to hearing news, viz.—telling it.
"So, you see," he said, concluding his story, "it was not strange I felt a kind of yearning towards that poor child; and since she's turned to be an orphan-like neglected little body, I hope, gals (to Charlotte and Mrs. Aikin), you'll take her by the hand."
Never were persons more ready to listen to such counsel. Mrs. Aikin had forbidden all intercourse with the forlorn little stranger, but the case now assumed a new aspect; and, when Aikin came home to dinner, their duty to the child was discussed in a committee of the whole family; Uncle Phil, as was his wont, spoke first. His thoughts were all on the surface, and, as soft substances easily melt, they naturally ran into words.
"It's my firm opinion," he said, "that this Miss Smith is not a great deal better than she should be—I always suspect your people that ain't sociable and open-hearted; and what kind of a husband is that she's got, that comes slinking in, his face buried in the cape of his cloak? They'll just bring up that child—and she's a capital child, I tell you—to destruction. I feel as if you ought to do something about it."
"What can we do, Susan?" said Aikin, appealing to his wife.
"I don't know; but, as father says, I feel as if it would be a comfort to do something."
"I have two pairs of nice warm stockings that would about fit her," said Aunt Lottie, "and our children are supplied for the winter."
"Oh, mother!" said Anne, "mayn't she have ​one of my warm frocks?—I can do with one, and she looks so shivery!"
"And, father," said William, "if you will only give her the rest, I will give her my four shillings towards a pair of good shoes. I saw her coming in the other day, with her feet so wet and cold that she could not help crying."
"Mother," said little Ruth, "can't you and Aunt Lottie contrive her such a petticoat as you made for me, of old pieces, with cotton quilted between them? you may take my patchwork for the lining."
"My friends," said Mr. Barlow, who sat listening with extreme interest to these promptings of the heart, "may I put in my mite? Cannot the little girl come into our evening class? She may gain something from my instructions, and she cannot fail to profit by intercourse with your children."
The Aikins most cheerfully acquiesced in this suggestion. "The warm garments," Susan said, "would only be a present comfort, but a good done to her mind would be lasting; and she feared no evil to arise to her children while their intercourse with the little stranger was under her own eye."
Blessed are those families who call within their fold some of the wandering lambs of the flock! One more point was to be gained. The insuperable obstacle to conferring a benefit often arises from the party to be benefited. Mrs. Aikin was desirous to see Juliet's present protector. Some curiosity, we do not deny, she felt to see, face to face, the person whose gait and voice had struck her father and herself as familiar; but she was mainly anxious to ascertain the child's condition ​and prospects. She therefore intercepted Juliet in the entry, and asked her to tell her mother she wished to speak with her. Juliet returned immediately, saying, "Her mother was too busy."
"Come down, then, Juliet, and let me know as soon as she is at leisure." Juliet smiled, bowed her head assentingly, and was seen no more that day. The next, a similar effort was baffled by a like evasion. On the third, Mrs. Aikin went herself to the door, knocked, and, after some bustle, Juliet opened a crack, just enough to show her face, which was died with blushes, as she said, "Mother says she don't wish at any time to see strangers."
"Then let the door remain ajar, Juliet, while I speak to her." She concisely communicated her plan, and requested that Juliet might regularly attend with the class. When she had finished, "Oh, please—please, ma'am," said Juliet, "wait one minute!"
Again the door was shut, and there were earnest whisperings within; the latch was then lifted, and Juliet most joyfully cried—"I may come, I may come!"
There is one thing more delightful than to make a child happy—the expectation that the happiness will lead to permanent good.