KQm
Poffe
CHAPTER I.
"What do you think ? Is It poor!
or had?" The questioner was a little
lollow seven or eight years of ape, and
the question was propounded to his own
shadow on the wall, for other company
he lad none. He stood just within the
half open door of the basement corridor
if the convent church of St. Catherine.
The corridor led into ono of the numer
ous rooms set apart by the fathers tor
certain of their workmen and a few priv
ileged poor of both sexes. It adjoined
the receiving vault, and the voice of the
priest chanting the fun *ral prayers might
be distinctly heard by anyone passing
along the corridor.
The little questioner had not asked him
self the question apropos of nothing. Mis '
whole heart had been in the effort that i
had called it forth. Mo had been prac
tising alone, and, as he supposed, quite
unseen, the Russian national dance—a
lively dance indeed, and one demanding
infinite agility. Pausing a second to take
I reath, lie asked himself the momentous
question, "Good or bad?" and catching
sight of his shadow on the wall he ha 1
addrd. "What do you think?" "1 say !
good, for sure," he shouted, as he rm out
of the door, through the great gates and
into the place M chel, where, turniii"
sharply and suddenly, he seemed to drop
into the earth and disappear. He had
only descended, w.tli one plunge, the j
steep flight, of stone steps leading down
into a chandler's shop, where cucumbers
and black bread were to bo procured, a
well as tallow candies and pottery of all |
kinds.
"A p und of black bread," lie de
manded, in clear, ringing tones. While j
waiting for it, w tit a snap of his fingers
and an involuntary movement of his im
patient and restless feet, "Good, very
good, I think," he whispered to himself.
"Good, very good," he again repeated i
a ound, as tlie pound of black bread was
thrust towards him.
"Of course it is good," said the shop
man. "Take it and be off."
The boy laughed merrily as lie flew up j
tlie stone steps, looking back an instant 1
before lie disappeared to show a saucy
face to the merchant, and singing blithely
as lie dashed back through the stone cor
r dor and into a room, small, dark ami
clos \
The day was gloriously bright thou 'h
bitterly cold, and the boy was in high j
spirits, though for what reason he could ]
not have told. His young blood was j
dancing in his veins, his feet keeping |
time to s one inward melody, and his blue j
eyes sparkling with glee.
He hud hardly time to lay down the
black bread when he hears a heavy step.
He springs to open the door.
"Here it is, my Dyuda," ai d he points
to tie loaf. "My I)yada," (my uncle) lie
pronounces in a caressing tone, with u
little emphasis on the pronoun that is
very touching to hear.
"My Dyada" takes the loaf and cut-*
one generous slice, and one small one;
then, spri ikling both liberally with
coarse salt, lie begins his breakfast
• Take the big one this morning, Dyada;
it is too much for me."
Dyada shakes his hrad ami goes on eat
ing, or pretending to cat. The boy
makes no pretence, and eats his portion
as he does everything, quickly, promptly |
and begins to busy himself about the !
room, though there is nothing to do,
nothing to arrange, nothing to put away.
"Gavreel!"
"Here I am, my Dyada."
Dyada was fumbling in his pockets.
He was old, partially paralyzed, and con
sequently very slow in his movements.
"Gavreel, kneel down."
Gavreel obeyed, and Dyada placed his j
trembling hand upon his head. Had the |
boy looked up he would have s *en tears
in toe dim old eyes; but ho did not look
up
"Gavreel," at length spoke the old man,
"I must Irnv • you for a day ir two. This
money is fir your bread; and the watch
man's wife has promised me to give yoli
a b >wl of soup each day. You are to- go
to her for it. Hold out your hand."
Gavreel held out his hand, and Dyada i
counted into it five kopecks, the price oi ■
t\\ o pounds of bread.
"Will y u t ike care of the place till 1
return, and he a good hoy, Gavreel?"
"Yes, my Dyada; but would it not be j
better if you were to take me along with
you?"
"Impossible. Gavreel. Surely you will I
not be afraid to stay aloue one night, or
two at most?"
No, Gavreel would not be ufrai 1, but
he would b.* very lonesome.
'1 will come back as soon as lean, dear.
Be good and brave. Lock the door when
ever you go out; let no one enter, and
bring no one in with you till my return
Go into the church in the morning if you
are cold."
Gavred promised all these things, and
follows 1 Dyada to the door aiul out into
the courtyard of the church. He would
have gone on still further had not Dyada
s -tit him back.
