Timothy's mind traveled back over the past, as he sat among the tin cans
and looked at Rags and Gay. It was a very small story, if he ever found
any one who would care to hear it. There was a long journey in a great
ship, a wearisome illness of many weeks,--or was it months?--when his
curls had been cut off, and all his memories with them; then there was
the Home; then there was Flossy, who came to take him away; then--oh,
bright, bright spot! oh, blessed time!--there was baby Gay; then, worse
than all, there was Minerva Court. But he did not give many minutes to
reminiscence. He first broke open the Bank of England, and threw it
away, after finding to his joy that their fortune amounted to one dollar
and eighty-five cents. This was so much in advance of his expectations
that he laughed aloud; and Rags, wagging his tail with such vigor that
he nearly broke it in two, jumped into the cradle and woke the baby.
Then there was a happy family circle, you may believe me, and with good
reason, too! A trip to the country (meals and lodging uncertain, but
that was a trifle), a sight of green meadows, where Tim would hear real
birds sing in the trees, and Gay would gather wild flowers, and Rags
would chase, and perhaps--who knows?--catch toothsome squirrels and fat
little field-mice, of which the country dogs visiting Minerva Court had
told the most mouth-watering tales. Gay's transport knew no bounds. Her
child-heart felt no regret for the past, no care for the present, no
anxiety for the future.
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