A Little Wayfarer

Grandmamma thinks that I am a great deal too small to have any very strong convictions; but I know better. Perhaps I am small; but I am old enough and quick enough and I can remember such a great many things. I am five years old now, and when I am six I shall be almost a lady; so Grandmamma says, and Grandmamma is very wise.

This morning the day was very bright and soft; the air smelled as it does in spring, and the sun climbed up the sky like a golden bird. I was playing with my doll in the big window-seat, and I had my frock tucked up over my knees because I thought it became me; for Grandmamma told me once that a little girl with tidy knees looked like a picture.

Presently I heard some one whistling under the garden wall. I ran to the window and looked down. There stood a man with a bundle on his arm and a little boy beside him, and the little boy had eyes like mine — gray and wide and a little scared. He was very thin, and his shoes were patched on the toes, and he held a shabby hat in his hands.

“Mamma,” I cried, “they are going away. They have no cab.”

Grandmamma came to the window then, and she looked out too. The man, who had a long beard and kind eyes, looked up and waved his hand, and the little fellow peered shyly at the window. Grandmamma put on her spectacles, and in that grave way of hers she smiled.

“Perhaps,” said she, “they are tramps. It is well the day is fine.”

“Tramps?” said I, feeling my heart beat fast. “Mamma — Grandmamma — must I be afraid?”

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” said Grandmamma. “They are simply travelers, or people going on the road. We must not give money to beggars or encourage vagrancy. Besides, this is our street; we cannot have such people come and stand before our gate.”

“But look at the little boy,” I cried. “He is like me.”

Grandmamma sighed.

“Children of all sorts are like each other,” she said. “Now run away and play, and do not talk to strangers.”

I did not run away. I went to the door and opened it a little and listened. The man had taken off his hat and was speaking very kindly. He said, “Good woman, we have been on the road all day. My little fellow is tired. If you can spare us a crust of bread and a cup of tea —” His voice was tired and gentle.

There was a sound of footsteps; then a carriage rolled by; the people in it looked at us. Grandmamma crossed the hall and her face grew very white. “Do not let any beggar in,” she said. “Ring the bell if they come.”

They did not come in; they sat on the low step outside our gate and that little boy began to play with a pebble, and he laughed, a thin little laugh that made me think of bells. The man watched him with eyes so tender that I wanted to cry. He took off his coat and put it about the boy’s shoulders.

I thought and thought. It seemed to me wicked to shut the door in their faces. If I were on the road, and my little girl were tired, I would like to have some one say, “Come in and rest.” Grandmamma meant well, but perhaps she could not remember what it was to be poor.

Presently a little white dog came trotting down the street and barked; the boy started and clapped his hand and the dog came and pirouetted about his legs. The man laughed, and I felt a great lump rise in my throat. I wanted to speak and to ask Grandmamma to let them in.

Just then the door-bell rang and a boy from the grocer’s came in with a basket; he set it down in the kitchen and ran off. Grandmamma called to the maid and then to me, and said, “Run and fetch the key of the cupboard.” I took the key and the maid — who is a kind, fat woman — brought out a loaf of bread and some cold meat and a little cup of tea. Grandmamma said, “We will leave it on the step, and not encourage these people.”

It was so near! I wanted to fling the door wide and take them in, and I wanted to lay the warm plate in the man’s hands. But we put the food on the step; I saw the man rise quickly and the little boy run forward and snatch up the bread as if it were the best thing in the world. He bit into it with such a hungry little mouth that I thought my heart would break with pity.

They finished the food and the man bowed politely and said “Bless you,” and the boy waved his hand and the two went away down the street. I ran after them and called, “Wait! Wait a minute!” but Grandmamma tugged at my dress and said, “Come along in the house, child. It is not proper to meddle with such people.” So I had to come in and sit down.

But all the morning I kept looking out of the window. I watched for a little hat and the shadow of a bundle, but I saw nothing. The sky grew soft and the sun walked across the roofs. At noon the postman came and brought a letter and Grandmamma read it by the fire and said “Hm!” and then folded it and put it in her pocket book.

