A stout, ruddy-faced boy of eighteen, with blue eyes and light-brown hair, is standing on the forward deck of a westward-bound North River ferryboat, looking wistfully about him. The scene is evidently new to him, and he is taking it in with a boy's alert and insatiable curiosity. Some of us too quickly forget, and do not soon enough remember again, that a boy is as hungry for sights and sounds as he is for beefsteak and batter-cakes. But this boy has reasons for being wide-awake and watchful that the fellows near him, who are leaning lazily against the rail and chatting about last night's play, have not. He is in a foreign land. The great ships and steamers are not strange to him, for he has seen them often at the wharves of his own city; but multitudes of queer little tugs and fleets of unfamiliar craft are plying hither and thither, puffing and coughing and snorting as they go; while the massive ferry-boats, with their decks black with passengers, and the great white river-steamers, and the long, low docks, and the great grain-elevators there in front, and the towering piles of architecture in the great city behind, all make a picture that this boy is doing his best to see in the ten minutes permitted him by the swiftly crossing boat. He thinks it the fairest picture he has ever seen--this wide, quiet river, lying so calm under all this moving to and fro; the silent burden-bearer of so much noisy traffic; giving back the greeting of the bright December sun with smile as bright as if it had never known trouble or turmoil; this brave old river holding on its course serenely between these two great roaring cities; with the titanic masonry of the Palisades above these on the left, and the lovely slopes and groves of Riverside Park on the right; and, far away to the southward, the heights of Staten Island; and he turns, with a look of regret, when the boat bumps against the tough timbers of the slip, and, grasping his traveling-bag, is hurried along with the crowd over the clattering chains, and past the creaking windlass of the bridge upon the pier. Showing his railway ticket to a policeman, he is pointed through a gateway to the waiting train, and soon he is whisked through the purlieus of a town, and whistled through the heart of a hill, out of which the train goes flying over a wide expanse of salt marshes, which make him think of home; and so, before he knows it, his head drops upon the window-pane and the tears come into his eyes.
No. He is not a baby-boy at all; he is just as plucky a little German as ever stood on two legs. Wait and get acquainted with him, and you will see. If any boy of my acquaintance shows clear grit, Emil Keller is the boy. If you had been in his place you would have cried a little, too, if you could have done it quietly, and not been caught at it. If you would not, I wouldn't give much for you.
It is not many minutes, however, before Emil lifts up his head quickly and proudly, and dashes the tear from his cheek, and glances slyly around to see if any one has observed him. A gentle-faced lady is in the seat behind him, and is not looking at him now; but he is sure that she has been watching him, and that she only withdrew her gaze when he turned about; for her look is compassionate, and in her eyes there is a trace of moisture. Emil sits upright and looks out of the window; he does not want any pity; but, somehow, it has comforted him to look into that lady's face; she has not offered him any sympathy, but he feels sure that she is sorry for him, and would be glad if she could help him bear his trouble. He wonders how far she may be going on the train. Is he likely to find many faces as kind as hers in this strange land? Will she speak to him? He begins to wish that she would. Perhaps she might give him a good counsel. Perhaps she could aid him in finding a home. As soon as he can, without seeming inquisitive, he turns his eyes backward again, and this time meets the look of the kind lady searching his own face. Emil knows that he is not mistaken. The delicate sympathy, the tender solicitude, the readiness to help are all there. No words could have made it half so plain. No one but his mother ever looked upon him with such eyes as those. His mother! That thought is too much for him; and once more he leans up against the car-window and hides his face.
Meantime the gentle lady has been studying him, with eyes anointed by compassion, and she has made up her mind that she cannot be mistaken. A good lad, innocent but manly; alone and sorrowful. Not an American; the face shows that; the plain, but clean attire, in cut and seam, also discloses its foreign manufacture. Almost certainly he needs a friend, and that last wistful look seems to mean that he wants one. She will find out.
"Would you like to look at the pictures?" she says, as she hands him a copy of the new magazine.
"You are fery kind."
