“Are you going out?” asked Bethany, wistfully, of the Judge the next morning.

She had breakfasted with the Judge. She had disappeared afterward to visit the pigeon loft with Titus, and then when he left the house to call on his friend Charlie she had gone to the Judge’s study to play with Sukey. Now she stood regretfully watching him button on his overcoat.

“Yes, I am,” he replied. “I have a call to make; would you like to go with me?” he asked, as an afterthought.

Her little face beamed. That was just what she wanted.

“But you haven’t any wraps,” said the Judge. “However, I can bundle you up in something, and Roblee will drive us to Furst Brothers. There we will find everything under one roof. Here you are,” and, laughing like a boy, he smothered her up in the fur coat that he intended to give Mafferty and carried her out to the sleigh.

A quiet-living man, a man of simple pleasures, one who rarely experienced new sensations, the trip through Furst Brothers’ establishment was as full of interest to the Judge as a voyage of exploration would have been to another man.

First they visited the fur department, where Bethany stood in rapt silence, with shining eyes which she sometimes tightly closed, and then suddenly opened to make sure that it was not all a dream, while an obsequious shopwoman tried on one little coat after another.

The Judge’s choice finally fell on a white one with a cap to match, and Bethany was clad in it. The Judge directed the woman to let the coat hang open, as the store was very warm. The little cap was put on, however, and, tightly holding his hand and occasionally glancing down to smooth the pretty blue satin lining, Bethany walked as if in a trance to the shoe department.

There she was fitted with several pairs of shoes and slippers. Finally rubbers were slipped on and a pair of warm, black, woolen gaiters buttoned over them. Then gloves were chosen, and back they went to the fur department to buy a little muff which the Judge had forgotten.

“As for dresses and undergarments,” he said to Bethany, “Mrs. Blodgett must bring you here. Now we will go to see my friend.”

When they were again seated in the sleigh, and Bethany, with a bright pink spot on each cheek, sat holding her hands tightly clasped in her muff, the Judge said, “Did you ever hear of Mrs. Tom Everest while you were living on River Street?”

The child shook her head.

“No; you would not. Well, I must tell you that she is a very charming and philanthropic young woman, the granddaughter of a once eminent jurist of this city.”

Bethany had very little idea of what her companion meant, but she enjoyed being talked to as if she were a young lady, and she gravely bent her head and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Her grandfather was a much older man than I am, but I well remember him and his admirable wife, now also dead. Unfortunately, some time after his death the family lost their money and went to River Street to live. This girl Berty, or, rather, Mrs. Tom Everest, became greatly interested in the poor people about her, and when she married she persuaded her husband to come and live with her instead of moving to another part of the city. They seem to be quite happy, and are doing much good. I am going to see her to ask if she knows of any nice family where you would have young children to play with and be kindly treated.”

“Me, sir?” ejaculated Bethany, faintly.

“Yes; my house is not a suitable place for you. You see, I thought you were a boy when I brought you home.”

“A boy, sir?” said Bethany, still more faintly. “O, yes, I remember.”

“I wanted a companion for my grandson.”

“I like boys, sir,” murmured the little girl, weakly.

The Judge looked sharply down at her. The lovely color had faded from her face. Large tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“You have surely not got attached to us in this short time,” he said, wonderingly.

“It doesn’t take much to keep me, sir,” said Bethany, desperately. “I’ve been trying not to eat too much—and mousie could get on with less. And I can work, sir. Lots of times I’ve scrubbed down the stairs for Mrs. Tingsby.”

The Judge made some kind of a noise in his throat and looked over the shoulder farthest away from Bethany.

They were gliding swiftly through Broadway. O! the exquisite, clear, cold air and the lovely sunshine. How good it was to be alive, even if one were sixty-two; and he had just been stabbing this faithful little heart beside him. But, pshaw! Nonsense! A child of seven formed no strong attachments in a day. If he sent her away she would cling as closely to a kind stranger as she now apparently did to him.

But Bethany was talking, very weakly and brokenly, but still talking, and he must listen.

“Sir,” she murmured, “I could take care of the birds—those beautiful birds, and if there was not room in the house I could sleep in that lovely loft. I would not be nervous and cry, or make any noise to disturb the horses. Only once in a while, when you were out, I would like to creep in the house to see that little saint with the hood on.”

The little saint was Sukey, and the Judge smiled.

“Which do you love the best?” he said, sharply, “me and my grandson or the pigeons?”

“The pigeons, sir,” she said, simply. “But before my mamma died she said, ‘Bethany, when you grow up you will love human beings better than the animals and the birds.’”

