Floy had taken possession of the flour, and was already kneading it.
“Now,” said she, after this was done, “I must put it down by the fire to rise; that will not take long; and then it will be ready to bake.”
“Have you got any shirts for me?” she inquired after a while.
“Yes,” said Martin, recollecting himself, and unrolling a bundle which he had placed on the table. “There are half a dozen for you to begin on; and, if you do them well, you can have some more.”
Floy looked pleased.
“Now,” said she, “I shall have something to do when you are away.”
“You like to be doing something?” said Martin, inquiringly.
“Oh, yes! I can’t bear to be idle.”
Martin did not go out again that afternoon. About six o’clock, Floy set the table, and placed upon it a plate of warm cakes which might have pleased the palate of an epicure. It was the best meal the miser had tasted for years, and he could not help confessing it to himself. Floy was gratified at the appetite with which he ate.
Thus matters went on. The presence of the little girl seemed to restore Martin to a part of his former self. He was no longer so grasping and miserly as before. Through little Floy’s ministry, he began to have more of a relish for the comforts of life, and less to grudge the expense necessary to obtain them.
It was not many weeks before he fell sick, in consequence of imprudent exposure to the rain. At first he did not regard it; but a fever set in, and he was confined to his bed.
At the urgent solicitation of Floy, he consented to have a physician called, though not without something of reluctance at the thought of the fee.
Then it was that he began to appreciate more fully the importance of Floy’s services. Ever ready to minister to his wants, no one could wish a more faithful or attentive nurse. As she sat by his bedside in the long days through which his sickness was protracted, busily engaged with her sewing, he would lie for hours, watching the motion of her busy fingers with pleased interest. Occasionally—for he had nothing else to do—his mind would wander back to the scenes of his early manhood, and he would sigh over the recollection of the happiness which might have been his. Then his thoughts would be borne along the dreamy years which had intervened, unlighted by the rays of friendship, and uncheered by the presence of affection. The image of his daughter, whom he had cast off, and of whose after-fate he knew nothing, came up before him, and he could not repel it. A change, a beneficial and salutary change, was rolling over his mind—the fruit of those long involuntary hours of sickness and self-communing.
On the first day succeeding his recovery, he invited Floy to go out with him. It was an unusual request, and Floy hardly knew what to make of it. She got her bonnet, however (for shawl she had none), and complied. It was a chilly March day, and the thin dress which she had worn from the time of her coming to Kendrick’s was but an ill protection against the weather. She shivered involuntarily.
“You are cold,” said Martin; “but you will not need to go far.”
He led the way into a dry-goods store.
“Have you any warm shawls suitable for a little girl?” he inquired. He selected one, and paid for it. “Show me some dress-patterns,” he continued.
Two different ones were chosen. Martin paid for them.
“Can you direct me,” he inquired, “to any good dressmaker’s?”
The clerk had at first been inclined to laugh at the old man, whose attire, though warmer, was no better looking than Floy’s; but the promptness with which he paid for his purchases, and the glimpse which had in this way been obtained of a well-filled pocket-book, inspired him with a feeling of respect, and he readily complied with his request.
“Now,” said Martin cheerfully to Floy, “we will have you a little better dressed, so that you need not fear the cold.”
“I am sure,” said Floy, gratefully, “that I am much obliged, and I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“You have already,” said the old man with feeling. “I don’t know how I should have got along without you when I was sick.”
“Floy,” said Martin, thoughtfully, as they came out from the dressmaker’s, “although you have been with me for some time, I have never thought to ask your name—I mean your other name besides Floy.”
“My name is not Floy,” said the child. “They only call me so. My real name is Florence—Florence Eastman.”
“Florence Eastman!” said the old man, starting back in uncontrollable agitation. “Who was your mother? Tell me quick!”
“Her name,” said the child, somewhat surprised, “was Florence Kendrick.”
“Who was her father?”
“Martin Kendrick.”
“And where is he? Did you ever see him?”
“No,” said Floy, shaking her head. “He was angry with mother for marrying as she did, and would never see any of us.”
“And your mother?” said Martin, striving to be calm. “Is she dead?”
“Yes,” said Floy, sorrowfully. “First, my father died, and we were left very poor. Then mother was obliged to work very hard, sewing; and finally she took a fever, and died, leaving me alone in the world. For a week, I wandered about without a home; but at last you took me in. I don’t know what would have become of me if you had not,” said she, gratefully.
“Floy,” said Martin, looking at her steadfastly, “do you know my name?”
“No,” said Floy. “I have often wondered what it was, but never liked to ask you.”
“Then,” said he, in an agitated tone, “you shall know now. I am Martin Kendrick, your GRANDFATHER!”
Floy was filled with amazement, but, after a moment, threw herself into his arms. “Will you forgive mother?” she asked.
“I will! I have! But, alas! she has much more to forgive me. Would that she were still alive!”
Every day, Martin Kendrick became more alive to the claims of affection. His miserly habits gave way, and he became more considerate in his dealings with his tenants. The old house, in which he lived so many years, was torn down; and he bought a neat cottage just out of the city, where he and Floy live happily together. Floy, who has been sent to school, exhibits uncommon talent, and is fitting for the station she will soon assume as the heiress of her grandfather.
MY CASTLE.
“I have a beautiful castle,
With towers and battlements fair;
And many a banner, with gay device,
Floats in the outer air.
“The walls are of solid silver;
The towers are of massive gold;
And the lights that stream from the windows
A royal scene unfold.
“Ah! could you but enter my castle,
With its pomp of regal sheen,
You would say that it far surpasses
The Palace of Aladeen;—
“Could you but enter as I do,
And pace through the vaulted hall,
And mark the stately columns,