That is pretty good English, far better than the curt and heartless "Thanks!" which is all that Americans of the present generation find time to say.
The bright pages fasten the boy's eyes for an hour or so; then he fixes upon one of the illustrated articles and tries to read. It is evident that he has some knowledge of English. By and by he returns the magazine to its owner with a bow and a smile.
"I tank you fery mooch. You haf beautiful books in dis country," he ventures, blushing.
"Indeed we have," answered the lady. "Have you ever seen this one before?"
"Ya; I have seen one like it. Mine fater have one sent him sometimes from America."
"Your father does not live in America, then?"
"Nein," answers Emil, winking hard and crowding down the tremor in his voice. "Mine fater lifs not now any more; mine fater was det one year ago almost."
"Oh! pardon me for bringing your trouble to your mind," answered the lady, gently.
"Nein; it is not you that bring it; it is I that spoke first his name." Emil will not let the kind lady blame herself; he knows that she is careful to spare him pain. And, lest she may again reprove herself unjustly, he determines to open his heart to her.
"It is not mine fater only; it is mine mutter too. That was hartest drooble. She was det one month ago."
"My poor boy!" cries the gentle lady, softly. "Are you all alone in the world?"
"Ya; I haf no fater, no mutter, no bruder, no schwester; I haf myself only."
Both are silent for a little; the lady does not wish to draw from this poor lad all the secret of his sorrow, and the boy's heart is too full to venture upon speech. Presently she asks him:
"Where was your home?"
"Hamburg."
"In Germany?"
"Ya; Hamburg on the Elbe."
"Was it there that your mother died?"
"Ya; mine fater und mine mutter."
"have you any friends there--any kindred?"
"Nein; mine gross-mutter's bruder is dere, but he dinks of me notting at all; he came to see my mutter when she was sick not one time; he will be bleased to hear that I am not dere any more."
"But where are you going now? Forgive me, my boy; I do not want you to tell me what I have no right to know. I would not be meddlesome--you understand?--but you have made me care for you, and desire to help you, if I can. I wish you would tell me all about yourself that you are willing to tell one who would like to be your friend."
The lady speaks so earnestly, and with such assurance of sincere sympathy, that Emil cannot doubt her. Perhaps he will be more skeptical when he is older; it is well for him now that he has not learned that bitter lesson; for this is a friend worthy of his trust, and he would be the loser if he should refuse to confide in her. If he pauses before answering, it is not because he is afraid to speak, but because the lady's kindness makes him so glad and happy that he cannot quickly find his voice.
"This is my name," adds the lady, as she hands Emil her card. "You speak English a little; can you not read it, also?"
"Yes, madam. I can read it mooch besser as I can spick it," answers Emil. "And you are most kind, Frau Baker," he adds, blushing, as he reads the neatly engraved card. "My words are poor when I try to tell you how mooch help in your kindness already I find. My name is dis"; and he takes from the side-pocket of his coat a little diary, on the fly-leaf of which is written, in a round German hand, but in English letters, "Emil Lincoln Keller."
"Lincoln!" exclaims Mrs. Baker. "You have the name of our great President."
"Ya vohl, madam. Mine fater gave it me. He loved the Herr Lincoln best of all men. He was often in Washington, when Herr Lincoln was there. Ya, he was there on the day when the--what you call--assassin killed him. Ach! It was a day of sorrow for mine fater. He oft told me the story."
"So your father once lived in this country?"
"Yes; he was a boy so young as me when first he came, five years before the great war was making; and his fater and mutter they were det, in three years; and then he was a soldier in the great war; and when the war was done he went back to Deutschland."
"Did he never return to America?"
"Nein; he came not. It was not possible. He was not to mine mutter married until he went back to Hamburg; mine gross-mutter she was old, and she was not willing that mine mutter shall come; so they wait, and when mine gross-mutter was det mine fater was sick, and so they come not at all."
"He would have come, then, if he could?"
