"I am going to see your Sunday school teacher. I know her slightly. Mrs. Creak gives a good account of you, Peggy, but you see Mrs. Creak is quite a stranger to me."
"She's real good 'm, Mrs. Creak is."
"I have no doubt of it. I will write to you after I have seen Miss Gregory. Good afternoon, Peggy."
Miss Churchhill walked away, and Peggy darted into the sweet-shop, where she stayed for half an hour talking over the wonderful fortune that might be coming to her.
COUNTRY MUD
IT was a mild afternoon towards the end of February. Sundale Station looked deserted when the London train dashed into it. Only a porter stood on the platform to welcome any arrivals, and when the one passenger proved to be our Peggy, hugging her small box, he looked at her with grim humour.
"I'm paid by the Company to wait on you, Miss, so hand over. Where are you going? Not from this part, are you?"
"I'm going to my place."
Peggy was in nowise daunted.
The journey had been a delightful one. Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Creak had both stolen a short respite from their busy life to come to the station and see her off. She had received a parting present from both of them. Mrs. Jones had presented her with a fancy workbox, gay with painted flowers, and Mrs. Creak a stout serviceable umbrella.
Peggy thought there never was such a happy girl as herself; not a shadow dimmed the future. And she looked up into the porter's face now with such a beaming smile, that an answering one appeared on his.
"Well, where's that?"
"Ivy Cottage—Miss Churchhill's."
"Oh, those be the two fresh ladies come down last Monday. You wait a bit, and I'll get my barrow and go with you. 'Tis only half a mile—a little more."
So a quarter of an hour later Peggy stood before her new home. Perhaps it did not quite come up to what her fancy depicted. It was a small red-brick house standing back from the road, with a front garden edged with trees and shrubs. Straw and newspaper littered the front path, the windows were curtainless and blindless, and the front door stood open, showing furniture blocking the way.
Peggy walked up the path with smiling assurance; then she paused, for down on the floor, at the foot of a flight of steep narrow stairs, sat Miss Churchhill, with dishevelled hair, and a handkerchief up to her face.
When she saw Peggy she sprang to her feet.
"Why, Peggy, we have completely forgotten you! Come in. Is this your box? How much is it? Sixpence. Thank you, porter; put it down here. We are all in confusion. Good afternoon. Now, Peggy, you must help us, for we hardly know what to do first, and I am in the agonies of toothache."
She tried to speak brightly, but Peggy's quick eyes rested on her face.
"Please 'm, you've bin cryin'. I'm wery sorry for yer; but, please 'm, have you tried brown paper and vinegar with a little pepper? Aunt used to find it eased her faceache wonderful, and Mrs. Jones, please 'm, used to soak her brown paper in gin. She said it was first-rate."
Miss Churchhill began to laugh; Peggy's interest and earnestness when she had hardly set foot inside the house comforted and cheered her.
"Joyce!" she cried. "Our little maid has come."
Downstairs came a bright-faced dark-haired girl. She had an apron over her black dress, and her skirt was pinned up. She smiled at Peggy.
"There's a lot to be done, so you must help us as quickly as you can. The woman who has been cleaning for us had to leave early to-day. We have got your room ready. Can we get your box up? It is quite a small one; you take one handle, and I will take the other."
The little room was soon reached. Peggy gazed at it with admiration, but her eyes remained longest on her dressing-table and looking-glass.
"I was a-wonderin' whether I'd have a glass," she said confidentially to the youngest Miss Churchhill. "You see 'm, it's rather partic'lar to me, 'cause of my caps!"
"Oh, of course," Joyce replied, hastily beating a retreat; "now take your things off, and come downstairs as quick as possible. It is tea-time."
"My dear Helen," she said, when she joined her sister, "what an extraordinary specimen you have got hold of."
"She is an original, but I'm hoping she may be a treasure. Don't laugh at her, Joyce; she takes life in real earnest. She has done me good already. I was feeling so miserable when she arrived."
"Poor old thing! You're worn out. Shut the front door, and come and sit down. We shall all feel better after a cup of tea. Do you hear the kitchen fire crackling? Doesn't that cheer you up?"