He would have plenty of time to prac
tise his steps now; and he did till he was
tired, for there was a strong spirit of
rivalry raging in the hearts of the boys of
the court, as to who should best dance the
trepaka. He danced till he was so tired
that he fell asleep on Dyatla's bed; and
when he awoke it was so dark that he did
not know for certain whether it was not
the middle of the night.
Presently lie heard a knocking at the
door, and a voice calling him. It was the
watchman, who, true to his work, had
come to look after him.
"Hey, what, asleep in the middle of the
afternoonl Why didn't you come for
your plate of soup, youngster?"
Gavreel rubbed his eyes and looked up
in the man's face, smiling the while.
"Come, come," said the kind, rough
voice; "there's a little left in the bottom
of the pot yet;" and he led him away to
his own room, a larger and a lighter oue
than Dyuda's, and made him eat the
! plateful of cabbage-water they called
soup, and a delicious salted cucumber be
ai OK. and another good slice of black
bread with salt,. Gavreel enjoyed these
dainties immensely, and without invita
tion he began to play with the chubby
baby that was U (Idling after the watch
man's wife as she went übout her house
bold work.
I'r sently he heard boys' voices outside,
and knew that school was out, and he
bade the baby Tonka, or little Timothy,
good-i ye and ran out to joiu them in
their sports.
"Gavreel! Gavreel!" He was their
(ho.-eu champion, and soon a ring was
formed around him ami his rival, and
there was a dancing-match, at which
Gavreel was as usual victorious. With
three ch ers for the winner they dispersed,
and Gavreel returned to his lonely room
and looked out of the window till he
was tired.
While kneeling on Dyada's bed, look
ing tit of the window, he remembered
that Dyad a had said that he might go
into the church in the morning if he felt
••old, and he resolved to do so, for he
loved to hear the tones of the organ. He
fell asleep aga u, dreaming of t.ie music
lie was to hear, and smiling at sight of
the convent school boys filing into church
with their sumkas, or satchels, strapped
on their backs, and wishing he was one
of them.
The morning broke intensely dark and
cold; the air was dense with frost, and
the sun came in t forth, and Gavreel kept
waiting and watching for morning to
dawn, till at length the boys came out at :
noon to take their recreation. Then he j
flew out to them, aud found that the i
promise 1 pleasure had been lost (the >
church doors being closed till the next
day). It was too • ark and cold for the j
boys to remain out long; so he was left to
himself. He was beginning to feel the j
pangs of hunger, yet not caring for his
black crust when thewatihman beckoned j
to him to come for his soup This time 1
he was not taken into the room, for little
Tiinka was asleep; so he carried his bowl '
away with him, and ate a little of its :
s-vtry contents, and put the rest away ;
lor Dyada when lie should arrive, tired, ,
cold and hungry.
"He is sure to come sorn now," said j
Gavreel to himself; "tho watchman I
thought he might come at any moment, ;
and so did the porter."
Gavreel fought against sleep as long as ;
he could that he might hear the very first !
sound of approaching footsteps; but con- |
quered at last, ho forgot his watching
and the growing cold and darkness and ;
solitude, and slept sweetly.
CHAPTER 11.
Gavreel had a neighbor whom he had
never seen, or at least had never particu
larly noticed; she was not nil important
or nil imposing personage—she slipped
by one without attracting the least atten
tion. She had been christened Marie
Felicitas, but they called her "Felice,"
because of her happy face and disposi
tion. Whence came the rose-bloom of
her soft cheeks, the blue of her sweet
eyes, the waves of soft, brown hair, the
whiteness of tho little, shapely hands,
and the even teeth? Above all, whence
came the heavenly expression, the invari
ably happy smile she wore? Who shall
say? She was only one of the poor of the
convent church—one of its pensioners—
who received a tiny room in the basement I
of the great edifice, that she aud her j
mother die in peace after a long i
Hie of goodly and most unselfish labor.
J JJL j 'filttßir
MiK
"ONE OF THE PENSIONERS."
Which was the mother and which the j
daughter it would have been hard to telJ I
at the first glance. Save that the elder j
woman's eyes were darker, and that she I
was a helpless invalid, while her daugh- j
ter was very active for her age, there 1
was hardly any difference between them.
Tuey had worked at flower-making for
more than half a century, and their princi- ,
pal and favorite work was altar flowers, j
or which they could never be induced to |
accept pay. No wonder that they had
not laid up treasures for the rust and !
the moth to consume.
Finally the good mother died, and
Felicie is alone. She has taken the "lit- j
tie mothi r" to the Vihorge side and laid
her away in a narrow 1 ttle grave, with a
cross and crown of her own flowers lying
upon the damp earth tliey shoveled so
hastily into the narrow pit.