“Then why did you not stay at home with the birds this morning instead of coming with me? You wanted to come, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t know what made me want to come, but when I heard you putting on your coat I left the lovely bird and ran in the hall. It seemed as if I would be lonely without you.”

The Judge smiled, a somewhat puzzled smile, and did not speak until Roblee drew up in front of a large, old-fashioned, smartly painted house on River Street, and said, “Mrs. Everest’s, sir.”

The Judge started, then he turned to Bethany. “Do you want to come in with me?”

“I—I don’t just feel like it, sir,” she said, hesitatingly, and the Judge saw that her cast-down face was again wet with tears.

“I will not be long,” he said, kindly, and he rang the bell.

“Yes, Mrs. Everest was at home,” a trim little maidservant informed him, and she ushered him into a large room on the ground floor.

The painted floor of the room had only one rug, on which a fat baby was sprawling. A wire screen before a blazing fire kept in sparks and prevented the possibility of baby’s hands being burnt, or, possibly, baby’s precious body, for he was alone for the moment.

Between partly open sliding doors the Judge saw in a second large room an enormous Christmas tree loaded with gifts.

The air of the house was sweet and wholesome. Looking beyond the Christmas tree, and through long windows which appeared to be old-fashioned ones made larger, the Judge had a magnificent view of the river.

“It is possible to be comfortable even on River Street,” he said, standing with his back to the fire and obligingly giving one foot to the baby, who was begging frantically for it.

“Good morning, good morning,” said a sudden gay voice, and a half-girlish, half-womanly figure entered the room and took both the Judge’s outstretched hands in her own. “The very best of Christmas blessings on you!”

“And on you,” he said, heartily, “for you deserve them if anyone does.”

“Hush, hush,” she protested, blushingly, then motioning him to the most comfortable of the many comfortable chairs in the room she took the roly-poly baby on her lap.

“What do you think of Tom, junior? Isn’t he immense? You naughty baby, your mouth is black again. He begs like a little dog for everybody’s feet—licks the blacking off. Just imagine! Now, Judge, do you think there is anything servile about me or Tom?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, this baby is an absolute lackey. Cringes and crawls to everyone—hasn’t the spirit of a mouse. Fancy liking blacking and coal. You young rogue!” and she shook him till the baby laughed in glee.

“He is a fine child,” said the Judge, “the picture of health. And now I must not take up your time, for I know you are a very busy person. You may know, or may not know, that for some time I have been looking for an orphan boy to adopt.”

Mrs. Everest nodded her pretty black head. “Yes, I know.”

“I didn’t apply to you,” said her caller, “because I know your tender heart. You occupy yourself mostly with the very poor. I wanted a boy of some respectability.”

“Exactly. Baby, stop licking my belt. Did you ever see such a child?”

“On Christmas Eve, just two days ago,” continued the Judge, “I happened to stumble on a child that I thought was a boy, but perhaps you know about it,” for Mrs. Everest was laughing heartily.

“O, yes; River Street knows what River Street does.”

“Then I can omit that part. You know Mrs. Tingsby?”

“O, yes—know her and esteem her. She is a little shy of me because she is so respectable and so self-supporting. She doesn’t want me to help her. She thinks she would lose prestige as a boarding-house keeper. Mafferty—Barry Mafferty, who runs our cat farm—was in last evening. He gave a glowing account of your visit to Mrs. Tingsby. I wish you could hear the nice things he says about you.”

“Has he gone back to his farm?” asked the Judge.

“Yes, we persuaded him to go this morning. He gets terribly bored on the Island, and comes up occasionally to stay for a day or two at Mrs. Tingsby’s. Then Tom and I have to watch him to see that he does not get into the saloons.”

“I promised him a fur coat,” said the Judge.

“So he told me. If you leave it here I will see that he gets it.”

“Well,” said the Judge, “to come back to my affair. I don’t want to keep this little girl. I want to find a good home for her, where her sensitive nature will be taken into account. I thought perhaps you would know of such a home.”

“Does she want to leave you?” asked Mrs. Everest, quickly.

“Well, no,” said the Judge, honestly, “I don’t think she does, neither did she want to leave Mrs. Tingsby to come to me. Children are fickle.”

The pretty girl-woman shook her head. “Mrs. Tingsby’s was different. The child had been brought up to believe that some day she would know something better. You should have seen her mother. She was an exquisite creature. Pale, and cold, and quiet, and shy, and aristocratic, and making friends only with Mrs. Tingsby. I, in vain, tried to get acquainted with her.”

