OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 896, 3 May 1889, Page 5

OUR BOYS & GIRLS.

LITTLE SAINT ELIZABETH. By Frances Hodgson Burnett. (Continued.) The man again spent a few moments in examining them, and, having done so, spoke hesitatingly. ‘I am afraid we must not buy them,’ he said. * It would be impossible, unless your friends first gave their permission.’ ‘ Impossible ?’ said Elizabeth, and tears rose in her eyes, making them look softer and more wistful than ever. * We could not do it,’ said the jeweler. It is out of the question—under the circumistancoa. ‘ Do you think —’ faltered the disappointed child, ‘do you think that nobody will buy them ?’ * I am afraid not,’ was the reply. ‘ No respectable firm who would pay their real value. If you’ll take my advice, miss, you will take them home and consult your friends.' He spoke kindly, but Elizabeth was overwhelmed with disappointment. She did not know enough of the world to understand that a richly-dressed little girl who offered valuable jewels for sale at night must be a strange and unusual sight. When she found herself on the street again, her long lashes were heavy with tears. ‘ If no one will buy them,’ she said, * what shall I do ?’ She walked a long way—so long that she was very tired—and offered them at several places ; but, as she chanced to enter onlyrespectable shops, the same thing happened each time. She’ was looked at curiously and questioned, but no one would buy. ‘They are mine,’ she would say. ‘lt is right that I should sell them.’ But every one stared and seemed puzzled, and in the end refused. At last, after much wandering, she found herself iu a poorer quarter of the city j the streets were narrower and dirtier, and the people began to look squalid and wretchedly dressed ; there were smaller shops and dingier houses. She saw unkempt men and women and uncared-for little children. The poverty of the poor she had seen in her own village seemed comfort and luxury by contrast. She had never dreamed of. anything like this. Now and then she felt faint with pain and horror. But she went on. ‘ They .have no vineyards,’ she said to herself. ‘ No trees and flowers. It is all dread, ful ? There is nothing. They need help more than the others. To let them suffer so and not to give them charity would be a great crime.’ She was so full Of grief and excitement that she had ceased to notice how every one , looked at her ; sho saw only the wretchedness and dirt and misery. She did not know, poor child, that see was surrounded by danger—that she Was in the midst not only of misery, but of dishonesty and ciime. She had even forgotten her timidity ; that it was growing late, and that she was far from home and would not know how to return ; she did not realize that she had walked so far, that she was almost exhausted with fatigue. She had brought with her all the money she possessed. If she could not sell the jewels she could at least give something to some one in want. But she did not know to whom she must give first. When she had lived with her Aunt Clotilde it had been their habit to visit the peasants in tbeir houses. Must she enter one of these houses —these dreadful places with the dark passages, from which she many times heard riotous voices and even cries. ‘But those who do good must feel no fear,’ she thought. * It is only to have courage.’ At length something happened which oaused her to pause before one of these places. She heard sounds of pitiful moans and sobbing from something crouched upon the broken steps. It seemed like a heap of rags, but as she drew near she saw by the light of the atreot lamp opposite that it was a woman with her head on her knees and a wretched ( child at each side of her. The chiidien were shivering with cold and making low cries as if frightened. Elizabeth stopped, and then ascended the steps. ‘ Why is it that you cry ?’ she asked gently. ‘Tell me.’ The woman did not answer at first, but when Elizabeth spoke again she lifted her head, and as soon as she saw the slender figure in its velvet and furs, and the pale, refined little face, she gave a great 3tart. ‘ Mercy’ on us,’ she said in a hoarse voice, which sounded almost terrified. ‘Who are yez, an’ what bes ye doin’ in a place the loike o’ this ?’ ‘I came,’ said Elizabeth, ‘to see those who are poor. I wish to help them. I have great sorrow for them. It is right that the rich should help those who want. Tell me why you cry, and why your little children sit in the cold.’ Everybody to whom Elizabeth had spoken that night had shown surprise, but no one had stared a 3 this woman did. •It’s no place for the loike o’ yez,’ she ■aid, ‘an’ it black noight, an’ men and women not knowin’ what they do —wid Pat Harrigan insoide aB bad as the worst of them, an’ it’s turned me and the children out he has, to shlape in the snow—not for the furst toime, ayther. Shure, ’t is starvin’ we are—starvin’, an’ no other.’ She dropped her wretched head on her knees and began to moan again, and the children joined her. 1 Don’t let yer daddy hoar yez,’ Bho said to

them. * Whisht now !—-it’s come an’ bat© yez he will.’ Elizabeth began to feel tremulous and faint. *ls it that they have hunger ?’ she asked. ‘ Nayther bite or eup have they had this day nor yesterday,’ was the answer. ‘The good saints have pity on us.’ . * Yes,’ says Elizabeth, ‘ the good saints have always pity. I will go and buy thorn food—poor little ones.’ She had seen a shop only a few yards away—she remembered passing it. Before the woman could speak again she was gone. ‘Yes,’ she said, * I was sent to them—it is the answer to my prayer—it was not in vain that I asked so long.' When she entered the shop the few people who were in it stopped what they were doing to stare at her as others had done—but she scarcely saw that it waß so. ‘ Give to me a basket,’ she said to the owner of the place. ‘ Put in it some bread and win©—some of the things which ar© . ready to eat. It is for a poor woman and her little ones who starve.’ There was in the shop among others a redfaced woman with a cunning look in her eyes. She slided out of the place and was waiting for Elizabeth when she oame out. * I’m starvin’, too, little lady,’ she said. * There’s many of us that way, an’ it’s not often them with money care about it. Give me something, too,’ in a weedling voice. Elizabeth looked up at the woman—her pure ignorant eyes full of pity. * I have great sorrows for you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the poor woman will share her food with you ' ‘lt’s money I need,’ said the woman. *1 have none left,’ answered Elizabeth. *1 will come again.’ ‘lt’s now I need it/ the woman persisted. Thon she looked covetously at Elizabeth’s velvet clonk, lined and trimmed with fur. ‘That’s a pretty cloak you’ve on,’ she said. e You’ve many another, I dare say.’ Suddenly she gave the cloak a pull, but the fastening did not give way as she had expected. ‘ Is it because you are cold that you want it ?’ said Elizabeth in her gentle, innocent way. ‘ I will give it to you. Take it.’ (To be concluded.) ;