THE BLIND RUSH-SELLER.
his bundle of rushes in one corner of the small room, threw himself down in the old chair with a heavy sigh.
«Another day,” he murmured, ‘‘and not a penny, and the poor child half-famished. The good God pity us!”
In the meantime, little Matihl had crept to the hearth, and raking open the coals, she sat swaying herself to and fro, and whimpering in a babyish way.
“What is it little one?” called the old man.
“Oh, grandpap! I’m so tired, and so cold, and so very, very hungry. If we only had some supper!”
By a kind of instinct he turned his sightless eyes toward the one window, through whose dingy panes the pomp and splendor of the closing day were visible, and his lips moved silently, as if asking help from some source more compassionate than man.
“Run down to the baker's, Matihl,” he said, at last, his voice slow and hesitating, as if the resolution pained him, and ask him to trust me for a loaf. I think 1 can raise enough to pay him tomorrow.”
The child went off like a bird on the wing, her brown hair streaming behind her in disheveled masses; but in a few moments she returned, drooping and dispirited
‘He wouldn’t let me have it, grandpap,” she sobbed; ‘and ordered me out of the shop for a beggar.”
The old man made no answer, but leaned his head upon his hand, while the tears fell silently. The weary child soon sobbed herself to sleep. But still he sat there, in the purple twilight, silent, and thinking of the past.
For even this poor, blind Rush-Seller had his happy memories There had been a day, when he was young and strong, and as gallant a soldier, perhaps, as could be found in Rouen. His father, Piere De Courcy, was a wealthy and reputable citizen, and at his death Jacques had looked forward to the possession of a handsome income. But when that event occurred, he found, to his dismay and astonishment, that his father was a bankrupt. Too proud to remain in Rowen, he wandered off to the South of France. Here his wife died. Here, too, one fine day, when looking at a parade, a piece of artillery exploded, and the poor man was blind for life.
But he still had one blessing left, an only son who was now growing to manhood. The son married, and of this union the little Matihl was the offspring. When she was a babe in her mother’s arms, her father went off to the Austrian wars, and in less than a month fell fatally wounded. His wife, too frail to endure the shock, soon followed her husband, and little Matibl and her blind, old grandfather were left alone in the world.
Actuated by that yearning, instinctive love of home, which is as deathless as the soul itself, they wandered back to Rouen. The quaint, old city was unchanged; but its streets were thronged with unfamiliar faces; and led along by his little grandchild, Jacques De Courcy found that he was as utterly unknown and forgotten in his native town as if he had never existed.
Friendless, nameless, and well-nigh penniless, yet too proud of heart to make himself known, he settled down in a humble quarter of the city, and took to selling rushes for a livelihood. A meagre subsistence it brought him, but the poor, old man could do nothing better; and he must do something, for the paltry sum which had accrued to him from the disposal of his house- hold effects was well-nigh gone.
And one sunny afternoon, strolling along with his little guide, and amusing himself by listening to the idle chat of the by-standers, he chanced upon a small crowd collected around the sale of some old books and second-hand furniture. The auctioneer had just put up an old chair, and was descanting quite volubly upon its rare merits. ‘It was worth buying,” he said, “as a relic, if nothing more. It had belonged to the De Courcies, one of the best families in Rouen in their day, and had been handed down from one to another as a kind of heir-loom.”
Old Jacques waited to hear no more. He arose, and groping across to where the old chair stood, fell to passing his hands over its quaint carvings with a kind of caressing fondness. It was the same, the dear old chair in which he had seen his father, and his grandfather before him, sit so often. With tears running down his furrowed cheeks he bought it back, glad to get it, though it took the last sous from his pocket. He had it conveyed to his poor lodgings, and those who noticed, wondered what in the world old Jacques, the Rush-Seller, wanted with the De Courcy chair.
And thus, having spent the last of his little mite of money, he had nothing to fall back upon when his rush-selling failed him; and poor little Matihl, as we have seen, was forced to go supperless to bed. She awoke in the morning with no prospect of breakfast. Her grandfather, worn-out by hunger and anxiety, was still asleep. Noiselessly the little thing unbolted the door
