“What have you here, my brother?” asked Mrs. Carlton, as, in response to a message from Mr. Morris, she entered the kitchen, where poor Madge sat on a cricket before the range, looking, as Jessie afterwards said, “like a cat in a strange garret.”

“She’s a heap o’ rags and dirt, mem,” interposed the servant, who did not fancy the introduction of such an unsightly object into her prim-looking dominions.

“She is a poor, starving, and half-frozen girl, without any kind mother to take care of her and love her,” said Jessie, who feared, from her mother’s looks, that poor Madge was as unwelcome a guest to her, as she was to the kitchen-maid.

“She is a poor, little human waif, which has floated to our door on a sea of trouble and misfortune, sister,” observed Mr. Morris. “If opportunity is the gate of duty, then we owe it to this little girl, and to the Great Father who sent her to our doors, to relieve her wants, and if needs be, provide for her in future.”

This view of her relation to poor little Madge, somewhat softened Mrs. Carlton’s feelings. She was a very kind woman—in fact, she was nearly all heart—but she was fastidiously neat. Madge’s dirt and rags had repelled her at first sight; had shut out from her thoughts, for the moment, the recollection, that within that covering of filthy rags, there sat a human creature, which, had it been loved, and taught, and trained as her own child had been, might have been as loving, and as attractive as she. Her brother’s remark brought this view of Madge’s case before her, but did not wholly divest her of her first feelings. Jessie’s instincts led her to see that her mother was not quite prepared to take the outcast girl to her affections, and trembling for the result, she followed up her uncle’s plea, by saying:

“We found her cold and hungry, sitting under a stone wall, waiting for her mother, who has run away from her. If we had not brought her home, she would have frozen to death before morning. Wouldn’t that have been terrible, Ma?”

“Poor thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Carlton, her sympathy being now fully aroused, “but, Brother, why did you not take her to the alms-house, where they have the means of cleansing and clothing such unhappy outcasts?”

“Perhaps it would have been more prudent, my sister, to have done so; but I took counsel of your child’s heart, and not of my own prudence. This is Jessie’s protÉgÉ. When she pleaded in her behalf, I thought I would do for Madge, what I and you would wish another to do for Jessie, should she ever, by any sad reverse of fortune, become an outcast child.”

“Halloo, what little dolly mop have you got here?” cried Hugh, who, at this juncture, bounded into the kitchen to see what was going on.

“Poor little creature! She has had a hard road to travel, thus far, I guess,” said Guy, who accompanied his brother. Hugh looked at the child’s appearance only. Guy, like his uncle and Jessie, viewed her as a human being in distress.

All this time, the object of these comments, stared strangely about, looking, now at the things around her, and then into the faces of the different persons in the group. At first, she seemed indifferent to their remarks. But when Hugh called her a little dollymop, her large, black eyes flashed angrily upon him. Guy’s kind words and tones disarmed her, however, and a pearl-like tear rolled down her cheeks.

“Well,” said Mrs. Carlton, with a sigh of resignation to circumstances, “the poor thing is here, and must be cared for.” Then turning to the servant, she added, “Take the poor child into the bath-room. Give her a thorough cleansing and combing, while I look out some of Jessie’s clothes for her. Take those rags she has on, and throw them on the dirt heap!”

The party in the kitchen now broke up. Uncle Morris, the boys, and Jessie, went into the parlor, where they found Mr. Carlton, who had just returned from the city. He approved of what Uncle Morris had done, but thought it best to inquire, at once, for Madge’s mother at the village tavern. As there was yet an hour to spare before tea, he took Guy, and started in pursuit of the heartless mother.

Where was she? After leaving Madge at the pump, she had gone to the tavern, and purchased some gin. After drinking a large glass of the fiery liquor, she put down the glass and the money, looking so ravenously at the sparkling decanter, that the landlord feared she was going crazy. Reaching her skinny fingers out towards the bottle, she said, in a screeching voice: “Give me another glass!”

