hat was that noise in the street?” exclaimed Mrs. Claremont, laying down the pen suddenly. Ella sprang to the window. “O mother, something must have happened! some accident! there is a crowd collecting round a poor little girl!”
“We may be of some use!” cried Mrs. Claremont, and she and her daughter were at the street door in a few seconds.
“What is the matter? is any one hurt?” inquired the lady of a milk-woman who was standing looking on.
“A child knocked down by a horse, I[77] believe, ma’am. They should take the poor thing to the hospital.”
Mrs. Claremont waited to hear no more; the crowd made way for her, and she was soon at the side of a young girl who was crying violently, and the state of whose crushed bonnet and soiled dress showed that she had been down on the road.
“I don’t think there’s any bones broken, only she’s frightened,” observed a baker among the spectators; “I saw the horse knock her down as she was crossing the road.”
“Come this way, my poor child, out of the crowd,” said Mrs. Claremont, leading the little girl towards the house; “we will soon see if the injury is severe.”
The weeping child soon stood in the hall; hartshorn and water was brought to her by Ella, but on tasting it, the girl pushed it away in disgust, in a peevish and irritable manner. In vain Mrs. Claremont sought for any trace of injury; the road had been soft after much rain, and not a scratch nor a bruise appeared; yet still the girl cried as if in agony of pain or of passion.
[78]
“Where are you hurt?” inquired Ella soothingly; the child only answered by a fresh burst of tears.
“I am thankful that no harm seems done,” said Mrs. Claremont.
“There is harm!” sobbed the girl; “all spoiled, quite, quite spoiled!”
“What is spoiled?”
 
THE SPOILED DRESS.
 
“My dress, my beautiful new dress!” and the ladies now observed, for the first time, the absurd and unsuitable manner in which[79] the child had been clothed. Now, indeed, her finery was half covered with mud; but the pink bonnet, though crushed, the white dress, though stained and torn, the gay blue necklace, and hair in curl-papers, showed too plainly the folly of the wearer.
“What is your name?” inquired Ella.
“Sophy Trimmer.”
“Where does your father live?”
“He lives just round the corner.”
“You should be very thankful that your life has been spared,” said Mrs. Claremont.
Sophy did not look at all thankful, she only glanced sadly down on her torn dress, and whimpered, “Just new on to-day.”
“You remind me,” said the lady, “of a story which I read in the papers some years ago. A lady was going in a vessel to Scotland, and carried with her a quantity of jewels to the value of a thousand pounds. She thought so much of these jewels, that she was heard to say, that she would almost as soon part with life itself as lose them. An accident happened to the vessel on the way to Scotland; the water rushed into[80] the cabins, and the poor lady was taken out drowned.”
“That is a shocking story,” said Sophy.
“She could not carry her jewels with her to another world. But there is one ornament which even death itself has no power to take away.”
“What can that ornament be?”
“An ornament more precious than the crown of the Queen, ‘the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is, in the sight of God, of great price’ (1 Pet. iii. 4). The poorest may wear this—the rich are poor without it. O my child, care not to appear fair in the eyes of your fello............