“Did you know that Mrs. Tingsby allowed the child to work at making paper boxes?” asked the Judge.

“No,” said Mrs. Everest, quickly. “She would not dare to have that get to my ears. Do you know this to be true?”

“Yes; the child was staggering home when I found her.”

Mrs. Everest clasped her baby closer to her. “O, these poor people, aren’t they extraordinary! Now, that woman’s false pride won’t allow me to help her, and yet she lets this poor child work—and her own, too, I daresay, for she would not require of one what she would not require of the others.”

“I understood her to say that they all had work of some kind through the Christmas holidays. Can you in any way get at the employers of this child labor?”

“I shall make it my business to do so,” said Mrs. Everest, warmly. “I shall go to see Mrs. Tingsby to-day and question her.”

“If you want money for prosecution, call on me,” said the Judge.

“Thank you, I will. Well, what are you going to do about the little girl if you cannot find a home? Don’t send her back to Mrs. Tingsby’s. Give her to me, rather.”

“This would be a charming place for her,” said the Judge, looking about him. “I never thought of that. I don’t know anyone I would rather give the child to than to you.”

“I should be delighted to have her,” said Mrs. Everest, heartily, “and would try to make her happy; but in taking her I would not have you suppose for one single instant that I think you are not a very suitable and proper person to have charge of her. Do you know, I have often wondered why you have not done more active charitable work. You are so eminently qualified for it, and you have always been so generous and so sympathetic in your donations, that we all know your heart is with us.”

The Judge sighed. “I have had a very busy life, and then my troubles have made me egotistical. May I bring the little girl in for you to see her?”

“Certainly, or let me ring. Daisy will get her.”

The happy-faced little maid, upon being instructed, quickly ran downstairs and returned with Bethany.

Mrs. Everest put down the baby and went to meet her. “How do you do, dear?” she said, kissing her. Then, drawing her to the fire, she took off her gloves and rubbed her fingers.

“Why, you are quite cold,” she said; “quite cold, and you look forlorn.”

She took off the fur cap, and for a few minutes silently stroked Bethany’s pale, unhappy cheeks. Then she whispered, “What is the matter, darling?”

Not since her mother’s death had a lady, a genuine lady, put her arm round the shrinking, sensitive child and whispered to her in tones sweet and clear. Something in Bethany’s heart responded. She could not speak, but she silently returned the pressure of Mrs. Everest’s hands and gazed into her eyes in dumb misery.

The Judge, in the meantime, got up, walked about the room in some embarrassment, and tried to avoid the overtures of the too-friendly baby, who was creeping briskly after him, gurgling in his throat, and begging for permission to play with his feet.

“What is the matter?” whispered Mrs. Everest, “is it that you don’t want to leave the Judge and Titus?”

Bethany silently nodded her head.

“Would you like to come and live with me and be my little girl?” pursued Mrs. Everest.

She felt the little form shrink within her arms.

“You would rather stay with the Judge?”

Bethany nodded again.

Mrs. Everest looked over her shoulder. “What do you call him?”

“My little pet name for him is Daddy Grandpa,” whispered the child, brokenly.

“Then leave me, run right up to him, throw your arms round his neck, and say, ‘Please, dear Daddy Grandpa, don’t send me away from you.’”

Somewhat to Mrs. Everest’s surprise, for she did not know what a relief the suggestion was to the child’s breaking heart, Bethany broke from her arms and rushed to the Judge, and, not being able to reach his neck, clasped his coat, or as much of it as she could grasp, and fairly shrieked in her nervousness, “Dear Daddy Grandpa, please don’t send me away from you.”

The Judge stopped short. His first thought was that the active baby had risen and was seizing him. Then he looked down into Bethany’s agitated face and said, “What! What!”

“Dear Daddy Grandpa,” she cried again; then her overwrought nerves gave way, and she burst into a frantic fit of sobbing.

“She doesn’t want to live with me,” said Mrs. Everest, shaking her black head, and as if remarking, “I am sorry, but it is no concern of mine,” she sat down and took up her own baby.

Bethany was clasping the coat and crying as if her heart would break.

“Upon my word!” ejaculated the Judge. “Upon my word!”

This was his exclamation in moments of great perplexity. “Little girl!” he said. “Little girl!”

This torrent of tears distressed him and made him vaguely alarmed.

“Bethany, child,” he said, in haste, “little girl, do you want to go home?”

Home! That was the magic word that the child wanted.

“O, yes, sir; yes, sir!” she gasped, and with a hurried farewell to Mrs. Everest the Judge picked up the sorrowful child in his arms and fairly ran downstairs with her.