Part 16

"Out of here, you little baggage!" cried a hoarse voice, and one of the waiters pointed angrily to the door.

"Let her come in," said John Harvey.

"We don't allow them in this place, sir," said the waiter, "but she can go into the reading-room."

"Well, let her go somewhere. I want to hear her," responded the gentleman.

All this time the two had seen the shadow of something hovering backwards and forwards on the edge of the door; now they followed a slight little figure, wrapped in a patched cloak, patched hood, and leaving the mark of wet feet as she walked. Curious to see her face--she was very small--John Harvey lured her to the farthest part of the great room where there were but few gentlemen, and then motioned her to sing. The little one looked timidly up. Her cheek was of olive darkness, but a flush rested there, and out of the thinnest face, under the arch of broad temples, deepened by masses of the blackest hair looked two eyes whose softness and tender pleading would have touched the hardest heart.

"That little thing is sick, I believe," said John Harvey, compassionately. "What do you sing, child?" he added.

"I sing Italian or a little English."

John Harvey looked at her shoes. "Why," he exclaimed, and his lips quivered, "her feet are wet to her ankles; she will catch her death of cold."

By this time the child had begun to sing, pushing back her hood, and folding before her her little thin fingers. Her voice was wonderful; and simple and common as were both air and words, the pathos of the tones drew together several of the merchants in the reading-room. The little song commenced thus:

"There is a happy land, Far, far away."

Never could the voice, the manner, of that child be forgotten. There almost seemed a halo around her head; and when she had finished, her great speaking eyes turned toward John Harvey.

"Look here, child; where did you learn that song?" he asked.

"At the Sunday School, Sir."

"And you don't suppose there is a happy land?"

"I know there is; I'm going to sing there," she said, so quickly, so decidedly that the men looked at each other.

"Going to sing there?"

"Yes, sir. Mother said so. She used to sing to me until she was very sick. Then she said she wasn't going to sing any more on earth, but up in heaven."

"Well--and what then?"

"And then she died, sir," said the child; tears brimming down the dark cheek now ominously flushed scarlet.

John Harvey was silent for a few moments.

Presently he said: "Well, if she died, my little girl, you may live, you know."

"Oh, no, sir! no, sir! I'd rather go there; and be with mother. Sometimes I have a dreadful pain in my side and cough as she did. There won't be any pain up there, sir; it's a beautiful world!"

"How do you know?" faltered on the lips of the skeptic.

"My mother told me so, sir."

Words how impressive! manner how child-like, and yet so wise!

John Harvey had had a praying mother. His chest labored for a moment-- the sobs that struggled for utterance could be heard even in their depths--and still those large, soft, lustrous eyes, like magnets impelled his glance toward them.

"Child you must have a pair of shoes." John Harvey's voice was husky.

Hands were thrust in pockets, purses pulled out, and the astonished child held in her little palm more money than she had ever seen before.