"There, look, Belle!" said one young girl to another, on their way to school; "there's the girl that we meet every day with the old man. How can you say you don't think she's pretty? I admire her looks!"
"You always do manage, Kitty, to _admire_ people that everybody else thinks are horrid-looking."
"Horrid-looking!" replied Kitty; "she's anything but _horrid-looking_! Do notice, now, Belle, when we meet them, she has the _sweetest_ way of looking up in the old man's face, and talking to him. I _wonder_ what is the matter with him! Do see how his arm shakes--the one that's passed through hers!"
The two couples are now close to each other, and they pass in silence.
"_Don't you_ think that she has an interesting face?" said Kitty, eagerly, as soon as they were out of hearing.
"She's got handsome eyes," answered Belle. "I don't see anything else that looks interesting about her. I _wonder_ if she don't hate to walk in the street with that old grandfather; trudging along so slow, with the sun shining in her face, and he leaning on her arm, and shaking so that he can hardly keep on his feet! Catch me doing it."
"Why, Belle!" exclaimed Kitty, "how can you talk so? I'm sure I pity that old man dreadfully."
"Lor!" said Belle, "what's the use of pitying? If you are going to begin to pity, you'll have to do it all the time. Look,"--Belle touched her companion's elbow--"there's Willie Sullivan, father's clerk: an't he a beauty? I want to speak to him."
But before she could address a word to him, Willie, who was walking very fast, passed her with a bow, and a pleasant "Good morning, Miss Isabel;" and ere she had recovered from the surprise and disappointment, was some rods down the street.
"Why, Belle! do see," said Kitty, who was looking back over her shoulder, "he's overtaken the old man and my interesting little girl. Look--look! He's put the old man's other arm through his, and they are all three walking off together. Isn't that quite a coincidence?"
"Nothing very remarkable," replied Belle, who seemed a little annoyed. "I suppose they are persons he's acquainted with. Come, make haste; we shall be late at school."
Reader! Do _you wonder_ who they are, the girl and the old man? or have you already conjectured that they are Gerty and Trueman Flint? True is no longer the brave, strong, sturdy protector of the lonely child. True has had a paralytic stroke. His strength is gone, his power even to walk alone. He sits all day in his arm-chair, or on the old settle, when he is not out walking with Gerty. The blow suddenly struck down the robust man, and left him feeble as a child. And the little orphan girl who, in her weakness, her loneliness, and her poverty, found in him a father and a mother, she now is all the world to him--his staff, his comfort, and his hope. During four or five years that he has cherished the frail blossom, she has been gaining strength for the time when _he_ should be the leaning, _she_ the sustaining power; and when the time came, she was ready to respond to the call. With the simplicity of a child, but a woman's firmness; with the stature of a child, but a woman's capacity; the earnestness of a child, but a woman's perseverance--from morning till night, the faithful little nurse and housekeeper labours untiringly in the service of her first, her best friend. Ever at his side, ever attending to his wants, and yet most wonderfully accomplishing many things which he never sees her do, she seems, indeed, to the fond old man, what he once prophesied she would become--God's embodied blessing to his latter years, cheering his pathway to the grave.