"We shall never get our furniture into the rooms," sighed Helen. "We ought to have sold more, and brought much less."
"I shan't speak to you till we've had tea!"
Joyce went off to the kitchen, singing; then a few minutes after came back to her sister.
"We haven't a drop of milk in the house. I've forgotten all about it."
"The farm is close; send Peggy."
"So I will."
Joyce ran upstairs. She found Peggy holding out one of her print dresses, and gazing at it with loving admiration.
"I'm just a-goin' to get into it, please 'm."
"Oh, you needn't do that to-night. Slip on an apron. But I want you first of all to run up to the farm for some milk. I will show you where it is. Put on your hat again, and make haste."
Peggy breathlessly obeyed.
Joyce took her outside the gate, and pointed to another large gate on the opposite side of the road.
"Go through that, and keep to the footpath across the field; then go through another gate, and you'll reach the farmyard. Get a pint of milk from Mrs. Green, the farmer's wife, and tell her who sent you. She'll know then; and it will be all right. Do you quite understand?"
"Yes 'm."
Peggy departed with pleased importance.
She was a long time gone, but at last she reappeared with a very sober face.
"Come along; where's the milk?" asked Joyce, meeting her at the front door.
"Please 'm, I haven't got it!"
"Why? Have you spilt it? What is the matter?"
For answer Peggy slowly pulled up her skirt, and displayed one boot, which she raised in the air for inspection. It was certainly very muddy.
"I had to turn back 'm. It was awful! I never see'd such mud—never! It ain't like the mud I've bin accustomed to; it sticks! And it got worse, and a cab-horse wouldn't a-walked through it!"
Joyce stared at her, then lost her patience.
"You stupid girl! It's no good to be afraid of mud in the country. Here are we waiting for our tea! How do you expect us to get our milk? If you don't do it, I must."
Tears that had been very near the surface now ran over.
"Please 'm, it's my best boots, and they cost four shillings and sixpence; but I'll try again 'm."
Peggy choked down a sob, and departed.
Joyce went back to her sister half-amused, half-vexed.
"She thinks no end of her clothes," she said. "If she could only see what a little guy she looks!"
"Oh, hush, Joyce! I don't think she is half bad-looking. She is very thin, and has that stunted, wizened appearance that most London children have, but she has a dear little face. It will be getting dark if she does not make haste. I never should have thought that mud would have turned her back."
Poor Peggy was going through worse horrors than mud, and when she finally arrived with the milk, her hat was awry, her black dress was covered with dirt, and her eyes nearly starting out of her head with terror.
Joyce snatched the jug out of her hand, and marched off to the kitchen without a word; but Helen took pity on her.
"What is the matter, Peggy? You look frightened."
"Oh, please 'm, I've never bin to a farm, and I did go through the mud, though it was almost a-drownin' of me, and then I come to a gate, and when I got through, please 'm, it was a wild beast show, only worse, for they weren't shut up in cages! There was great brown bulls with 'orns 'm, a-tryin' to run at me, and there was pigs as big as sheep, and great white geese, and a dog barkin' like mad and tryin' to break his chain to get at me, and awful-lookin' turkeys which I've never seen alive 'm before, only hung up in shops at Christmas-time, but I knewed 'em by their red beards, but the scandalous noise 'm they made at me, would frighten the king hisself!
"They all made for me 'm, they did indeed, and there was ducks and fowls by the hundreds all runnin' under everybody's feet. Please 'm, I knewed I were in dreadful danger, but I did my dooty faithful, and thought of your milk. Only what with the sticky mud, and the cocks and hens, and tryin' to dodge the bulls, and turkeys, and all the rest o' the wild animals, I fell slap down 'm, and then I give myself up for lost. I 'ollered, and 'ollered, and then a man run out, and he took the jug, and was so kind as to tell me I might wait outside the gate, and he fetched the milk to me hisself.
"And, please 'm, is there no p'lice in the country, for they wouldn't allow no such goin's-on in London; they be all on the loose and no one to keep 'em from attacking yer! And, please, 'm, must I go every day to fetch the milk?"
Peggy's breath gave out. She truly had been nearly frightened out of her wits.
Helen concealed her amusement, and spoke very kindly.
