The Old Homestead. Ann S. Stephens

seems to be getting better—probably it will be nothing serious!"

      Chester looked up, and a smile illuminated his face. Always willing to look on the bright side of human nature, his generous heart smote him for having perhaps judged too harshly. The little hand which he was chafing began to warm with life; this relieved him of the terrible excitement which the moment before had rendered his words, if just, more than imprudent.

      "Thank you, sir, she is better," he said, with an expression of frank gratitude beaming over every feature, "I think she will live now, so we will only trouble you a few minutes longer."

      "My family are in bed—and these street beggars are so little to be relied upon," observed the Mayor, evidently wishing to offer some excuse for his former harshness, without doing so directly; "but this seems a case of real distress."

      Chester was subdued by this speech. More and more he regretted the excitement of his former language. He longed to make some reparation to a man who, after all, might be only prudent, not unfeeling.

      "If," said he, looking at the child, whose features began to quiver in the glowing fire-light, "if I had a drop of wine now."

      "Oh, we are temperance people here, you know," replied the Mayor, coldly.

      "Or anything warm," persisted Chester, as the child opened her eyes with a famished look.

      "You can get wine at the station-house. My girls are in bed."

      "I am afraid she will have small hopes of help at the station-house. The Common Council make no provision for medical aid where the sick or starving are brought in at night. It is a great omission, sir."

      "The Common Council cannot do everything," replied the Mayor, becoming impatient, but still subduing himself.

      "I know sir, but its first duty is to the poor."

      "Oh, yes, no one denies that;" replied the Mayor, observing with satisfaction that Chester was preparing to remove the little intruder. "You will not have a very long walk," he added. "The station-house is not more than eight or ten blocks off. She will be strong enough, I fancy, to get so far."

      "Don't, don't take me there! I am not a thief!" murmured the child, and two great tears rolled over her cheek slowly, as if the fire-light had with difficulty thawed them out from her heart.

      They were answered—God bless the policeman—they were answered by a whole gush of tears that sprang into his fine eyes, and sparkled there like so many diamonds.

      "No," he said, taking off his overcoat, and wrapping it around the child, his hands and arms shaking with eager pity as he lifted her from the chair. "She shall go home with me for one night at least. I will say to my wife, 'Here is a little hungry thing whom God has sent you from the street.' She will be welcome, sir. I am sure she will be as welcome as if I were to carry home a casket of gold in my bosom. Will you go home with me, little girl?"

      The child turned her large eyes upon him; a smile of ineffable sweetness floated over her face, and drawing a deep breath, she said:

      "Oh, yes, I will go!"

      "You will excuse the trouble," said Chester, turning with his burden toward the Mayor as he went out, "the case seemed so urgent!"

      "Oh, it is all excused," replied his honor, bowing stiffly as he walked towards the door, "but I shall remember—never doubt that!" he muttered with a smile, in which all the inward duplicity of his nature shone out.

      That instant a carriage drove up to the door, and after some bustle a lady entered, followed by a young lad, who paused a moment on the upper step and gave some orders to the coachman in a clear, cheerful voice, that seemed out of place in that house.

      "Why don't you come in?" cried the lady, folding her rose-colored opera-cloak closely around her, "you fill the whole house with cold."

      "In a moment—in a moment," cried the boy, breaking into a snatch of opera music as if haunted by some melody; "but pray send Tim out a glass of wine, or he will freeze on the box this Greenland night."

      "Nonsense! come in!" cried the mother, entering the drawing-room and approaching the fire. Here she threw back her opera-cloak, revealing a rich brocade dress underneath, lighted up with jewels and covered as with a mist of fine lace! "he'll do well enough—come to the fire!" she continued, holding out her hands in their snowy gloves for warmth.

      The lady had not noticed Chester, who stood back in the hall, that she might pass. Applicants of all kinds were so common at her dwelling, even at late hours, that she seldom paused, even to regard a stranger. But the noble-looking lad was far more quick-sighted. As he turned reluctantly to close the door, Chester advanced with the little girl in his arms, and would have passed.

      "What is this?—what is the matter?—is she sick?" inquired the boy, earnestly.

      "She is a poor, homeless child, half frozen and almost famished," answered Chester.

      "Homeless on a night like this!—hungry and cold!" exclaimed the lad, throwing off his Spanish cloak and tossing his cap to the hall table. "Come back, till she gets thoroughly warm, and I'll soon ransack the kitchen for eatables; a glass of Madeira now to begin with. Lady Mother, come and look at this little girl—it's a sin and a shame to see anything with a soul reduced to this."

      "What is it, Fred?" cried the lady, sweeping across the drawing-room; "oh, I see, a little beggar girl! Why don't you let the man pass? He's taken her up for something, I dare say."

      "No," said Chester with a faint hope of getting food; "it is want, nothing worse—she is frozen and starved."

      "What a pity, and the authorities make such provision for the poor, too! I declare, Mr. Farnham, you ought to stop this sort of thing—it is scandalous to have one's house haunted with such frightful objects."

      Young Farnham drew toward his mother, flushed and eager.

      "If the girls are in bed, let me go down and search for something, the poor child looks so forlorn."

      As he pleaded with his mother the hall light lay full upon him, and never did benevolence look more beautiful on a young face. It must have been a cold-hearted person, indeed, who could have resisted those fine, earnest eyes, and that manner so full of generous grace.

      "Come, mother, music should open one's heart—may I go?"

      "Nonsense, Fred, what would you be at? The man is in a hurry to go. Why can't you be reasonable for once," replied the weak woman, glancing at her husband, who was walking angrily up and down the drawing-room; and sinking her voice she added:

      "See, your father is out of sorts; do come in!"

      "In a moment—in a moment," answered, the youth, moving up the hall and searching eagerly in his pockets—"stop, my dear fellow, don't be in such a confounded hurry—oh, here it is."

      The lad drew forth a portmonnaie, and emptied the only bit of gold it contained into his hand.

      "Here, here," he said, blushing to the temples and forcing it upon Chester; "I haven't a doubt that everything is eaten up in the house, but this will go a little way. You are a fine fellow, I can see that; don't let the poor thing suffer—if help is wanted, I'm always on hand for a trifle like that; but good night, good night, the governor is getting fractious, and my lady mother will take cold—good night."

      Chester grasped the hand so frankly extended, and moved down the steps, cheered by the noble sympathy so unexpected in that place.

      "You will understand," said the Mayor, turning short upon poor Fred, as he entered the room, "you will please to understand, sir, that to station yourself on my door-steps and call for wine as if you were in a tavern, is an insult to your father's principles. It is not to be supposed that this house contains Madeira or any other alcoholic drink. Remember, sir, that your father is the chief magistrate of New York, and the head of a popular principle."

      "But why may I not request wine for a poor