Little Saint Elizabeth and Other Stories | Page 9

the case and took up one ornament after the other and
examined them closely. After he had done this he looked at the little
girl's innocent, trustful face, seeming more puzzled than before.
"Are they your own?" he inquired.
"Yes, they are mine," she replied, timidly.
"Do you know how much they are worth?"
"I know that they are worth much money," said Elizabeth. "I have
heard it said so."
"Do your friends know that you are going to sell them?"
"No," Elizabeth said, a faint color rising in her delicate face. "But it is
right that I should do it."
The man spent a few moments in examining them again and, having
done so, spoke hesitatingly.
"I am afraid we cannot buy them," he said. "It would be impossible,
unless your friends first gave their permission."
"Impossible!" said Elizabeth, and tears rose in her eyes, making them
look softer and more wistful than ever.
"We could not do it," said the jeweller. "It is out of the question under
the circumstances."

"Do you think," faltered the poor little saint, "do you think that nobody
will buy them?"
"I am afraid not," was the reply. "No respectable firm who would pay
their real value. If you take my advice, young lady, you will take them
home and consult your friends."
He spoke kindly, but Elizabeth was overwhelmed with disappointment.
She did not know enough of the world to understand that a richly
dressed little girl who offered valuable jewels for sale at night must be
a strange and unusual sight.
When she found herself on the street again, her long lashes were heavy
with tears.
"If no one will buy them," she said, "what shall I do?"
She walked a long way--so long that she was very tired--and offered
them at several places, but as she chanced to enter only respectable
shops, the same thing happened each time. She was looked at curiously
and questioned, but no one would buy.
"They are mine," she would say. "It is right that I should sell them."
But everyone stared and seemed puzzled, and in the end refused.
At last, after much wandering, she found herself in a poorer quarter of
the city; the streets were narrower and dirtier, and the people began to
look squalid and wretchedly dressed; there were smaller shops and
dingy houses. She saw unkempt men and women and uncared for little
children. The poverty of the poor she had seen in her own village
seemed comfort and luxury by contrast. She had never dreamed of
anything like this. Now and then she felt faint with pain and horror. But
she went on.
"They have no vineyards," she said to herself. "No trees and flowers--it
is all dreadful--there is nothing. They need help more than the others.
To let them suffer so, and not to give them charity, would be a great
crime."
She was so full of grief and excitement that she had ceased to notice
how everyone looked at her--she saw only the wretchedness, and dirt
and misery. She did not know, poor child! that she was surrounded by
danger--that she was not only in the midst of misery, but of dishonesty
and crime. She had even forgotten her timidity--that it was growing late,
and that she was far from home, and would not know how to
return--she did not realize that she had walked so far that she was

almost exhausted with fatigue.
She had brought with her all the money she possessed. If she could not
sell the jewels she could, at least, give something to someone in want.
But she did not know to whom she must give first. When she had lived
with her Aunt Clotilde it had been their habit to visit the peasants in
their houses. Must she enter one of these houses--these dreadful places
with the dark passages, from which she heard many times riotous
voices, and even cries, issuing?
"But those who do good must feel no fear," she thought. "It is only to
have courage." At length something happened which caused her to
pause before one of those places. She heard sounds of pitiful moans and
sobbing from something crouched upon the broken steps. It seemed
like a heap of rags, but as she drew near she saw by the light of the
street lamp opposite that it was a woman with her head in her knees,
and a wretched child on each side of her. The children were shivering
with cold and making low cries as if they were frightened.
Elizabeth stopped and then ascended the steps.
"Why is it that you cry?" she asked gently. "Tell me."
The woman did not answer at first, but when Elizabeth spoke again she
lifted her head, and as soon as she