Father X had come and closed the
pure eyes, and Felicie had prepared her
mother for the narrow bed where no cush
ions were needed. Who would not envy
you, old flower-maker? envy your pure
life and peaceful death; hands that clung
to nothing earthly; heart that beat never
for self; ready feet that daily for seventy
five years had f uiul the way to the altar
steps! Good-bye, and pray for us, old
flower-maker.
"It is enough, mother," said Felicle,
rising from her knees. She turned,
smiling, from her mother's bed to her
own, which was the same, only without
the settle, that is to say, a couple of
"cushions" on the hard floor. She took
them up, dusted them, looked to see if
they were quite whole—clean she knew
they were—and went out aud knocked at
her neighbor's door.
She knew the half-paralyzerl old man
well enough by sight, and guessed that
another cushion or two would not be
useless, either for himself or tho boy she
had so often seen dancing about the court
yard of the convent.
She knocked a timid knock. Gavreel
opened the door.
"Give these to your Dyada, dear boy;
they are clean and good, aud I do not
want them any more."
Gavreel looked in wonder at the smil
ing little old woman. Felicie was hardly
more than fifty-five; yet she was so well
muffled up, and had such a stoop that,
save for her bright face, you might have
taken her for a hundred. Gavreel looked
in wonder and shook his head.
"He is not here," he managed to say
after a pause. "He has gone utvay."
"Hut he will come back," said Felicle.
The lad shook his head and shrugged
his shoulders, iu token of uncertainty she
thought.
"Are you quite alone, dear child?"
A nod was the only answer.
"Have you food and lire?" Food he
a ad, but lire he could do without, be
snid.
"Let me come in," suid Felicle; "I will
see for myself."
But Gavreel would not suffer her to en
ter, for tear of displeasing Dyada.
"Then come with me," urged the good
little creature. "I have fire and every
thing; come, I am lonesome."
It was hard to prevail upon Gavreel t
do this; Dyada might come iu his absence
and find the door locked. But Felicie
found away to satisfy all his fears 011
that score by notifying the watchman
and the gate porter as to where he was to
be found. The wood carriers, whose duty
it was to carry stacks of wood to the hun
dred lodgings of the convent building,
were also told, and they, one and all,
good-naturedly promised to be 111 the
lot kom for "my Dyada." The old man
had been nicknamed by them thus iu
playful mockery of Gavreel.
When all this was done the little fellow
put his hand into Felicie's hand and let
himself he led away. He had 110 idea
they were such near neighbors, and was
delighted that he could himself hear
Dyada's steps if he approached. Ho was
so glad of the discovery that their doors
were only a few feet apart that he fell to
dancing while Felicle was unlocking her
door. When the door was thrown open,
and he saw the interior of what she
called her gilded hovel, he danced and
sang anil laughed with all his might.
Felicie smiled back at him, to reassure
hini, though noisy mirth jarred upon her
at all times, and more especially just then.
"This is good!" declared Gavreel. "Is
it all yours? Oh what a wonderful, what
a beauiilul placet All fiowars, just like
a garden."
lie had never seen nnything like it in
his life, except in church. Suddenly lie j
ceased his mirth and looked earnestly at
Felicie. A thought, a fear had smitten
him. like a sharp arriw. Who was tiiis
smiling little being who hud tempte i
him in her palace? Was she the dumovoy,
the familiar spirit of every Russia.i
house? and had she brought him her.- to
do something terrible to him? He bucked
towards the do >r, keeping his eyes on i !
her the while. Unconscious of his gaze (
Felicie was preparing their supper.
Gavreel, like Hans Andersen's Fir Tree, I
had never heard but one story, and that j
was of a dumovoy that appeared in many
forms, and could assume any shape at
will, either beautiful or ugiy, and who j
had power ov r children especially, una J
could chatigu them into anything it |
chose."
"Perhaps Dyada has come," he strove !
to say, his hand on the door. "I will go , '
and see."
"Take some supp >r first, dear; see, it is 1
all ready." She did not look at him. I
She was both hungry an I thirsty, poor ; '
little creature; for since h -r communion J
at the ear.y mass that morning noii.ing 1
had passe I her lips; and see.ug him '
mirthful and gay she thought him ali , 1
right. She made the sign of the cross '
slowly, reverently looking up at the pic- j
tures of ilie Sacred Heart of Jesus and ,
the Immaculate Heart of Mary that hung,
flower-:rained, together on the wall I
above the settlehe I, and then s lid again,
"Come, Gavreel, supper is r.-ady."
