Tattered Tom

“Good-morning, Mrs. Lindsay,” said Mrs. Merton, deferentially. “Won’t you and the young lady take seats?”

“You are no doubt surprised to see me,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “but my daughter wished me to call. She was for three months, she tells me, a member of your family.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Merton, in surprise, “I think there must be some mistake. I don’t remember that Miss Lindsay ever boarded with me.”

“Don’t you remember Tom?” asked Jane, looking up, and addressing Mrs. Merton in something of her old tone.

“Good gracious! You don’t mean to say—” ejaculated the landlady, while Mary opened wide her eyes in astonishment and dismay.

“For years,” explained Mrs. Lindsay, “my daughter was lost to me through the cruel schemes of one whom I deemed a faithful friend; but, thank God, she was restored to me within a week after she left your house.”

“Was that the reason of your leaving, Jane?” asked Captain Barnes.

“Mother,” said Jane, cordially grasping the hand of the captain, “this is the kind gentleman who first found me in the street, and provided me with a home.”

“Accept a mother’s gratitude,” said Mrs. Lindsay, simply, but with deep feeling.

“I was sure you would turn out right, Jane,” said the captain, his face glowing with pleasure. “Then you left my sister, because you found your mother?”

“No, that was not the reason,” said Jane, looking significantly at Mrs. Merton, who, knowing that she had suspected her of what was really her daughter’s fault, felt confused and embarrassed.

“There was a—a little misunderstanding,” she stammered, “for which I hope Miss Lindsay will excuse me. I found out my mistake afterwards.”

No further explanation was then given, but Captain Barnes required and obtained an explanation afterwards. He blamed his sister severely, and Mary even more, and that young lady’s prospects of becoming her uncle’s heiress are now very slender.

“I hope, Captain Barnes,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “you will come to Philadelphia and pass a few days at my house. Nothing would please my daughter more, nor myself.”

The good captain finally accepted this invitation, though with diffidence, and henceforth never arrived in port without visiting his former protegée, where he always found a warm welcome.

And so my story ends. My heroine is now a young lady, not at all like the “Tattered Tom” whose acquaintance we first made at the street-crossing. For her sake, her mother loses no opportunity of succoring those homeless waifs, who, like her own daughter, are exposed to the discomforts and privations of the street, and through her liberality and active benevolence more than one young Arab has been reclaimed, and is likely to fill a respectable place in society.