THE BLIND RUSH-SELLER.
259
and went out. The day was dawning grandly over quaint, old Rouen.
The child went round
to the window-ledge to look at her pansies.
There were two pretty purple things, with lustrous, golden hearts. An old market-woman
had given her the plant, and the child watched
and nurtured it with a kind of adoration. Her
pansy-pot was the shrine at which she worshiped. Looking at the dewy blossoms, a sudden thought flashed upon her. What if she
should break them off and run out and sell
them! Surely they would bring enough to buy
them some breakfast! But her lips quivered,
and tears filled her eyes. It almost broke her
heart to give up her pansies. But she was so
hungry, and poor grandpa would have no breakfast. At this last thought, she put out her hand
resolutely and broke them off; then ran away as
fast as she could.
At a corner of the market-place she paused breathless. A fine gentleman was passing by, and extending the tiny, brown hand that held the biossoms, she said timidly,
«Will you please, sir, buy my pansies?”
But he pushed on, well-nigh brushing them from her grasp. The next passer was an old countryman, with a wagon filled with milk-cans rattling ahead of him. The child put out her blossoms, and repeated her meek entreaty. The old man paused. His garden was overrun with such things, but the child’s little, eager face touched him.
«Buy your pansies?” he said. ‘‘Why, bless your poor, little heart, to be sure I will, if you want to sell ’em. What do you want for 'em?”
“Only enough to buy a loaf, sir. We are so hungry, grandpap and I.”
The countryman’s eyes filled with tears.
“Give me the blossoms,” he said. “I'll take 'em home to my little girl; and you come along, you poor, hungry, little bird, and get a drink o’ fresh milk.”
The child followed him eagerly, drinking the milk, and clutched at the wheaten roll he gave her. But before she had swallowed the second mouthful she paused, holding the bread in her hand.
“Why don’t you eat?” he said.
“Grandpap,” she half sobbed, ‘‘he’s so hungry, too!”
“Then take this,’ continued the man, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, “and run home and buy him some breakfast.”
He put a silver piece in her hand. She grasped it with dilating eyes.
“The good God reward you!” she murmured, kissing his hands vehemently. Then, before he was aware of her motion, she had disappeared.
“Grandpap! Oh, grandpap! see what I’ve got,” she cried, bursting into the little room a few minutes later; “see what I sold my pansies for. We'll have such a breakfast now, bread and sausage, and——”
But she stopped short, for, in the middle of the room, the old man lay prone on his face. She flew to his side, with a startled cry, tossing her silver piece into the old chair.
“Oh, grandpap!” raising his head, “ what is it? Speak to me, grandpap!”
The old man slowly roused, and tottered to his feet. His face looked ghastly, he had fasted so long, and he shook with weakness.
“Grandpap,” the child continued, “you shan’t be sick any more; it is because you’re hungry—you shall have plenty of breakfast now I’ve sold my pansies, and—oh! where is the money? I threw it in the chair when I was so frightened. Oh! it’s gone, it’s gone. It’s slipped down behind the cushion,” she said, examining it closely. ‘May I try to raise the cushion up and find it?”
“Yes; but don’t hurt the old chair, Matihl,” said the old man, anxiously.
The child ran her little fingers into every crevice, and at last she fell to working vigorously at the huge cushion. It was covered with leather beneath the brocatelle, but it was decayed and rotten, and a few vigorous tugs from her nervous little hands broke it loose with a crash.
“Oh, grandpap!” she cried, starting back in amazement, for, as it yielded, a glittering stream came flashing and tinkling to the floor.
The old man, hearing the sound, crossed over. A sudden light seemed to dawn upon him. He threw up his hands, and cried,
“Shut the door, Matihl, and tell me what they are like.”
The child obeyed, dropping on her knees before the old chair.
‘‘Here’s jewels, grandpap,” she said, in an awed whisper, ‘‘just like the empress wore when she rode through Rouen that day—whole heaps of ’em, as bright as stars; and great piles of gold, and papers with Jacques De Courcy marked on ’em.’’
“Put them all back, Matihl,” said the old man, quietly; ‘and then run down to the good abbe’s and ask him to come here.”
“But our breakfast, grandpap?” said the child, pausing in the door-way.
“We can afford to wait a little while for