Hardly knowing what he was about, the landlord filled her glass a second time. She swallowed its contents at a single gulp, and demanded more. Alarmed at her manner the man refused. Then her anger awoke. She poured forth a volley of strange and fearful words. The passers-by came in to see what was the matter. To be rid of her tongue and to save the reputation of his house, as he said, the landlord called in his stable-boys, and they hurled her into the street.

There she drew upon herself the attention of Jem Townsend and the crew of idle boys which usually accompanied him. They gathered round the unhappy woman, as she sat on the edge of the curb-stone cursing the tavern-keeper, and began to tease her.

“Fuddled, eh?” said Jem Townsend, laughing. Then he added, “What do you do here, Lady Ginswiller? Rather a cold seat this for a lady, eh? Better walk into old Bottlenose’s best parlor, hadn’t ye?”

Upon this the poor maudlin creature cursed louder than ever. The wicked urchins laughed and hooted in turn, until she rose in a fit of passion and pursued them.

The boys ran down the village street, pausing now and then to quicken her rage by some biting words. And thus they led her at last to the vicinity of a low grocery. Drawn by the scent of rum, like the vulture to its quarry, she staggered into the grocery, laid down her last sixpence on the bar, and muttered, “Give me a drink of rum.”

It was given her. She drank the wretched stuff, and reeling to the door-step, fell down insensibly drunk. What a spectacle of pity! And yet that poor, pitiable creature had once been a fair and lovely girl, as full of life and hope as she was of health and beauty. But now, alas, how fallen! What had done it? The wine cup, used in circles of fashion, began the work of ruin. Rum and gin were doing their best to finish it.

Finding they could not rouse her, the boys ran off to Mr. Tipstaff, the constable, and told him about her. That worthy repaired to the spot. Aided by one or two others he dragged her to a magistrate’s office; and he sent her to jail as a common vagrant.

These facts were all told to Mr. Carlton and Guy by the landlord of the hotel, who painted the poor woman in very dark colors. After calling on the magistrate and requesting that the prisoner might be detained the next day until it was ascertained certainly that she was Madge’s mother, he and Guy returned home with sad hearts. They talked the matter over as they walked. Among other questions, Guy asked:

“Do many women become drunkards, Pa?”

“Yes, a great many; though drunken women are not so common as drunken men, by far.”

“It always makes me feel bad to see a tipsy man; but when I once saw a tipsy woman in New York, it made me shudder. How do women learn to drink, Pa? They don’t go to the tavern like men, do they?”

“Not at first, Guy. Usually they begin at home, or at parties, or when stopping at the great hotels, where wine is drunk at the dinner-table. In many families, also, wine is used at the table, and fathers and mothers teach their daughters to drink it as a daily beverage. But generally, I believe, ladies begin their habit of drinking wine at parties, taking it, at first, not from choice, but because they don’t like to be thought singular.”

“But I don’t see how drinking a little wine at a party can teach a lady to be a drunkard, Pa,” remarked Guy.

“It does not do so, my son, in every case. But too often a lady will acquire an appetite for wine, which gradually grows stronger and stronger until she cannot control it. This appetite is not awakened in all who drink, but it may be. Hence, it is better for all, boys, girls, men, and women, not to touch the drink that is in the drunkard’s bowl.”

“So I think, Pa,” said Guy, “and therefore, I mean to be a tee-totaler as long as I live.”

“That’s right, my son. It is always best to keep as far from a dangerous place as possible.”

When Mr. Carlton and Guy reached home, tea was ready, and they went at once to the cheerful table. Jessie could scarcely wait while the blessing was asked, so impatient was she to know if Madge’s mother had been found. As soon, therefore, as Uncle Morris ceased speaking, she broke forth and said:

“O Pa! you don’t know how nice Madge will look when she is washed and dressed. Please tell me if you have seen her mother?”

“No, I have not seen her,” replied her father, smiling.

Jessie’s face brightened. She had been fearing that Madge would have to go away if her mother was found. Looking archly at her father, she said—

“I’m so glad. Now poor Madge can stay here!”