In the afternoon I could not be still. I felt as if something had gone out of me. I wanted to find that little boy and say, “I am like you.” So I put on my hat and my little coat and slipped down the back stairs, and when the maid was not looking I went out. The street was full of people, and the wind had a cool hand. The sun behind the chimneys was red and the sky was very high.

I followed the lane where I had seen them go. It is a little way that twists between two tall walls, and at the end is a bridge over a stream where the water runs, and there was always a queer smell of damp and alder-trees. I walked softly and I held my breath for I was afraid of being scolded. I crept nearer the bridge and peeped. There they were, sitting on the bank. The man had taken off his shoes and his stockings were rolled down and his feet were brown with the road; he had his arm about the little boy and they both were looking at the water.

They did not see me; perhaps they had forgotten all about our street and our bread. The man was humming something and the little fellow — oh, such a queer little fellow — was leaning his head on the man’s shoulder and his eyes were shut. He wore a bit of ribbon in his hair and his hand trembled a little when he held a weed.

I went up to them, and the man started and looked at me; his face was like a dear old picture. He asked me my name and I told him, and he said his name was Thomas and the little boy’s name was James. I sat down on the bank and then Thomas said, “We are going to the next town to find work.” He looked at his bundle and then at the little boy and then at the sky. I could see that he had not much courage.

“Do you live near here?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “I live up the street by the house with the apple-tree.” Thomas smiled.

“Have you any bread?” he asked.

“Yes,” said I; “we gave you some.”

He touched his hat and said, “God bless you.” His voice was rather broken.

“Will you come home with me?” I asked. “Grandmamma will not scold if you are very clean.”

Thomas laughed, but a little sadly.

“You are a good little mistress,” said he; “but we must not trouble your grandmother. We shall go to the next village tonight; we must find work.”

I would not be put off. “Please come,” I begged. “I will bring you to the door. I will tell Grandmamma you will only stop a little while. I will make her think it is only the neighbours.”

Thomas had pity on me then, because his face grew soft and he took my hand and said we might try. We walked slowly; the boy’s shoes made little sinks in the mud; my shoes were clean and I walked with my toes turned out like a little lady. When we reached the house Grandmamma was sitting in her arm-chair with her knitting and she looked up. I saw her lips draw tight.

“Well?” said she.

“This is Thomas,” I said. “And this is James. Please let them in for a little while. They are going to the next town tonight and they are hungry.” I tried to speak as if I were a grown person.

Grandmamma rose and crossed the room and looked at Thomas and at the boy, and she said nothing for a moment. Then she asked him where he had come from; he answered softly that he had been in the north a long time and that he had lost his work, and that he had walked and walked.

“I will bring you some tea and the maid will put another plate,” said Grandmamma at last. “You must not sleep here, mind. We do not keep tramps.”

We ate together at the round table and the room smelled of toasted bread. Thomas talked a little; he was a good talker and he had a way of making things seem not so bad. He told us how he had been at sea and how once he had seen a blue whale rise like a mountain out of the water; he spoke of a woman who had laughed in his face and of a cottage where the children had danced round the fire. It seemed to me that every time he said a thing his eyes grew more tender.

After tea Grandmamma told the maid to put out a little bed in the spare room, for the night was cold and the road would be long. Thomas thanked her and the little boy fell asleep in a chair by the fire. I liked to see how his mouth rested a little open and a bit of his hair lay across his forehead. He looked like a baby.

All the evening I sat near them and told them about our house and about the cat that used to catch birds, and Thomas laughed and said I was a brave little woman. At last the maid brought a piece of bread and butter and a mug of warm milk and they ate it like people who had been long without.

When it was bedtime Thomas said, “I must be gone by dawn; the road waits.” He took my hand and whispered, “You are a kind little soul; never forget that.” I felt very proud. I kissed him straight on the cheek because I could not help it.

He slept in the spare room and James in the chair. I could not sleep for a long time; I slept at last but I dreamed that I was a sailor and that the ship went away with me on the sea and left a crooked little island behind. When I woke it was morning and the rain had been falling and the sky was very gray.