"We forgot you were a little town girl, Peggy. We will not send you till you are accustomed to country ways. I don't think the animals would have hurt you, but I'm sure it must have been very alarming. Now go upstairs and change your boots, and brush your dress, and then come down to tea."
Poor Peggy went upstairs a sadder and a wiser girl. She shook her head at herself in the glass.
"Yer clothes will be ruined, Peg, and you've no more money to buy new ones. I almost thinks I shan't like the country."
But a minute after, the glory of perching her cap on the top of her head, and feeling that it had a right to remain there, overcame all her woes.
She went downstairs with a smiling face, and when she found herself in a cheerful kitchen, which, though small, was tidy, she again congratulated herself on her good fortune.
Joyce found her really helpful in getting things to rights, and when she laid her head on her pillow that night, Peggy added the following to her evening prayer:
"And, please God, I thank you for bringin me 'ere, and making me into a proper servant. And I'll try to do my dooty to you and my missuses. And please help me to do it, for Jesus' sake. Amen."
Perhaps the supreme moment to Peggy was that in which she stood arrayed the next morning in her clean print gown. What did it matter if it was faded and old? It was starched, and crackled when she moved.
"Sounds like silk almost," she said to herself; and she certainly swept downstairs as if she were a princess robed in satin.
Poor little Peggy had never before possessed a dress that had to be washed. When water was scarce, and soap and soda had to be considered, it was natural that she could not afford the luxury of a dress that soiled so easily. A girl going to her first ball could not have taken more care not to spoil the dainty freshness of her gown, than Peggy did of her second-hand print dress that morning.
Joyce, coming down to help with the breakfast, returned to her sister upstairs exploding with laughter.
"Helen, your little maid will be the death of me!"
"What has she done now?"
"She has pinned newspapers all over herself to preserve her gown and apron. She looks like a walking edition of the 'Times!' And when I remonstrated, she said the coals and kitchen grate would soil her clothes. Can't you hear her crackling as she moves about?"
Helen laughed heartily.
"Don't hurt her feelings. I don't think she has ever possessed a cotton frock before. She will soon get accustomed to it, and, after all, such extreme cleanliness ought to be encouraged."
In a few days Ivy Cottage presented a tidy aspect. Helen and Joyce felt that their rooms, if tiny, were cosy and even pretty. And Peggy's gratification was great when the stairs were carpeted. She took a keen interest in her new surroundings and learnt to use the possessive case pretty freely.
It was "my kitchen," "my kettle," "I'm sweepin' my draw'n' room," or "dustin' my dinin' room bookcase." Everything—upstairs and down—belonged to her, and "my house, my garding, and my missuses" formed the chief topic of conversation with any passing villager. She found she had a great deal to learn, but she was so willing and anxious to please, that Joyce, who took her in hand, forgave her ignorance and awkwardness, and prophesied to her sister that though at present a rough diamond, she might prove worth her weight in gold.
Mrs. Creak meanwhile looked out anxiously for Peggy's first letter.
The Board School had certainly taught her to read and write, and though the letter arrived with many an ink-smudge and blot, it was quite decipherable.
"MY DEAR MRS. CREAK,—I'm going to write to you for this is Sunday and I've been to church, and I let you no that the cuntry aint clean at all, but downrite filthy, for I never seed mud like it in London. There is no lamps or shops when tis dark so you falls down anyweres in a ditch or pond and no pleece picks you up for there is none of them."Old men wears their shirts over their coats to come to church. Farms has hunderds of feerce animals kep roun them which you has to walk thro, and they all tries to kep you away from the door, and cows and bulls walks along the road all day. There is no shops noweres."My place is fine and I has butter to eat evry day. I has many hunderds of things to take care of. I treds on carpets evry day. I spilt tea over my apron I trys to be clean. There is more to dirt me than our room in London. My missuses are nice ladys. I am quite well as I hopes it leaves you at present."Your friend,"MARGARET PERKINS."P. S.—Nex Sunday I goes to Sunday School. Please give my love to Missus Jones."