"Ya vohl, madam. It was in this land that his heart was at home. He was telling me always stories of this land; he was trying to teach me English. He was saying to me always: 'Emil, you shall to America go, one day.' And when he was sick he made mine mutter to him promise that after he is gone she shall to America come mit me. 'It is the best country for the boy,' he said. 'He shall find dere friends and a home.' But when he was gone mine mutter was sick, and every day she grow white and weak, and she cannot come mit me. But by her own hands, while she lay dere on the bed, she make all my clothes ready."
Poor Emil turned suddenly round in the seat and covered his face with his hands, and his sturdy little frame quivered with the intensity of his grief. It is some minutes before he can command himself to go on with his story.
"You will forgif me," he says, as he turns back again, and meets the tearful eyes of his new friend, "but the looks and the words of the mutter so dear came back to me, and I could not hold still my heart."
"I know it, my boy. I wonder not," answers the lady, reassuringly.
"She made me all ready," Emil continues, "and told me how to pack my clothing in the old box that was mine fater's, and she said to me: 'Dere is enough, Emil, for one year, if you keep it mit care'; and she told me where, in a little coffer, was money, long saved, to pay for her burial, and plenty left to buy my ticket to America, and something more to keep me, that I may not starf until I can find work to earn mine bread."
"But this is a wide, wide land, my lad. How do you know where to look for a home in it?"
"Mine mutter told me that I shall go to the town that was the home of mine fater. It is dere I will go today."
"What town is that?"
Emil produces his railway ticket.
"Ah!" cried the lady, with a brightening face. "Onantico!" Then, after a moment's pause: "Do you know the name of any one in Onantico?"
"Nein, madam. Mine fater often was speaking the names of the good men in Onantico, but I haf them not any longer in my thoughts. I fear that I shall find not many who will remember mine fater; it is now dree-and-twenty years when he went away to the war, and he was not afterward many days in Onantico."
"Perhaps not," answers Mrs. Baker; "but that is the one place of all places to which I would have you go. I know a good man there; he is the husband of my sister; he will surely be a friend to you. I will give you a letter which you shall carry to him." And the lady takes from her pocket a little tablet and a stylograph, and writes a note which she folds, then addresses it to Mr. Charles F. Holden, 75 Front St., Onantico, and hands it to Emil.
"Take this note," she says, "and give it to Mr. Holden this very afternoon. You will reach Onantico about two o'clock. Any one will show you the way to his office. Tell him all your story. He will find it all out himself. I know him. You will not want to keep anything from him. Perhaps he knew your father. He was in the war."
"Of my heart, Frau Baker," cries Emil, "I tank you. You haf made me more happy as I ever hoped to be. Mine mutter prayed to the good God that he would keep me and watch over, and I know that he has sent you to me."
"I hope so," says Mrs. Baker, smiling; "it is good to go on his errands. I would like to be always ready."
All this time the train has been speeding on through beautiful suburbs and lovely valleys, making a few stops and leaving the noisy centers far behind. The little pilgrim, journeying alone, by faith, into a far country in search of a home, and the generous woman whose heart has been so deeply enlisted in the strange story to which she has been listening, have both been so absorbed in the subjects of which they have been communing, that the sights without the car and the movements within have been like the scenery of a dream. Now the boy turns quietly around in his seat, places the precious letter carefully in his diary, and leans against the window. His heart is full of quiet content and joyful expectation. A great burden of doubt and anxiety has been lifted from his spirit. He muses upon the goodness of the guardian angel who has so strangely appeared to him in the way of his guidance and help; and his faith in the God to whom his mother commended him in her dying prayer is very strong. The relief from the anxiety that had never departed from his heart for an hour since his mother died is so great that every muscle of his body seems to relax its tension, and he leans his head against the window and drops into a sleep, the most peaceful and natural that he has had for many a day.
At length the hand of his benefactor is gently laid upon his shoulder.
"I am sorry to waken you," she says; "but we shall soon be at Weston, which is my home, and I wanted to ask you, before we part, to write me a letter soon, and let me know how you are getting on."