Gavreel drew a long breatu. It wan j
part of ids story that tlie dumovoy fled j
fr< m t lie sign of the cross.
"Wiki are you?" he asked.
"I am Felicie, the fl wer-maker," she J
answered, "the last an I oniy one now," !
she said to herself aloud.
"Where ure the others?" asked Guv- '
reel.
"One other," said Felicia. "She lias | 1
gone home to heaven."
"Then she will see my mother." said i 1
Gavreel; "she said she was going there. 1
Tell me about your mother." 1
"Afti-r supper, dear. Coma now, take
this nice cup of coffee and this lovely 1
cake a kind lady brought me, for I never
eat cuk •; you shall have it ali; and see! j
we have sugar and butter and white
bread, which the kind ricu people brought
when mother die i."
"Why di n't they bring them before?"
asked Gavreel; "didn't sue want them? '
"She did not care for such things, dear.
They are for the rich, and we could do
without them. Fat, dear; you must be
hungry."
Gavreel had never taste 1 such dainties;
yet he ate sparingly of them, and piled i
up very carefully at one side th i greater
portion of what Felicie had heaped ou his
plate.
"Is this all for me?" he asked.
"All for you? Yes, certainly; and why
do you not eat it?"
"I would like to keep it for Dyu-la."
"So you shall, dear heart, and eat
plenty besides, in honor of this day."
"What day?" asked Gavreel.
' My dear mother's birthday."
"Was she horn to-day? 1 thought you
said she died."
"She was horn to her new life in heaven
this day," said Felicie smiling and look
ing upwards.
"Tell me about her," pleaded Gavreel.
"But first I will see if my Dyudu bus
come."
lie ran out, hut soon returned to say
that there was no sign of his coming. He
looked so sad and disappointed that
Felicie began to tell him about her
mother, while her fingers busily shaped
leaves. The child listened in
wonder to her talk of God and heaven
and angels. To interest him more, she
placed her favorite pictures before him,
and lie asked a thousand questions about
the "Jjittlc Jesus," who interested him
more than any of the others because He
was most like himself. lie was happy
for a long while thus engaged, nud was
busily thinking how he could get his
Dyada transformed into a carpenter like
St. Joseph, and, if ho could, how pleas
untiy they would work together.
Felicie did not know that he was think
ing Ids own thoughts thus, and kept on
talking of the Divine Lord and His
Blessed Mother, describing the miracles,
and finally coming to the Lust Supper
and the Betrayal.
She was speaking in a soft, low voice
that did not interfere with his own plans,
till something made her appeal directly
to him, and he had to answer. Then lie
listened more attentively ail I became
aware that Felicie was speaking in a very
sorrowful strain, telling how the foster
father was dead, and how the Child had
grown to ho a man. and how He was be
trayed and condemned to die.
"This very little Jesus?" asked Gavreel,
pointing to the picture.
es, ' said Felicie; "this dear Lord wti
( led away to be nailed on the cross."
Gavreel looked at her in horror.
"You wish to mak ■ me cry," he said. |
"I all afraid of you. O.i. do let me go to
I my own Dyada. lit* never made me cry " '
Poor Feiicie wjh struck with remorse.
"How c -ul.l I? How* could I?" she ask d
herself. "O d-ar little la 1, do not fear.
How could 1 know that you had never
learned the story before? Come, we will
go together an I sje it D/a la has como." i
Xo, he had ..ol but Gavreel would
not re-ent *r with her. He chose to creep
into his own cold bed and wait and wait.
Sme hours later Feiicie knocked
softly at his door. Tnere was no answer,
and she said to hers If: "He has come;
they are both asleep."
The next morning she arose e irly and
cleaned and dusted her little room, pel- ;
ished her chairs. < r her one chair, and the
chest of drawers whereon was piled her '
wealth of *' wers. She then knelt and
devoutly said her morning prayers. Some
lime afterwards she donned her ancient
little cloak, and close black hood, tied a
black shawl over it, and under her pretty
little chin, to >k her beads and her
prayer-book, and her bit of candle t
light herself out of the dark hall, ami
j hurri *d to church.
She had time to say a goo 1 many de
cades of her bea Is, and yet th-re was no
: sign of the doors being opened. She
: usually arrived before the time, so she
thought nothing of that; but she began
' to feel the cold an I got up otf her knees.
to walk up and down to keep herself
I from free/, ng. It was very dark, but she
! fancied there was a figure of some kind in
I one corner, near the side door. She ap
j pr ached to assure herself, and lo! there
| all huddled up was little Gavreel, wait
! iug to get into the church to warm him
-1 self.
