Out Of The Streets

Although she was young and pretty, and very rioh and fashionable, Mrs. Benwicke had a good, kind heart, and stiove to flll her place in life with modesty and fidelity. When sbe married Mr. Benwicke, the wealthy widower, twelve years ago, there were plenty of iil-natured remarks by plenty of ill-natured people ; and when Amy Renwicke presently ran away from her father's house and married a man of whom all her friends disapproved, there was no lack of censorious tongues to say that Mrs. Renwicko was at the bottom of it, and was doubtless glad enough to be rid of a handsome grown-up stepdaughter. That Mr. lienwicke was too much taken up with his new wife to remember the old wife's daugnter, all tho world declared ; for e had banished her from his heart forever, and would not hear her name mentioned by his most intímate friends. But no one knew, or indeed would have believed, how Mrs. Benwicke grieved over ht r step daughter's flight, aud unjustly blamed herself as having been the possible cause. She sought in fain to softeu the Bttrn father's heart toward his disobedient daughter ; axd when she raw that even her entreaties and tears failed to move him, she gavo up, knowing well that all other means were hopeless. Trom time to time she heard of her step-daugViter, and from her ampie allowanee pbe was alwajs ready to givc genrrousjy ; but the girl was Btubborn and prond like her f'ather, aud it was lUilicult at times to assit Ik r in Kuch a way aR she was willing to accept. Then Mr. Renwicke took his wife abroad with him, and in the period of their abseuce it was impoBsible for Mrs. Benwioke to keep trace of Amy, whose silly pride prevented ber fiora responding to her mot kcr's kindness in the same spi i it in which it was offered. Mrs. Renwicke, returning with her busband to New York, afler an absence of two ye ars in Europe, learned that Amy and her woi thli ss husband were both dead, having fallen the victims te aprevailing epidemie the second winter nfter their runaway marriage. Mra. Renwicke broke the news to her husliand, but she could scarely teil how it affected him, for he heard her with coldnens and silence. Amy Walters had left one child - a girl - little more than an infant ; and Mrs. Renwicke, who would gladly have adopted and reared it as her own,eould gain no trace of it. Mrs. Renwicke had no children, and the desire to discover and aclopt the dead Amy 's child was becoming a manía with her. Mr. Renwicke began to feel alarm about bis young wife ; for she was as good as she was lovely, and his passion for her was quite justified by her merits. He begged her to teil him what it was that troubledher; and, although she feared to teil him all, Mrs. Renwicke conf essed a part of her grief. " You know, my dear husband," she said, a little tremulouely, and blushing very much, ' ' how I love children ; and since heaven bas not given us any, I have been thinking tbat perhaps it is because there are so many in the world who have no homes and no mothers. If every rich and childless woman were to adopt one of the poor little waifs with which our streets are filled, how much misery and crime might be prevented, and how much happiness might be conferred on thoso who nevar knew it bef ore." This was quite a long speech for Mrs. Renwicke, and it was made with considerable haste, too, and somwhat as if she expected to be interrupted be f ore reaching the end. But slae need not have feareá. Mr. Renwicke heard her in silence, and he would have kept silen'ce much longer if sfa had continued speaking. And when his eyes met hers, his look softened, and smiled gently on her, for she really looked like a woman who ought to have j dren to care for - so fair, so sweet- such ! a pitying, loving, sympatbetic face, no child could look upon it except with love and confidence. "And so you want to adopt a child, my pet ? Bless your tender little heart ! Adopt a dozea, if you like ; have a special private foundling hospital of your own, only don't worry me about them, beyond drawing on me for ae much money as you please. To that extent I give you carte, blanofie." People called Mr. Renwicke a stern, hard man- as indeed he was ; but his wiíe heard such comments regarding i him with uufeigned surprise ; for never - except in the matter of his daughtor's marriage- had she known him to be anything but kind and gentle. The permifsion which he so lavislily accorded her gave her genuine delight, and, flinging her snowy arms about his neck, I ehe thanked him again and again. And the worldly man of business, who, away from her, never thought of anythin but dollars, feit himself sufticiently repaid by ber embrace. It was now flve years sinee Amy Walters died, and Mrs. Renwicke judged that the child she was in quest of must; be about six years old. She was not quite conscious of it, but she always sought for children of that age, and always for girl-s having quite made up her mind to adopt some child, alihongh she feared that her search for Amy's child would never be successful. Many were the little wanderers wbom she clothed and fed, and for whom she provided comfortable homes. A rích woman, with money enough and tbe will to