"Ya vohl, allerdings," answers Emil, eagerly. "Most surely will I. Ach! that I slept! It is not a good way to make you see how grateful and happy I haf been made by you."
"Indeed, it is the very best way," answers Mrs. Baker. "I saw by the smile upon your face that your heart was at rest, and it made me more glad than anything you could have said to me."
"Oh! it was a dream! sehr schön! most lovely!" says Emil, musing. "It was mine fater who at the Bahnhof--what is it in the English?"
"Station?" suggested Mrs. Baker.
"Ya! At the station met me, and was leading me to Herr--what is the name?--Holden; and then I waked."
"You will find Mr. Holden easily," answers Mrs. Baker. "And you will write and tell me what he says to you. I shall sometimes visit my sister at Onantico, and I shall want to see you then. I shall think of you very often, and I hope you will not forget me."
"Nein; forget you I cannot; I shall not; I must not," cries Emil, passionately, struggling with the English auxiliaries. "And I shall wish to see you many times before ever you will come to Onantico."
There is a long whistel from the locomotive, and the train soon slackens its speed for the Weston Station.
"Good-bye, Emil," says the kind lady, cheerily, giving him her hand. "It is almost noon. You will be in Onantico in two hours. You are a good lad, and I know you will find friends and a home."
The boy cannot speak, but his look of gratitude is far more eloquent than words. His eyes follow her to the door; she waves her hand in another farewell from the platform of the station; and soon the train pushes on and he is once more alone.
The December air is frosty, and as the train penetrates the heart of the Appalachian ranges, the snow lies on the mountain tops. It is a wild and rugged country; the boy has never seen anything like it. Can there be hearts as kind among these rough hills as that of the lovely lady with whom he has just parted?
There is a frozen pond covered with skaters. "Oh!" thinks Emil, "if that is your pleasure, I shall be with you. That is a trade you cannot teach me." And he pulls from his bag a fine pair of skates, his father's gift to him last Christmas, and fingers their shining edges. "Last Christmas," he muses. "And what day is this?" He looks in his diary. "It is the twenty-fourth. It is the day before Christmas. Tonight is the holy night." He has not thought of that before. The memory breaks up again the fountains of the great deep of sorrow in the boy's heart.
"Alas!" he muses. "I shall have no one to whom, on this beautiful festival of the Christ-child, I can offer any gift. Last year my poor, sick father was made happy by the little table I carved to stand by his bed, for his vials and his books; and my mother praised the pretty work-box that I made for her; tomorrow there will be none to whom I can give anything."
Is it wonderful that troubles like these should dim the brightness of the sunlight, and make the ragged hills look a little more inhospitable? But it is not long before the savage mountains are passed and the boy's journey lies along a beautiful valley, whose farms climb to the summits of the hills on either side--the thriftiest, loveliest river valley he has ever seen, and the shadow lifts from his face as he looks out upon its beauty; and soon the two lonesome hours are ended, and the train-man announces "Onantico."
Emil knows not whither to go. He stands for a moment on the platform, after the train has departed, and gazes about him. A beautiful river--the same river that he has been following--lies at his feet, disappearing in a graceful curve behind a little hill on his right, hidden in the other direction by a dark-browed mountain. Across the river, and half a mile from its banks, another bold mountain rises abruptly; between that mountain and the river lies the village. The principal business street is upon the river-bank, and the row of brick stores that back down to the river show him their worst side; but above the stores stretches a long avenue of beautiful homes, and the spires and towers of the town, with the river in front and the hill in the rear, make a picture that charms the eye of the boy, whose life has been spent amid the desolate flatness of Hamburg on the Elbe. "No wonder," he thinks, "that my father loved this home, and longed for it so often."
Gathering his scanty luggage, he carries it to the door of a little hostelry across the way, with a German name upon the sign, and makes a thrifty bargain with the keeper for his temporary entertainment. After a comfortable meal, and such a bath as his rather meager quarters will allow, he arrays himself in his best and sallies forth to find the friend to whose good-will Mrs. Baker has consigned him.
