kindle a light that shall
never go out, the light that shall shine through all eternity!

Gerty awoke the next morning, not as children wake who are roused by
merry voices, or by a parent's kiss, who have kind hands to help them
dress, and knowing that a nice breakfast awaits them; but she heard
harsh voices below; Nan's son, and two or three boarders had come in to
breakfast, and Gerty's only chance of obtaining any share of the meal
was to be on the spot when they had finished, to take that portion of
what remained which Nan might shove towards her. So she crept
downstairs, waited a little till they had all gone out, and then she
slid into the room. She met with a rough greeting from Nan, who told her
she had better drop that ugly, sour look; eat some breakfast, if she
wanted it, but keep out of her way, and not come near the fire, where
she was at work, or she'd get another dressing, worse than she had last
night. Gerty had not looked for any other treatment, so she was not
disappointed; but, glad of the miserable food left for her on the table,
she swallowed it eagerly, and she took her little old hood, threw on a
ragged shawl, which had belonged to her mother, and ran out of the
house.

Back of Nan Grant's house was a large wood and coal-yard, and beyond
that a wharf, and the thick, muddy water of a dock. Gerty might have
found many playmates in this place. She sometimes did mingle with the
boys and girls, ragged like herself, who played in the yard; but not
often--there was a league against her among the children of the place.
Poor, ragged, and miserably cared for, as they were, they knew that
Gerty was more neglected and abused. They had often seen her beaten, and
daily heard her called an ugly, wicked child; told that she belonged to
nobody, and had no business in any one's house. Thus they felt their
advantage, and scorned the little outcast. Perhaps this would not have
been the case if Gerty had mingled freely with them, and tried to be on
friendly terms; but, while her mother lived, she did her best to keep
her little girl away from the rude herd. Perhaps that habit of
avoidance, but still more a something in the child's nature, kept her
from joining in their rough sports, after her mother's death had left
her to do as she liked. She seldom had any intercourse with them. Nor
did they abuse her except in words; for, singly, they dared not cope
with her--spirited, sudden, and violent, she had made herself fear