Kristy's Rainy Day Picnic Part 11

"Oh, I do believe you are an angel!"

"Far from it, Nora," said Miss Barnes smiling, "but I've set out to make you happy, and if I find whims and notions in your head, I suppose I'll have to follow them out. But seriously, dear child, I must say I have had a little uneasy feeling of responsibility in my heart ever since I've had you. And there's nothing to hinder my being as odd as I please, and now let me hear your plans."

"I have no plans. I have only longings to do something for them."

Well; plans grew fast as they always do when planners are anxious to do something. Long into the night they talked, and the very next day the work began. Nora captured a poor little girl who came to beg, and took her in to Miss Barnes, in spite of the horror of the servants.

They found she had no parents, and decided to take her, and Nora went on to make her decent, with more pleasure than she had ever known.

So it went on; before the end of a month, Miss Barnes found herself more interested than she had been in anything. And Nora grew bright and happy as the months rolled by, and one after another wretched girl was gathered out of the streets and brought to a home.

As soon as one girl was trained and fitted to take a place in some one's kitchen, or sewing-room, or nursery, a dozen places opened to her. By telling a little of her story, Miss Barnes interested her new mistress in the girl, who was thus started out in a useful, independent life.

This inst.i.tution, though it never had a name, grew and flourished, and Nora still lives in the Barnes Home, manages the Barnes income, and "lends a hand" wherever needed.

"And that's the story of how the Barnes Home came to be," said Mrs.

Wilson, in ending.

"And was that nice lady that you went to see about a maid," cried Kristy eagerly, turning to her mother, "was she Nora?"

"Yes," said her mother, "she was Nora."

"That was fine!" said Kristy. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Wilson."

"That story of a great charity, started through one poor girl," said Mrs. Wilson, "reminds me of another that I heard lately; shall I tell it, Kristy?"

"Oh, do!" said Kristy.

CHAPTER IX

ONE LITTLE CANDLE

This story is about a girl not much older than you, who had a great trouble come upon her, some years ago. Her father who was--I'm sorry to say--a drunkard, had at last died, leaving Alice Rawson, and her brother a little older, to take care of their invalid mother.

The trouble that came upon her, as I said, was the finding that the brother, who was steady at his work, and proud to support the family, began to go out every evening. The great dread seized her that he would follow in the footsteps of his father. They had suffered so much from the father's habits, that this was almost more than she could bear, and she felt sure that it would kill her mother.

She tried every way she could think of to entertain her brother at home, but she could not make it gay and lively as it was in the saloon where the boys met, and when she tried to coax him to stay at home, he answered her that it was awful dull in the evening after a long day's work.

Alice could not deny this, and she had not a word to say when one evening he ended with, "You can't expect a fellow to stay mewed up at home all the time. Now look here," as he saw the tears come into Alice's eyes, "you needn't fret about me, Sis. I'm bound to take care of myself, but I must have a little pleasure after working all day.

Good-by; I'll be home by nine."

But he was not home by nine, nor by ten, and the clock had struck eleven when Alice heard his step. She hurried to the door to let him in. His face was flushed, and his breath--alas!--reminded her of her father's.

He made some excuse and hurried off to bed, and Alice sank into a chair in the sitting-room. She was shocked. She was grieved. This was the first time Jack had showed signs of being under the influence of strong drink, and she felt as if she could not bear it.

A month before, they had laid in a drunkard's grave their father, and over his terrible death-bed, Jack had promised their mother that he would not follow in his steps.

"Yet now--so soon--he has begun," thought Alice, sitting there alone in the cold. "And how can I blame him, poor boy!" she went on, "when it is so dull and stupid for him here? It's no wonder he prefers the pleasant warm room, the lights, the gay company, the games that he gets at Mason's. Oh, why aren't good things as free as bad ones!" she cried out in her distress.

"But what can I do?" was the question to which her thoughts ever came back. "I must save Jack, for he's all mother and I have; but how?"

"What can one girl do, without money and without friends--almost?"

thought Alice, remembering, with a shudder, that a drunkard's daughter is apt to have few influential friends.

Alice Rawson was clear-headed though young. She thought the matter over during the next day, as she went about her work in the house, waiting on her invalid mother, making the cottage tidy, and cooking their plain meals.

"It's no use to talk," she said to herself; "Jack means to do what's right. And it's even worse to scold or be cross to him, for that only makes him stay away more." And she gave the pillow she was stirring up a savage poke to relieve her feelings.

"I know, too," she went on, pausing with the other pillow in her hand, "that when he's there with the boys, it's awful hard never to spend a cent when the others do. It looks mean, and Jack hates being mean;"

and she flung the pillow back into its place with such spirit that it went over on to the floor.

"What are you banging about so for?" asked her mother, from the next room.

"Oh, nothing. I was thinking, mother," she answered. And she went on thinking.

"What would be best would be to have some other place just as pleasant, and warm, and free as Mason's,--some _good_ place." Alice sighed at this thought.

"It can't be here at home, because it takes so much money to have it warm and light; and besides, his friends wouldn't feel free to come, and it would be lonely for him."

"Alice, what _are_ you muttering about?" called Mrs. Rawson.

"Nothing, mother; I'm only making a plan."

"If I could get books and papers," she went on, closing the door, and starting for the kitchen; "but Jack is too tired to read much."

Suddenly a new thought struck her, and she stood in the middle of the kitchen like a statue.

"I wonder--I do wonder why a place couldn't be fixed--a room somewhere! I believe people would help if they only thought how good it would be for boys. That would be splendid!" And she looked anything but a statue now, for she fairly beamed with delight at the thought.

"I don't suppose I can do much alone," she said later, as the plan grew more into shape; "but it's for Jack, and that'll help me talk to people, I'm sure, and at least I can try."

She did try. Without troubling her mother with her plans,--for she knew she would be worried and think of a dozen objections to it,--in her delicate state of health,--Alice hurried through with her work, put on her things, and went to call first on Mr. Smith, a grocer. She happened to know that at the back of Mr. Smith's store was a room opening on a side street, which he had formerly rented for a cobbler's shop, but which was now empty.

Alice's heart fluttered wildly a moment, when she stood before the grocer in his private office, where she was sent when she asked of the clerk an interview with Mr. Smith.

"You are Rawson's daughter, I believe," was Mr. Smith's greeting.

"Yes," said Alice, "I am Alice Rawson, and you'll think I am crazy, I'm afraid, when I tell you my errand," she went on, trembling. "But oh, Mr. Smith! if you remember my father before--before"--

"I do, child," said the grocer kindly, supposing she had come to ask for help.

"Then you'll not wonder," she went on bravely, "that I am going to try every way to save my brother."

"Is your brother in danger?" asked Mr. Smith. "And what can I do?"