The reigning belle

Little James Laurence gave himself no time for cowardly thoughts, but ran bravely towards a grocery store, where the family provisions had been bought in better times, but where all credit for their present necessities was now curtly refused.

The proprietor of this store had fortunately gone out, and his wife stood behind the counter, serving a customer. She was a stout, matronly body, with clear, light-blue eyes, and a pleasant smile, which was turned with more than usual kindness on the boy as he entered almost upon the run. Something in that young face, in the large, eager eyes, and restless mouth, struck her with a vague idea of commiseration. When her customer went out, carrying a brown paper parcel, she folded her plump, round arms on the counter, and leaning over them in a luxuriously cozy position, accosted the boy.

“Well, Jimmy, what shall we put up for you? One never sees any of your folks lately. Seem to have took their trade somewhere else?”

James went close up to the counter, and fixed his great, hungry eyes on hers: the light from a swinging lamp overhead fell upon his face, and the kind woman read something there that made her heart ache.

“Why, Jimmy, my dear boy, what is it? No trouble, I hope, beyond the great loss?”

Had the woman been cold or angry, that brave boy would have faced both without a tear; but now, sudden moisture sparkled in his eyes, and he winked his long, black lashes over and over again to break it up while he was speaking.

“We haven’t traded here lately, Mrs. Smith, because we had no money, and your husband got tired of trusting.”

“Who told you so?”

“He did.”

“Then he—— Well, he’s one of the best fellows that ever lived. Does it all for the sake of me and the children—you must understand that, youngster. He’s generous as the day, is my husband. Now what is it you want just at present?”

“Mrs. Smith, we haven’t had anything to eat in our house these three days.”

The boy’s voice broke as he said this, and tears fell from the eyes he lifted to that woman’s face, whose kindness he could only see through a mist.

“Not had anything to eat in three days, and I here! Oh, Jimmy Laurence! what were you all thinking about? It’s too bad, there!”

Mrs. Smith drew a plump arm across her eyes as she spoke, then seizing the lad by both hands, she fell to kissing him over the counter, then gave him a box on the ear, and pushed him away.

“Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t your mother just step over and tell me about it? Business is business, but this—— I’ve no patience with you, Jimmy Laurence, nor none of your tribe.”

“But we did not know. He said——”

“He said. He can say anything he likes when there’s no woman by with a will of her own. Now come round here this very minute and tell me what you want.”

“Oh, Mrs. Smith, you are so good! I didn’t mean to beg for things, or run in debt more than we have; but we must have something to eat, or—or more of us will be down sick; but I mean to work for it—that is what I came for. There is a load of coal coming to-morrow morning. I want to bring it in for you.”

“You, Jimmy! You bring in coal, poor, slender, pale-faced darling!”

Little Jim flushed all over at this insinuation against his manliness, and rolling up the sleeve of his jacket, exposed a delicate, white arm, with the little hand clenched, and blue veins thus forced to notice on the wrist.

“See, Mrs. Smith,” he said, “there’s muscle for a boy; lean, but tough—just feel it.”

Mrs. Smith did span the delicate wrist with her thumb and finger, feeling the quick pulse stir feebly to the touch, and turned away her face to keep the boy from seeing how close she was to tears—an unusual thing with her.

“Yes, I see; not much flesh to spare.”

“No; some fellows have lots, you know—but that don’t make ’em powerful. Mrs. Smith, just look at the boys that ride circus horses, and jump through hoops, how lean they keep ’em. Just let me feed up a little, and I shall be in prime working order.”

“Well,” answered the woman, laughing away the tears that had actually begun to float in her blue eyes, “we will feed you up and try.”

“That’s splendid,” cried the boy, pulling down his jacket-sleeve, which was far too short, and woefully thread-bare. “Then I was thinking of another thing. Saturday nights you are so busy, and have lots of things to carry home—couldn’t I do some of that just as well as the bigger boys? You don’t know how spry I am. Now a basket like that is nothing to me.”

Here the noble little fellow lifted down a basket of groceries that stood on the counter, ready to be carried home, and dragged it, staggering and breathless, across the floor, where he gave way and fell across it, utterly insensible.

Good Mrs. Smith ran around the counter and lifted the poor little fellow in her arms. Then she sat down on a candle-box, and pressing that pale head to her bosom, began to pat him on the back, rub his hands, and push the hair off from his forehead with quick, motherly tenderness. This flamed up to generous rage when her husband came in with his fresh, prosperous look, and asked her what she was about, and what boy she was hugging.

“Come and look for yourself, John Smith, and if you are not quite a heathen and Sandwich Island hottentot, ask God to forgive your cruelty. Look at that face; look at these limp, little hands; just go to the door and look down street towards the house, where all those morning glories only cover up starvation. You brought it on, Smith; you refused them credit when they hadn’t another place to go to, and the poor things are just starved out—starved out! Do you hear me, John Smith? And one of ’em, for anything I know, dead in your wife’s arms—just an awful judgment against you if he is—poor, sweet, innocent darling, as wanted only to work for a morsel of bread. He work? John Smith, I hate you!”

“Come, come, old woman. Isn’t this going a little rough?” said the grocer, quite bewildered, and taken aback by this assault from the most genial and kind creature in the world. “What has got into your head, and who is that in your arms?”

“Who? don’t ask me. It’s little Jimmy Laurence, the son of that splendid policeman, who was shot down in the street by a highway burglar; one of the steadiest customers you had when we wanted custom bad enough, mercy knows. He’s just starved out, mother, sisters and all, and you’ve done it by telling them you couldn’t trust any longer; but I’ll pay you off. They shall have everything they want, if it’s half the store. I’ll send for carts, and have the whole stock moved into their kitchen. How can you look me in the face, John Smith? Bring me some water, brandy, peppermint, hartshorn. Can’t you step about? Or do you want to kill him over again? There!”