! "My Dyada said I might come," he
| pleaded in excuse.
| "1 shoul I think you might, indeed,"
j she answered, cheerily; "but you must
have made a mistske, and got up too
early. Wait—l will go and ask the gate
porter to tell me \% hat o'clock it is."
She hurried off and goon came running
back. "A good hour yet, my dear, Come,
we shall have plenty of time to get warm
before mass begins. Let us run."
Gavreel could hardly move, ho was so
benumbed with cold; but she helped
him, and unresistingly led him to her
iit le room, and wrapped him up. and
put him on the be I. He was SOON asleep,
and she left him there sleeping, and went
io mass. He was still sleeping when she
returned, and she sat down to her work,
deferring the | reparation of her break
ast till he should be awake to share it.
To pass the time she chanted to herself
I sacred hymns in low sweet tone—the dear
i old Polish hymns of long ago. Gavreel
I was awake ami listening to her for a long
j time ere she was aware of it. He lost
| patience, and he seemed to have forgotten
I his fear of the night previous.
! Before he could be prevailed upon to
i at Gavr el went once more to look out
j for some signs of Dyada, hut he cume
! back with the same sad story, no sign of
! him. And s passed breakfast, dinner,
' supper; and in spite of the church music,
: his play with the schoolboys, an I Felicie's
stories, Gavreel could not for an instant
lorget that Dyada came not.
in the midst of the hilarious schoolboy
game he would suddenly stop and look
wistfully up tae road by which the old
j man had departed. When the street
lamps were lighted lie crept into his cold
.it,tie room and flung himself on the bed
!in a sort of dumb hopelessness. He did
not cry; Indeed Feiicie learned later that
jhe never cried. He had neyer been seen
io relieve his childish heart l>v tears or
j sobs. When in pain, or anger, or grief,
1 lie hid iiis childish face and thought his
! thoughts out in dumb silenc.*. She
: sought liim soon after nightfall and
; .ound him thus, silent, cold, pensive,
j She had much ado to make him rise
j and accompany her, for lie feared to he
I absent tor an instant lest his Dyada came,
lie kept fancying he heard his steps and
i misted upon opening the door at every
I slightest sound- The hitter cold air
; blew in upon him, yet he felt it not, and
begged so hard to be permitted to go home
aud wait there that stie had t > yield an
j unwilling consent. She insisted, how
j ever, on making a little fire upon her own
responsibility, but it would take a long
time to expel the cold and damp from the
I room.
When morning broke and she went
io bring him to his breakfast she
; .ound him very feverish and ill. He
: staggered as he tried to follow her, and
' when the door was locked and he tried
to Hide the great iron key us usual in his
bosom, fearing that his pocket was not
1 sufficiently safe, he could not hold it, and
it fell with a resounding noise upon the
stone 11 our.
; "Let me put it away for you," said
poor Felecie, who was sadly troubled at
, i he sight of the poor lad.
I "I promised not to part with it," he
answered.
She helped him to put it away and then
led him in and did what she could to
make him comfortable. But he sickened
sorely in spite of her wise remedies, ami
before night he was delirious. Feiicie
was just putting on her black hood to
run lor help when a heavy step on the
stone floor with >ut and a heavy thump of
a heavy stick against a neighboring door
told her that Dyada had come at last.
Gavreel heard nothing. Feiicie hurried
out to prepare tin* old mail for the sail
news of his boy's illness.
•'1 feared it." he said. "You are the
good flower-maker, 1 know; and I thank
you for all you have done for him. May j
I see him?"
She led him in. The old man had J
walked thirty miles that day, hut this did I
not deter him from working all night on j
the tender invalid, who at length seemed
to recognize the touch of the caressing
hand and murmured 'My Dyada."
The old man shook his head in silence.
Feiicie tried to euc uruge him by saying
the maloily was only a cold, which would
be all right in a few days, but the vener
able watcher was not deceived.
"Shall 1 tell you his story?" heat length ;
asked.
"Tuauk you for your confidence," said
Feiicie.
"It is short," said the old man, "and
not new. His mother was my niece, my
only sister's child. A spoiled pretty child
as ever the sun shone on: the worse for
her. She was the pride of our life, the
innocent bright creature, and as ignor
ant at the age of seventeen as the lad ly
ing there. She had never had a frien lor
a companion save the lit: It? children of
our farm till then. With them she I
danced and sang and played the life-long !
day. So it was till the day, the black j
, day, when a Russian regiment was
quartered iti our town, aud three Russian
soldiers billeted upon my sister.