The long bridge which spans the river offers him a still better view of the scenery as he crosses the town. The river is encased in transparent ice, except as here and there a ripple has kept it open; far above, yonder, at the curve of the stream, a crowd of skaters are filling the air with their merriment. The scene is full of beauty, and Emil lingers to enjoy it; but not long.
It is four o'clock when he reaches No. 75 Front Street, and the young man at one of the desks tells him that Mr. Holden has gone out, and will not be in again during the afternoon.
"It is Christmas tomorrow, you know," says the clerk, kindly; "and I guess that he is looking for Christmas presents."
"And he shall not come to this place tomorrow?" queries Emil, dubiously.
"No; he is never here on Christmas. You will find him here the day after tomorrow."
Emil turns away rather ruefully.
"Can't you leave your business with me?" says the clerk.
"Nein; it is Herr Holden himself that I must see."
Shall he inquire for Mr. Holden's house? No; he will not intrude upon the holiday. He will wait until the day after tomorrow.
So he walks slowly away, and turns his footsteps up the street. Christmas is in the air. Emil would not need to be told of it now, if he had not thought of it before. The crowds of eager purchasers; the throngs about the windows of the toy shops and the candy stores; the baskets and the bundles; the happy, anxious, hurrying multitudes; the bits of talk that he hears dropping from one lip and another:
"You ought to see!"
"How do you think she would like"--
"Couldn't find a real baby doll."
"Wouldn't a silk muffler do?"
"Books are always suitable, but"--
"How am I ever going to get it into the house without letting her see it?"
Such are the loose strands of speech that Emil picks up as he walks along; and he knows enough English to put them together and to weave them into the harmonies of that majestic anthem of good-will to men which the angels sang on the first Christmas, above the plains of Bethlehem, but which, when the day returns, they now bend from the skies themselves to hear, rising all over the earth from happy human voices.
But to the lonely boy the thought again comes back: "No one in this busy town; no one on this vast continent, on whom I have any right, for love's sake, to bestow a Christmas gift. Yes, there is Frau Baker. I would even venture to show her my gratitude if I could; but that I cannot do, for she is far away, and there is no one else." Nevertheless, Emil is resolved that he will not let gloomy thoughts have sway on this glad festival; he puts them out of his mind as quickly as he can; and, after sauntering up and down the streets for a while, watching the throngs and listening to the unfamiliar voices, he purchases a little parcel of cakes and sweetmeats for his own Christmas feast, and slowly recrosses the bridge to his lodgings.
After a long, refreshing night, the Christmas morning finds him as hopeful and happy as a boy in a foreign land, with neither home nor friends, could be expected to be; and, when breakfast is over, he determines to join the crowd of skaters upon the river above. That is a fraternity into which he will need no initiation. He is soon among them, sharing their sport, not at all abashed by the curious glances that scan his quaint costume and the angular pattern of his skates, for Emil is an admirable skater, and that fact soon finds recognition. As he spins about among the gliding groups some of them nod to him pleasantly, and now and then hails him with a blithe "Merry Christmas!" to which he answers by a touch of the hat and a courteous "I tank you!"
"See that queer-looking duffer, with the funny blue cap and the old-fashioned bobtail coat," says one to another. "Wonder when he snowed down? But he can skate, though! Takes the Dutch roll as easy as rollin' off a log." A few little boys, with their sleds, are laying tribute upon the skaters, each one eager to hitch his vehicle to some steel-clad Mercury, and go skimming over the ice with the skater's speed. When they can persuade no one to draw them, they run and fling themselves upon the sleds, and travel as far as they can by their own momentum. One beautiful, fair-haired boy, with long curls and blue eyes, not more than six years old, hails Emil.
"Mister, won't you draw me, please?"
"Ya," replies Emil. "It shall be to me mooch pleasure." And he gives the youngster a whirl up and down the river that nearly takes his breath away.
Just below the cove, where the skaters are thickest, there is a shallow, where the water runs swift, and where there is an opening in the ice a dozen rods in length, reaching out nearly as far from the shore. The lawn from one of the finest houses runs down to the river, opposite to this opening.