do it, can open many doors to the homiler-s and friendless, and Mrs. Renwicke's means and will were equally good. More than once she had almost decided on the adoption of some little girl ; but her heart cried out for the one she was in quest of, and bade her wait yet a little longer. So she found protpetors for the little ones she was interested in, and waited, hoping against hope for the one that late seemed to ordain for her. She persuaded herfelf that sbe was destined to find the child of Henry Walters; and morning and evening she prayed heavea it might be sood. In this way two years passcd by, and Mrs. Renwicke's lovely face and generous hand were well known in the haunts of misery and squalor and disease with which every great city is filled. Christmas time approached. This was of all the year the buaiest season with Mrs. Renwicke ; for at that time slie found more cold and shivering little children abroad than at any other time, and scores of the poor creatures had come to regard her as the great fairy, that eyen the most wretchtd of ehildren have heard a bout. It waa the day before Christmas, aud Mrs. Renwicke was hurrying along Broadway, having dismissed her earriage in order that she might be obligfd 'o walk for exereise - like all rich women, drivitigeverywhere, if only a block, had beconie so mnch a habit that she indulged it uuconsciously. For the first time in years she liad forgotten, for the moment, her little waits, aud the especial dasire of her heart. She was preparing a Christmim surprise for her hutband, and she was quite absorbed in the subject. " Please give me a penny." It was such a pathetic little voice, and so soft and sweet, scarcely above a whisper, that Mrs. Renwicke didn't hear it. The chüd put out a little hand and caught her dress, andthen, findiog it such a rich and handsome dress, held it tighly and pulled it, as the wearer went rapidly past. Mrs. Rcnwicke stopped and looked down at the little mite beside her, not m anger, bnt so gently that the child said again, shyly, j and loosing her huid of the dress, but looking up with a confidtnt expression: " Please give me a penny." That glance thiilled Mrs. Eeuwicke to the very core of her heart, for it carne from a pair of great soft brown eyes, suoh as she had sought for in vain for neatly Beven years. She feit that hor quest was ended, and she answered the child's request before asking her name. " What do you want of a penny 1" she said. "1 don't know. Old Bess said I must ask every lady I saw to give me a penny. Oh, there's another! Piease give me a penny." A showijy-dr. ssed wqman turned and frownf d on the child ; and Mrs. RenI wicke smiled and gaid : "You mustn't ask any more peopl fur peiuiios. I will pivo you ili the penuies you nei3." "Oh, will you? My ! How uice ! I'm so glad; btoause, ma'am, you see, ] I didn't like aeking, only Old Bess eaid bhe'd beat me if 1 didn't ; and I never was beat - Jack never let any one touch me." Mrs. Eenwicke silently thanked heaven tliat the child had not been aconstotned to ill usage, for it was to be seen at a glauce that she was uot ouo of the miserable, abused lttile ones she had feared to find. She askedonly aeouple of questions more. " How many pennies have you got for Old Boss ?" The ehild unclosed the fingers of a slender, delicate, but dirty little hand, and showed a small collection of pennies - about half a dozon. " And wbat is yourname, little one?" "Amy Walters." Mrs. Benwicke feit that the child but echoed the name her own lips would have spoken ; but it was such a joyous assuranee that she had found the little stiay one at last, that she cauglit her in her arnis and covered the dirty little i'aco with kisses, much to the scandal of many elegant paS3ers-by. Mrs. Eenwicke soon realized that she was attraoting an unpleasant degree of attention, and signaling the nearest carriage, she lifted little Amy into it, and then, from the child's rather unintelligible description, started in search of the place she called home. I It was not easily found, but the carriage driver, spurred to his best eöbrts by the promise of agoodly recompense, was at last successful. It ,was a long drive, however, and before it came to an end Mrs. Eenwicke had learned all that the child knew of her own history. She had been brought up since she could remember in the home of the woman whom she called Old Bess, but had been the especial charge of Jack, the old woman's grandson. Jack had received little Amy from her mother, who óied in Old Bess's house, her father having died in the hospital a week before. Amy knew nothing of her mother, exeept that shf bore her name ; and indeed that was all that Jack knew - dear old Jack, goed old Jack, he had always been so kind ; and he called her his little girl, and took such care of her. But now he was gone to sea, and Old Bess said " she must mate enough money, somehow, to pay for her keep. " Mrs. Eenwicke's thankfulness to heaven that she had found the little one in time to save her from want and sorrow was deep and fervent. Old Bess, wnen at last found in a miserable room of a rickety tenement house, tnreed out to be rheumatio and bedridden, but with a decided tendency