"Due of them, a handsome, dashing
fellow, won the child's affection, took
her with him to the regimental chaplain,
who was glad enough to mar y them, for
by the marriage my sister's lands,
houses, farms, all would pass into Kits
, sitin hands, she being the only child of
her widowed mother. The silly fool for- (
got, or never knew, that, should she ever
| have a child of her own, it would have to '
be of its father's faith.
I "S it was. Th sis her child."
lie went away and looked down upot
the boy, who was tos-ing restlessly upo
hi* be I.
"The villain borrowed money on every
hand," continued the old man, coming
I back, and again looking down upon tlis
little flower-maker, as she arranged Lie
petals of a rose with her (L*ft fingers,
borrowed money on his wife's pr •spective
inheritance, drank it, gambled it away,
and then deserted her and her child in
some Russian town, to which he had got
himself transferred on purpose to sepa
rate her from hr people. By some
| means she got here in search of me, not
knowing I was paralyzed. She knew I
! loved her always in spite of all. They
had t tuke her to the hospital before
long her health was broken. She begged
me to keep the hoy and to bring him up
in our own faith.
"Keep him and love him is all that. I
could do. To teach liim anything would
be a capital offense. Not that I hesitate I
for my own sake; but, had I attempted
it, he would have been taken from me.
Xow they may claim him at any moment.
Though 1 am ready to lay down my life
for him, yet 1 know that they will force
me to give him up now that she has gone."
"Has she gone?" asked Feiicie softly.
"Yes, she is at rest. Yester morn they
heaped the cold clo Is of earth upon her.
I saw it thankfully. Poor wreck of our
rare, bright little girl."
The old man went hack to the heil and
sank down beside it. Feiicie worked on
in silence.
Thus .no day and night, then many
days and nights of anxious watching be
fore Gavreel awoke to recognize his Dyada
and smile upon him. But Le did so at
last.
"Who is she?" he asked, pointing to
Feiicie.
"That is good Feiicie, who has saved
your life."
"Good Feiicie," said Gavreel, thought
fully, "yes—l remember her; she told me
stories of the Christ Chil I, aud wanted to
make me cry, hut 1 ran away."
"She has been very goo I to you," said
Dyada.
' Has she been good to you?" ques
tioned Gavreel.
"Yes, indeed, my dear one; better than
I can say.
"Then she may finish the story," said
Gavreel; I will hear all from good
Feiicie."
"Did she tell yon that the rich people
brought cakes and sugar, and lots of
good things to her mother when she was
dead?"
The old man shook his head.
"She told me," said Gavreel. "Do you
think she wanted them, my Dyada?"
"Who, dear?"
"Why, the dead mother."
"She wanted nothing dear, any more.
The Lord took her to Himself."
"I am very glad," said Gavreel. "When
will Feiicie tell me the end of the story?" !
When ho was well once more he heard
the whole story, and took it into his lov
ing heart eagerly. Again ho danced
about the courtyard, bright aud happy,
making the sunshine of two lives. Feiicie
found a thousand ways of doing him
good, and took the whole responsibility
upon herself. In an incredibly short
space of time he knew his prayers, then
his catechism, besides many sweet hymns.
But of all this, and of other things
greater and far more precious that she
accomplished for his soul, thcro is uo use i
in speaking now,
lie was, indeed, a bright and beautiful
Polish lad, though only poor old Dya la's
nephew. Poor old Dyada! lie ha 1 been
a brave soldier in his day, but was forced
to live here, in exile and dire poverty;
though, if he had never fought for his
dear Poland, he might he living at his
ease, with his only sister, on the dear ol I
farm that she s ill held in spite of much
injustice and persecution.
One day, it was a bright day. too. for j
the sun shone down hotly, and the blue j
sky was cloudless, there came a knock at ,
the old man's door.
"Enter."
A Russian soldier of dissolute mien and |
air stepped in He saluted, military fash
ion, looking about the small room
sharply.
"You are Stanislas Ivanovitch?"
The old man had arisen, but had nr
power to answer.
"1 came for my sou. Where is he?"
"I CAMK FOK MY SON."
It had come at last. The drunken, dis
solute father had put forth his claim, and
who could gainsay it? Not a Polish
uncle, or grandmother, or auy Pole,
since the hoy was a Russian subject, like
; his father.
j Xo need of dwelling on the parting.
He took away his sou, not because he
wanted, or could or would keep him
Quite the reverse. Gavreel was a big boy
for his years; he could he made useful to
the father; he was nine years of age.