"Well," said Mrs. Creak, folding up the letter and taking off her spectacles, "girls is different to when I was young! The country too dirty for her! What next! Nought about the sweet, pure air and blue sky and singing birds, and green grass and trees and hedgerows. Her eyes never gets higher than the mud! I'm ashamed on her, that I be!"
"TOO FAITHFUL"
"PEGGY, Miss Joyce and I have to go away for a night. We are wondering about you, but Mrs. Timson, our next neighbour up the road, has kindly said she will let you sleep at her cottage. In fact, I think we had better lock up the house, and you go to her altogether."
But this did not suit Peggy at all. Here was an occasion to prove her trustworthiness!
"Oh, please 'm, I've a lot o' cleanin' to do. I would be ever so careful. Miss Joyce has showed me how to clean my brass fireirons, in my drawin' room, and I wants to scrub out my cupboards, and I has two aprons to wash, and, please 'm, there ought to be some one to take care of the 'ouse, 'cause of burglars!"
"We are not afraid of burglars down here," said Helen, with a smile. "And there is 'Albert Edward'; he can be tied up to guard the place."
"Albert Edward," was a new importation. He was a rough-haired terrier that had been presented by the vicar, and he was a formidable watch-dog. Peggy and he were great friends, and they had many mutual likes and dislikes.
"Yes 'm, Albert Edward and me will take care of everything beautiful."
In the end a compromise was made. Peggy was allowed to stay in the house till four o'clock in the afternoon, then she was to go to Mrs. Timson.
She stood at the gate a proud and happy girl when her mistresses departed the next morning. She watched them out of sight, then stayed a minute in the front garden, gazing at a clump of snowdrops, the only flowers then in bloom.
Mrs. Creak was wrong when she lamented Peggy's non-appreciation of the beauties of nature.
Her little soul was drinking it in very slowly, but very surely.
As she looked out of her small bedroom window every morning, she would say to herself—
"Oh, Peggy, what is it makes you feel so happy? 'Tis the wonderful lot of room you sees, and all the empty earth and sky, why all London couldn't crowd out this place, 'tis so big!"
Now as she looked at the snowdrops, she addressed herself again.
"They does keep theirselves clean, Peggy. 'Tis a pity you can't be more like 'em, they be just like white chiny. I'm glad I don't have to dust 'em ev'ry mornin'. I should be certain sure to snap their stalks off! I wish Mrs. Creak could see what flowers I have 'ere, and nothink whatsoever to pay."
Then she betook herself indoors.
The garden was pleasant, but she could not scrub or dust it, and those two arts were at present her chief joy.
The day passed too quickly for all she had to do, and at four o'clock she locked up the front door, leaving Albert Edward in the back kitchen with a plate of scraps by his side.
When she arrived at Mrs. Timson's she found that worthy woman sitting down with her husband at his tea. John Timson was the carrier to the nearest market town, six miles away. He was a meek little man with a great faculty for receiving all local gossip and quietly passing it on.
His wife overpowered him when present. She was a head taller than he, and a great talker, but not a cheerful one. They had no children, and Mrs. Timson was very glad to help out their small income by going out cleaning or washing. She washed for the Miss Churchhills, and Peggy's much-prized cotton gowns passed through her hands.
"Come ye in and sit down, me dear," she said to Peggy. "I've been expectin' ye this long while. How's the world treatin' ye? Better 'n it do me, I reckon! For 'tis work, work, work, when me bones is full of aches and pains. And if I had laws to make, I'd make 'em so as to make the sufferin' ones sit still, and the hearty ones to work."
Her husband gave a quiet wink to Peggy.
"Meanin' me, in course, wife; but I do be at it all day long."
"You? You sit in your cart like a dook, and gossip wi' folks till one don't know fac' from fiction. 'Tis me that be at it all day long."
"I like workin'," said Peggy simply. "But then I be stronger than you, missus."
"That you be. I mind when I were a girl how I worked. But there! Things is different nowadays, and I'm gradorly droppin' down towards me tomb."
"I've locked up," said Peggy inconsequently. "Do you think it will be all safe?"
"Safe as my watch in my pocket," said the carrier.
His wife shook her head at him.