to drink. "Jack's mother, who lived in another part of tho house, ' ' looked after her," and " kept an eye on little Amy." Mrs. Renwicke found them quite willing to part with the child, for a " consideration," which she afforded i to such a liberal extent, that both women voluntarily gave her all the information regarding Amy's parents which they possesaed. It was mpager enough, but served as further proof that the little girl was Mr. Eenwicke's j danghter. A letter, without any ad'Ires", Tvas also given to Mrs. Eenwicko by Jack's mother ; it contained Amy Eenwicke's certifícate of marriage, and also the date of little Amy's birth and bapttsm. An unfinished letter in Amy Walter's handwriting was inclosed ; but owing to the letter having no address upon it, the people who had cared for the orphan child were unable to make any use of it. Mrs. Eenwicke was a joyful woman when ehe took her treasure home with her ; and Amy turned out to be a beautiful child, uuder the renovating procesa of bathing, and new, fresh, pretty clothes. Her extreme resemblance to the dead Amy, troubled Mrs. Eenj wicke somewhat, for she feared itwonld betray her parentage, and cause trouble with Mr. Eenwioke. She had no fear of finally overcoming his objections, but she wihed the child to be established in the house first. Her name was a serious subject of debate in the lady's mind ; but happily she found from her baptismal record that she had a secsnd - - and the child took great liking to the new name, it was soB pretty, dropping her old name in f ivor ! oí it entirely. Mr. Eenwicke took such very little notice of children thatChristmaspassed, and many weeks succeeded, bef ore he I once looked at little Pvose closely enough to have known her again in the street I if he had met her there; and his wife saw with great delight that, although he had gone po far as to compliment her on her choico, he really had not noticed the child's looks at all. Ohristmas time came again, and Mr. Eenwicke acknowledged Eose's exiatence so far as to give her a magniücent Christmas tree, laden with handsome presents. The little girl's delight and gratitude were so voeifcrous as to attract more thanhisordinaryattention ; and a look,s of sudden remembrauce and recognition, flashed a moment from his eyes, but he said nothing; andMrs. Benwicke was careful to avoid all remark that mighfc lead to any espedïal questions regarding Bose. Several years passed, aiid Rose had grown iuto a tall and beautiful girl - so like her mother that Mrs. Benwicke marveled if it could be possiblo lier husband did not seé the resemblanee. She began to wish that he would question her, for her guileless nature was bo averse to deceit of any kind, that she of ten feit like ahypocrite, notwithstanding the purity of her motives. Christmas time once more! A glorious, elear night it was that ushered in the Christmas day. The keen, frosty air had blown brilliant roses into Mrs. Renwicke's cheeks, and her husband complimented her beauty and the youthfulne?s of her appearance, as she carne altear dinner and sat down beside him, telling him of the many pleasures she had prepared for her various proteges to gladden their young hearts on the morrow. , "And Rose?" atked Mr. Renwiclte, holding his wife's hand, and gently caressing it. "Rose is not forgotten, dear husband, be sure." "Oh, I am sure. I think I'm a little jealous of Rose. Yon don't give me half so many Christmas boxes sinoe her arrival. " Mrs. Renwicke laughed a merry, sweet laugb, and declared he should liavo a lovely wax doll with blue eyes and yellow liair, just iike Bose's. " Xin't Rose rather old for dolls, dear? By the way, how old is Rose ?" Mrs. Renwicke's heart beat uncomfortably f ast, but she answered, bravely : " Rose will soon be twelve years old, dear." Mr. Renwicke started, and his wife feit his claep tighten on her fingers. lic looiëd away from her for eome moments, gazing sadly into the bright coal fire. She didn't speak, and, after a few minutes, ñe spoke again, very softly: "Do yon know, pet, I have had a strange f anoy lately ? If Amy had had a child, I cotild sivear that Bose was her danghter." Mrs. Renwicke impxilsively clasped both her hands about her husbaud's arms, and looking eutreatingly in his face, exclaimed: " Forgive me, my own dear husband. Eose is Amj's daughter ; I oouldn'ttell you sooner. Oh, do say you are not angry with me." Mr. Benwieke's face was deathly white, and hia wifealmost fearedto look at him ; bat her gaze still rested on him earnestly, longingly ; and she saw his face soften, aud tears slowly drop from his stern eycs. Presently he turned and took her in his arms. " My own sweet wife,"he said, "you have conquered me in spite of myself. Bot even you never dreamed the heartbreak Amy's marriage was to me. I hoped so niuch from her - I built all my future life on her tül I met you ; and my first thoughts of you were prompted by the hope of your companionship for my daughter. Wel), we will try once more. Unler your guidauce, Bose cannot fail to grow up into the woman I vainly hoped Amy might have been. My own best of wives, ten thousand thanks for the Christmas gift you have given me this year!"