It was weeks and weeks before his
uncle could trace him. Finally ho suc
ceeded through the bureau < f addresses.
The father had apprenticed him to an
undertaker; to a rich undertaker, who
kept besides the gorgeous fun *ral cars,
! all white and gold, and the sable plumed
cars so imposing in their sombre richness,
the poor, hare car, the platform on
i wheels, on which the yellow hospital
coffins were transported to the cemeteries
ol the very poor. In the quarter as # gned
to these rude vehicles, to the miserable
br< ken-down skeletons they called
horses, and to the drunken hostlers and
rude stable boys and apprentices, our
dancing Gavreel hail found a home.
What a change was here! From Dy
Ada's caressing voice and touch, from the
lessons of Feiicie the flower maker, and
1 the companionship of the pleusaut school '
ELKHART CARRIAGE and HARNESS NFS. GO.
/v Have wold to connimeri for 91 year". y—frYT.'JTi^rsr-.'arjr
ApV 611 flfl saving thera tho deulor's profit. We are tho _ < .
ylltUU Oldewtund I.urgewt manufacturers In Amor- y; :5% 1 ]
lea selling Vehicle-Band Harness this wy-^' H* * w |
pald.'we pay freight both wayslf not sat is tin
-INL lAJTA tory. Warrant for J yours. Why pay an agent* 10 / / -i, , s/ A
\ jIJ to#so to order f<>r you? Wrtto your own order. ( :"7/™' . A
Boxing free. We tuko all risk of damage in V \ \V'i
W )'\"-] eI " PP '" g 'WHOLESALE PRICES.
JJJjfj /L / Spring Wagon 9, s3l to SSO. Guaranteed N0.731, Burrey.
<-* Hitiiie as neii for loot Surreys, $65 to SIOO cSOtf*
N0.37. Surrey lIurnOBB. same an sell for 1100 to si3o. Top Buggies, oj ibfcO
- -""T^k.
VS9BVHp! to SIOO. Farm Wagons, Wagonettes, f M\ /\
' a mP\"f 1 ® c Viii'J*??
Top Buggy. £^=3^
no.3,farm wugon. Aadre W. B. PRATT, Sec'y, ELKHART, IND.
boys, to these filthy stables, ami the com
pany of swearing, drunken men and
! l<ovs.
llut Guv reel danced here, too, though
not exactly for bin own pleasure. Tae
tones of a hand-organ happening to reach
j his ears one day, his feet betrayed him.
Unconsciously they beat time to the
| "He can dance!" was the shout; and
he had to dance, lie did his best to pleas -
them, and they urged him on by drunken
cheers, and when he tain would cease
they urged him on still.
lie never would admit to Felicie that
' they beat him, but she knew it well
I enough. She had found him out, and as
j often as she dared she stole near the place 1
, with some message from Dya la, or some '
i token fr m herself.
Sometim s Gavreel had to go an
mourner alter pauper funerals; that was
j in the way of learning the business, lie
j would walk slowly, head in (--lined sol
; emnly, after the rude, black platform
and tue yell \v eofliti, with its unknown
I and unnamed occupant, and after the
, skeleton horse, the miserable lad,
clad in a long, black cloak with double
! cape, sh-evi s 100 long for his arms, and
huge old black hat that fell backwards
j over liis lean shoulders and ears.
' Little Gavreel knew the way to ail the
j poor cemeteries, it used to tire his once
j tireless feet terribly to walk such long
j distances. They Jet him ride home often,
but this was a questionable pleasure.
Often the rude boy driver would torment
him; and once a drunken man, who had
replaced the boy for the ttcasion? had
bade him rise and dance on tho platform.
: He had tried to obey, and the wretch in
high glee whipped up the miserable
I animal that could crawl with difficulty,
but it now made a frantic plunge for
! ward as the whip cut through its poor
hide. The whip was only a knotted cord
that the man kept in his pocket to aimmu
himseif with, on occasions like these.
Gavreel did not compluiu, though he hud
fallen and been sorely shaken and
bruised.
One day it was his turn to don the
black hat and cloak, and to take the
driver's seat. Why "driver" 1 know not.
There was certainly no driving about it.
The horse knew the way and took it,
slowly, patiently, with drooping head.
| The stable-nun had been boisterous and
! drinking the previous night, and luoru
j ing t'oun I them si ill wildly bent o:i hav
ing a little "fun." An accordion-player
j was within hearing. They would hail
him, and have the dancing boy out.