"Where do you lif, lieblingskind?" asks Emil, as he drops the rope of the little boy's sled.
"That is my house," answers the child, pointing to the mansion with the sloping lawn.
"Is there no one here to watch you over?"
"No; I just slid down the bank on my new sled, and come out here all alone. I wanted a good ride on the ice."
"Ach! It is not safe. I fear me. You must go not near that hole down dere. Will you?"
"No," answers the child, gaily, as he runs away, flinging down his sled upon the ice.
Emil turns up the river again; but he has not skated far when he hears a cry, and, swinging round, sees the skaters huddling near the upper end of the danger-hole. The fair-haired boy has not heeded Emil's counsel; the ice near the edge of the water was glare; the sled went much swifter and much further than he thought it would; suddenly he was plunged into the swift current.
Now see them all hurrying to the spot, some wringing their hands and crying "Help!" some standing dazed and motionless; some of the young ladies pale and faint; some of the young men saying one thing and some another.
"Back from the edge!" shouts one strong voice. "You will all be in there together, pretty soon!"
The crowd surges backward.
"Get a rope!"
"Where is a pole?"
"Bring one of those planks from the shore yonder!"
"Can't somebody swim?"
Such were the confused and uncertain voices.
"Help me off with my skates?" cries one brave fellow, tugging at the fastenings that seem to be immovable. Meantime--it is only a few seconds--the child is floating steadily down the stream; sinking for one dreadful moment, then rising to the surface. And, meantime, the strange German boy has been flying like the wind to the spot. Through the group he forges in a twinkling; his coat is off already; down on the ice he goes; no loosening of the skates; skates and boots come off together; now a running jump, and in he goes. See him now! Blowing the water from his lips, taking long, steady, powerful strokes; he is after him; he is gaining on him; the child sinks again, he is drawing terribly near the ice below. If he goes under it! Oh! But the brave swimmer is hurrying his stroke; there are the flaxen locks once more at the surface, and the swimmer's left hand has grasped the red tippet round the child's neck. No; he will not risk the crumbling ice; he pulls for the shore, bearing up the river, holding the child at arm's length, swimming steadily and surely; no hurry now.
A great shout goes up from the skaters.
See yonder! A man, bare-headed, comes flying down the sloping lawn. It is the child's father. He has heard the cry from the river; the danger of the child and the daring rescue are in one moment revealed to him. As Emil nears the shore the father rushes into the water and grasps his boy.
"O, my darling!" he cries. "Yes, he is alive. You saved him, you brave boy! Come with me at once into the house. Bring his coat and shoes; will you?" he shouts to the group on the ice. The father, with the child in his arms, leads the way; Emil, dripping and panting a little, follows. The mother, half frantic, meets them on the lawn; the father's quiet tones reassure her.
"Oh! yes; my dear. He is alive. I feel his heart beating; he is only chilled a little; he will be himself again in an hour or two! There is the boy that saved his life!"
The mother flings her arms around Emil's dripping shoulders, and kisses him. There is not time for much talk.
The father's word is true. It is but a little while before the child, stripped of his wet clothing, rolled in a warm blanket, and rubbed by the fire, is awake and clearly out of danger. Meantime Emil has been hurried up to a warm room by the young man whom he met in Mr. Holden's office the evening before, and there has been disrobed, and rubbed and clad in dry garments, somewhat too large for him. He has said but little, save in reply to the young man's questions. He has been thinking much.
Presently the young fellow turns, as Emil makes a reply in his strong German accent, and says:
"Say! Look here! Aren't you the fellow that came into the office yesterday?"
"Ya," answers Emil; "I was."
"You wanted to see Mr. Holden?"
"I haf a letter to gif him."
"Letter of introduction?"
"Sometings like dat, may be."
"Well, man alive, do you know that this is Mr. Holden's house, and that it is his boy that you pulled out of the river?"
"Nein; I knew not; aber I was wondering much when I see you here."