"Do ee remember that terrible murder away at Ball Farm two years gone? 'Twas a farm servant left in charge, and 'twas gipsies that did it. Two men got inside, dressed like women, and they were purtending to tell fortunes, and the poor little maid screamed for help, and they killed her."
Peggy's eyes grew round. She was accustomed to London horrors, but she thought the country was free of them.
"I ain't afraid of no one with Albert Edward," she said sturdily. "I'd like to have slep' by myself over at my 'ouse to-night. Albert Edward would kill any burglar if he could get at him, I know he would."
Once embarked on a gruesome subject, Mrs. Timson flowed on, bringing out of her past reminiscences so many ghastly stories of murder and thieving and such-like, that at last her more cheerful husband interfered.
"Come, missus, stop it! This young lady won't sleep to-night. She be drinkin' it all in like water!"
"Oh! I ain't afraid," Peggy again repeated. "I arsks God to keep me safe, and I knows He will."
Her sleep was sound and sweet in spite of Mrs. Timson's stories, and she would hardly wait for her breakfast, so impatient was she to get back to Ivy Cottage.
"My missuses will be back at three o'clock, and I has my rooms to sweep and dust, and Albert Edward will be expectin' of me."
She ran back with a light heart, found the postman had left two letters, but no one else had disturbed the premises. She worked away with a light heart, but at twelve o'clock heard at sharp ring at the bell, and when she went to the door was confronted by a tall commanding-looking lady, who asked gruffly if the Miss Churchhills were at home.
Now the last words of Miss Churchhill to Peggy had been these—
"You are to let nobody into the house, Peggy. You cannot be too careful. If any one calls, say we are away from home."
So, with a suspicious glance at the visitor, Peggy replied importantly—
"My missuses be away till this arternoon."
"How vexing, to be sure! But they must have had my letter. I will come in and wait. My bag is at the station, and will follow me."
Peggy's head was so full of the stories that she had heard, that she murmured to herself—
"Tis a burglar, Peggy, a-dressed up and tryin' to get in. Now be brave, and do your dooty."
She slowly began to shut the door.
"No 'm, I ain't goin' to let you in; and if you don't get off with yer pretty sharp, I'll call Albert Edward!"
"You impertinent girl! Do you know who I am?—Miss Alicia Allandale. How dare you try to shut the door in my face! A nice reception when I come to see my nieces! Let me in this minute!"
Miss Allandale had a stronger arm than Peggy. As she found she could not close the door, she called loudly to Albert Edward. Alas! He was already barking frantically in the back kitchen, with two closed doors between him and the intruder.
"You go out this minit!" Peggy shouted valiantly. "I see yer tricks. You ain't a-comin' I tell yer, so there. Not if I dies for it!"
The lady made no reply, but she thrust Peggy aside as if she were a fly on the wall, and walked straight into the little drawing room. Then Peggy flew to the kitchen, got hold of Albert Edward, and brought him snarling and growling with rage to the door. She was about to let him in upon the uninvited guest when a second thought struck her. The key was outside the drawing room door. She locked the lady in, and then drew a long breath.
"Now I'll go and fetch a pleece, if I can find one; only, Peggy, you stoopid, he may get through the window and take all the chiny and books with 'im! Here, Albert Edward, come here! You watch outside the window, and if he or she—I dunno which it is—shows their 'eel's outside the window, you go for them, my boy!"
Albert Edward was only too delighted to oblige. He took up his position outside the window, and with low continuous growls, and much display of teeth, proved his ability to guard his mistress's domain.
Peggy flew along the road, first to Mrs. Timson's, but that good woman was out; then, as she was nearing the village, she met the blacksmith.
"Oh! Please, sir," she gasped, "could you catch 'old of a burglar? I don't know where to find the pleece, and you look fairish strong. I've been and locked 'im up; he's dressed like a woman. Oh! Come on quick, please sir! He may be smashin' the china when he finds he can't get out!"
The blacksmith looked puzzled, but obligingly accompanied Peggy.
"You be a smart little maid to have tackled a thief," he said. "Tell us how it was."
Peggy began her story, but as she neared Ivy Cottage her heart misgave her when she saw Albert Edward in the road, worrying at some object which he held between his teeth.
"He's got away!" she exclaimed. "We be too late!"