Poor little lad! lie did his very best to
please them, for often aiuj oft-n they
; were kind to him, and generous, too,
| giving hint perhups an apple or a piece of
| cheese they had themselves received as a
j gift.
lie had to hurry oil after that dance,
I all heated as he was, to take his place on
j tho lonesome car. The way was long
I from the hospital to the graveyard. The
J wind blew bitterly cold through the tut
! tered old cloak, swelling out the huge
j sleeves, and the enormous hat was lifted
i nearly oil' his small head, and the capes
I Happed about his face, while his feet were
1 not slow in cooling after his exercise.
lie tried to extricate his hand from tho
I long sleeve that he might fuel the me In I
| that Felicia had so carefully sewed into
j the lining of his vest; but lie could not,
because the wind blew so hard, lie tried ,
! to think about the pleasant things she
I had t hi him, and to repeat some of the
j hymns he had learned from her, but the
words were biowu down into his poor
little throat, nearly choking him. Hy
and-by ho forgot to try and think, and >
j knew nothing more.
| The horse took him home, and waited
i quietly at the stable door till he should
descend; but Gavreel kept his place till
someone, noticing tho old hat, playfully
knocked it off just for fun, ami beheld
the ghastly little face
They carried him in and put him on his '
little mat i ress of straw in the dark cor-!
ner of the crowded room. The noisy
mirth of the men was hushed. They
spoke in whispers. They were very sorry
for the dancing boy, and would nt have
him die. Kvery remedy was tried, even
to pouring hot brandy down his thro.it.
One, kindest of all, ran for Felicie,
who came quickly. I)yada could not
come, he was himself dying fust, of a
broken spirit.
Felicie knelt beside Gavreel and called
him softly by tender names. He opened
j liis eyes and knew her, smiled, and asked J
I for his I)yada. He even tried to tell her
many things and to ask her questions;
but only the lips moved; there was uo
voice. St ill she understood him.
Once he lau lied, and she almost !
th tight lie was delirious, but he formed i
the words, "Little Jesus," and looked
up, to show her that he knew he was go
ing to Him.
•Good Felicie." He had found a little
voice at last.
"What, dear Gavreel?"
"Tell Dymla to come soon."
"Yes, dear."
"Good Felicie."
"Yes, dear."
"\\ ill you come soon, goo 1 Felicie?'
"It the Lord wills, dear."
"Come soon, go (1 Felicie, to Little
Jesus and me."
"L glit the lamp, good Felicie, please." ,
Felicie lighted a little end of a bless-I ,
candle that she always kept in her pocket
now. It had been in h.-r dying mother's
; hand. The dying child smiled as he saw ,
the H cker of the red flame i
"Will Little Jesus take me soon, good
Felicie? I •>" *" tired—and sleepy."
"Sleep, dear," murmured Felicie.
And Gavreel slept.
"It is better so," said Dyad A, when
Felicia had told him all. "lie is at rest
We shall meet tl.j sooner." American
Messenger.
I
Wheeler & Wilson
!NE"W
HIGH ARM No. 9.
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. MLNN ii CO., NLW VOKK, 301 ISUOAVWAY.
\ N ORDI \.W< I. LO provide lor the light
lA. ing (D LIE -nvi isuiid alleys within tho
borough of I I '-elaiuf.
Re it ordained and enacted by the burgi-88
and L AVA ""iincil nt the boruiigli of Frecland,
and if IS hereby orduim-d byauthoriti of ihe
S.IIII(■. Unit the burgess and the president of
council be and are hereby authorized mid ein
• LOWERED to enter into a eonlra. R with the Free
land L.leetric I.iglil, Meat and Power T'oiupaiiy
I.IR the purpose id lighting the streets ami al
leys ii. the borough ol Freeland for a term of
ti\e years from the first day of August, A. I).,
ism, on the following terms and conditions
bights to be are lights of two thousand enn
ille-power each, to be erected and kept in re-
Pan by the Freeland Electric Light, flout and
I ower ( ouipany, to be burned all night, ami
every night of the week, ami to be lurnlshed
along such streets and at such places as the
borough of Freehold nni> re(|iiiu-. The num
ber of lights not to be less* than llKeen (151.
The borough ol Freeland !<> pu.\ for each and
every light the sum ol one hundred dollars per
annum in monthly payments, each montlilv
paynu-nt to be made on or belore the :.'l>th for
the lighting <d the preeeding month.
Fussed HIIUIIN in coiuu il. \pril -. IWM.
Frank Del'ierro, president.
Thomas A.
Approved, April -. LSTI.
Fatrick McLttuglilin, luirgess.
HEAD THE TKIBUJVE—
—ONLY *1.150 PER YEAR.