"Well, you won't need your letter of introduction now, very much. You've got acquainted with him now I tell you, and don't you forget it!"
Emil blushes and looks down. He does not like the thought of claiming anything on the score of what he has done; he almost wishes that he had not the letter. But it is all out now, and he cannot help himself.
"Is he your fater?" asks the lad.
"No; he is my uncle, and I live with him. No better man in the town, either."
It is Mr. Holden himself who now knocks at the door.
"Come, my lad!" he says tenderly, "come down to the library. I want to know who you are and all about you."
"He has a letter for you," cries the nephew.
"A letter for me? From whom?"
"A letter of Frau Baker," answers Emil. "Of the beautiful lady who lifs at the West-town on the railway."
"Elizabeth Baker, of Weston?"
"Ya, I tink so."
"Come with me at once! Where is the letter?"
"It was in my schmall book, in the coat's pocket."
"Here is the coat," says the gentleman hastily, as they enter the library. "The boys brought it up from the ice."
Emil brings forth the diary and the treasured missive from his friend. Mr. Holden's face brightens as he hurriedly reads it.
"It is a lad," he says to his wife, "with whom Elizabeth struck up one of her characteristic friendships on the cars yesterday, and she commends him to us. All right, my boy! We should hardly have needed her letter though; should we?" Then, after a pause, to Emil: "Your father and mother are both dead, she tells me."
"She tells you truth, Herr Holden."
"And you have come to this country seeking a home."
"Even so, I hope."
"She does not tell me your name."
"Emil Lincoln Keller."
"What is that?" sharply.
"Emil Lincoln Keller."
"What was your father's name?"
"Fritz Keller."
"Fritz Keller! Was he ever in this country?"
"Ya, Herr Holden; he was once living in dis town."
"O, my boy!" cries the gentleman, springing from his seat, and clasping Emil in his arms; "you have come home indeed! Your father marched by my side in the regiment. He was my dearest friend. In one of the last battles of the war, before Petersburg, when I was left wounded on the field, and would have died, he crept out through the lines, after dark, and brought me to camp in his strong arms, God bless him! I was sent to the hospital then, and I have never seen him since, nor heard from him, though I have sought for him and longed for him. And now comes his son, in the moment of peril, and saves my child's life. Margaret, where is that old photograph of Fritz?"
"It is here," answers Mrs. Holden, bringing an album from a drawer.
"Do you remember any look like that?" asks Mr. Holden.
"Ya; he was once like dat, long times ago. I have in mine trunk the same."
They all sit musing for a little; the fair-haired boy, asleep on the sofa, is breathing quietly. Presently Mrs. Holden says: "You know that it is Christmas, Emil?"
"Ya wohl, madam. It was my sorrow that on this day of the Christ-child I could to no one give"--
He checks his impulsive speech.
"Bless your dear heart!" cries the lady. "That sorrow need not burden you. Have you not given us the life of our child?"
Emil is not suffered to return to his lodgings across the river. A messenger is sent for his luggage, and through the Christmas day and the Christmas-tide he abides most happily in this safe refuge. His modesty, his courtesy, his manliness, gain for him a stronger hold every day upon the hearts of his new friends, and there are many earnest consultations about his future, for Emil has no thought of quartering himself upon them, and is often anxiously questioning about the work by which he may earn his bread.
On New Year's day, after dinner, Mr. Holden takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs to a little chamber all newly furnished. The coziest of little rooms it is, with its white-covered bed, and its neat carpet, and its stout easy-chair, and its pretty writing-desk, and over the mantel an enlarged photograph, beautifully framed, of his father's face.
"Here, Emil," says Mr. Holden, "this is your New Year's present. This is your home, so long as you desire it. I know that you want to earn your own livelihood, and we want you to do it. Soon we shall find the right thing for you to do. But this will be your home, if you will have it. No; you need not say one word. It will take me a great many years, my boy, to pay the debt that I owe you, for your father's sake and for your own."
More Washington Gladden Short Stories