“Why, Jessie, you surprise me,” said Mrs. Carlton. “Is it any thing to be glad about, that a little girl has lost her mother?”

With a blush mantling her cheek: the little girl exclaimed—

“Her mother is a wicked woman, Ma, and don’t make her happy, nor teach her to be good. If Madge has lost her, and you let her live with us and be a mother to her, she will be a good deal better off, and much happier than she could be with her own mother.”

“Spoken like a philosopher!” exclaimed Uncle Morris. “The loss of a drunken mother is not, indeed, a thing to mourn over, especially if that loss brings with it the gain of a home in which Love is the perpetual President—but I suspect from your pa’s looks that Madge’s mother is not wholly lost, yet.”

“Why! didn’t pa say he couldn’t find her?” said Jessie, looking with a puzzled air at her father.

“Not exactly, my dear,” replied Mr. Carlton. “I said I had not seen her, which is true; but I have heard of her, as I suppose; for a strange woman did go to the tavern about the time Madge was left, and is now in jail as a drunken vagrant.”

“Oh, how shocking!” exclaimed Jessie.

Mr. Carlton now told all he had heard about the supposed Mrs. Clifton, and it was agreed that Uncle Morris should see her in the morning and learn if she was, indeed, the poor child’s mother.

After tea, Jessie hurried to the kitchen to look after her protÉgÉ. She found her so changed by her washing and new dress, that notwithstanding her high expectations, she could hardly believe her to be the same Madge she had seen sitting there an hour before. But Madge it was, as bright and good-looking a girl as could be found anywhere, in or out of Duncanville.

“Have you had enough to eat, Madge?” inquired Jessie, scarcely knowing how to act the part of an agreeable hostess.

“Indade, miss, but she has eaten more like a hungry pig than a gal,” said Mary, before Madge had time to reply.

Jessie could not keep from laughing at Mary’s not very complimentary comparison. Hence, she turned her head so as not to hurt the little girl’s feelings. As soon as she could make her face straight and sober again, she sat down beside Madge, and taking her hand, said—

“Would you like to see my doll?”

But Madge had other and higher thoughts than of dolls or playthings. She was in a sort of wonder-world. She could not satisfy herself with regard to the meaning of the change brought about in her during the last hour or two. That pleasant kitchen, the neat dress she wore, the bath by which she had been cleansed from the filth of poverty, the pleasant faces she had seen, and the kind voices she had heard, all seemed to her like a gay dream, and she was expecting, ay, and fearing too, that the next minute she should awake and find herself sitting and shivering in the cold wind, under the stone wall, waiting for her ungentle mother. But when Jessie touched her hand and spoke so kindly to her, every thing seemed real, and her heart sent up gushes of gratitude to the little friend who, like some good fairy, had conjured away her rags, and pain, and cold, and hunger. After gazing silently into Jessie’s eyes a few moments, as if she was trying to look into her soul, she said—

“Little girl, will you let me love you?”

“To be sure I will, and I will love you too,” replied Jessie, in tones that seemed like angel’s music to the little outcast, whose ears had long been unfamiliar with loving words.

Then Jessie threw an arm round Madge and pressing her to her bosom, gave her a kiss. Oh, how warmly did the outcast girl return it! She clung to Jessie as the wild vine does to the supporting branch, and embraced her with an ardor which told more eloquently than words could utter it, how grateful she was for the love which Jessie had offered her.

When Madge withdrew her arms from Jessie, she sat back in her chair and gazed at her long and silently. After a time the tears filled her eyes, and in broken accents she asked—

“Does any one know where my mother is?”

Jessie told her she was probably in the village, and that she would, most likely, see her in the morning. Madge begged hard to be taken to her that night, but was finally persuaded to wait until the morrow.

“That child has a great deal of heart,” said Uncle Morris, after hearing Jessie’s account of her interview with Madge. “We must do what we can to rescue her from the influence of her drunken mother.”