In the breakfast room Grandmamma moved about and was very busy. The maid had washed Thomas’s jacket and his coat hung by the stove. Thomas put on his coat and tied his handkerchief. James ate a bit of bread and then he came to me and said in his thin small voice, “Good-by.”

“Good-by,” said I, and I hugged him. He smelt of smoke and soap, and his cheek was warm. Then Thomas and the boy went out.

Grandmamma came to the door with a shawl over her head and looked after them.

“Well,” she said. “They’ll find the road.”

I went out too and I saw Thomas stop at the corner and turn and wave his hand. I waved back and when he could not see me any longer I went in and lay down on the rug and put my face in the corner and cried. I cried a great deal because it seemed to me so wicked that the world could be so hard and that a man with such kind eyes should have to sleep under hedges and beg for bread. Grandmamma sat by the fire and knitted, and the maid hummed.

After a while Grandmamma put down her knitting and came to me and said, “Why are you crying, child?”

I wiped my face on my sleeve and answered, “Because they had to go.”

Grandmamma took my hand and led me to the window.

“Now,” said she, “you are a good little child. It is well to be kind. But mind you do not get your notions from those whom you have taken a fancy to. They are people of a certain class and must be treated as such. You must not, because you once befriended a wandering fellow, begin to imagine that all the poor are estimable. Some are thieves. Some are lazy. Some are immodest. Do you hear?”

I heard, but it did not make my heart less heavy.

Later in the week I saw Thomas and the boy again in the market-place. They were standing near the fishmonger’s, and James had a bit of new red ribbon tied in his hair. Thomas was carrying a small parcel.

“Good-day,” said I, and I felt as if my tongue were a little stiff with cold.

Thomas came and spoke to me, and he said, “We are going on to the next place. We have had work for a few days.” He smiled and his eyes were bright.

“I am glad,” I said.

“And shall you go on the road always?” I asked the man. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “There will be houses for us by and by. We will stay and make a home. That is what every one wants — some hearth and some bread. God help us to get it.”

“Then you will write to me?” I asked, foolishly.

He laughed and said, “If the road is good, little mistress, we will find our way back, perhaps. But do not think of us again. Let us be as ships that pass.”

I watched them walk away. Their bundle looked smaller than before, and the boy’s shoes seemed better.

That night when I was asleep I dreamed again of the sea, but the ship this time came back and there were houses built of shells and the people were all hungry. I woke and put my hand to my pocket and found a little something there. It was a ribbon, red and queer-looking. I smiled and put it in my book.

---

Years passed. I saw Thomas once more when I was older and when I had traveled and been to a great many places. He had a little cottage then and the boy was no longer a little fellow but a man with broad shoulders. They had a fire in their home and a woman who made the bread, and Thomas was neat and sober and had a safe way of looking. He came into our street and I saw him from the window and my heart went thump, thump because something which had been snagged in my life was now mended. He touched his hat; his beard was touched with gray.

“You remember me?” he said.

“Of course,” said I.

He laughed and said, “You were the little wayfarer.”

“No,” I answered quickly; “you were the wayfarer, and I was the little mistress.”

He shook his head and his eyes were like the sea again.

“It was you saved us,” said he.

“No,” I replied. “It was the cup of tea.”

He looked at me a long time.

“Child,” he said, “it was a little thing to do that cup of tea. But little things —”

”— count,” I finished. He nodded.

We were both quiet. It was strange to think that a little incident had lain like a seed and grown. The years had done much; they had made us patient.

At last Thomas said, “If I might find you alone some day, I should like to thank you properly.”

“You have thanked me,” I said; “God will bless you.”

He murmured something that I did not hear because the street was noisy with a cart, but I thought he said “God bless you” back. Then he went away and I watched him until he disappeared.

That night I took the red ribbon from my book and tied it in the hair of my own little daughter when she was born. She slept like a swallow.

And sometimes, when I have seen a little child on the step with a bundle and a man with kind eyes, I have gone to the door and given them some bread and a cup of tea, and I have told them a little tale, and I think that they have been better for it. I hope they have. For everything that we do that is gentle makes the world a truer place.

— The End