But when she bent over Albert Edward and found he held a lady's shoe in his mouth, she looked up at the blacksmith with a doubtful face.
"You don't think, sir, that he 've a-killed and eaten 'er?"
They found the drawing room empty, but the window open.
The blacksmith made light of it. "Your visitor found his welcome too hot for my girl. Look about and see if there be anything missing. It don't look as if he have taken anything."
Peggy made a minute inspection of the room.
"No, everythink be right. You don't think really that Albert Edward—"
The blacksmith lifted up his head, and gave a hearty laugh.
"I don't think he swallowed 'im, my girl; no, I don't indeed. Keep the shoo, and we'll put the pleece on his track. Are you 'feared of bein' left?"
"Not a bit!" said sturdy Peggy. "'E won't show his nose agen with me and Albert Edward here."
By the time the Miss Churchhills arrived, Peggy had come to the conclusion that she had been at last what she had long wished to be—a real heroine.
"And, Peggy, if you'd only kep' 'im and given 'im up to the pleece proper, I 'spect your name would have come out in the newspapers; and then what would you have felt like!"
She poured forth her story rather incoherently, but with great pride. To her consternation, Helen turned upon her.
"What name did you say, Peggy? Why it was our Aunt Alicia. Did a letter come? Oh what have you done?"
Joyce began to laugh, and Peggy to cry.
"Please 'm, she looked too tall; and her voice was so gruff."
"Of course it was," said Joyce. "She's an eccentric old lady, Peggy, who is fond of taking us by surprise. Well, what does she say, Helen? Don't look so grave."
Helen held out the letter, which was as follows:—
"DEAR NIECES,—As I find myself within thirty miles of your new abode, I shall give myself the pleasure of coming to stop a night with you. I haven't given you a present for some time, but will wait till I see what you need most in your cottage. Expect me by the 11.30 train."Your affectionate aunt,"ALICIA ALLANDALE."
Joyce read this aloud.
Peggy's face was a study as she listened, and as she understood the enormity of her offence. Holding out a stout but much-bitten black shoe in her hand, she said tragically—
"And, please 'm, this is all that is left of 'er!"
Helen, as well as Joyce, saw the humour of the situation, and laughed aloud.
But they were seriously annoyed; and poor Peggy, dashed from her pedestal as heroine to a very stupid and ignorant little servant-maid, spent the rest of the day in tearful lamentation.
The next morning Helen received the following letter:
"DEAR NIECE,—I was subjected to such insolence and humiliation from your ignorant servant yesterday, who absolutely refused me entrance, and refused to listen to my explanation, that I have resolved never to place myself in a like position again. I don't know where you got her, or what training you are giving her. I conclude she is the lowest type of humanity, and the nearest proximity to a savage that I have ever come in contact with. She not only locked me in a room, but fetched a low, vicious mongrel, and deliberately set him at me. My dress is in rags, and ankles severely bitten. I am in the doctor's hands. It will be long before I propose myself as your visitor again."Your affectionate aunt,"ALICIA ALLANDALE."
"Peggy is too faithful," murmured Helen.
"She has more heart than head," said Joyce. "Well, cheer up, Helen. We have lost a substantial cheque, which we can ill afford at present. You must write and explain; but she will never forgive or forget it."
And Miss Alicia never did.
As for Peggy, her spirits fell considerably. She was learning life's lessons, and discovered that her sense and judgment were not always to be relied on.
"You've had a fall, Peggy," she said to herself, "and you won't get up so high nex' time. Oh my! I only hope a real burglar won't come along. For I'm certain sure that I'll ask him in so porlite, and be so kind to 'im that he'll clear the whole 'ouse as easy as can be!"
A HEATHEN STOCKING
PEGGY had been to a missionary meeting in the village schoolroom. It had been held there expressly for children, and a missionary from India had spoken very earnestly to them.
"Do you all know about Jesus?" he had asked.
Then reading assent in their faces, he went on, "Happy children, to know you have a Saviour and Friend with you every day! There are hundreds of thousands living and dying without this knowledge. Would you not like to help to tell them about it? There are none too small to be missionaries, and I hope some of you are missionaries at home.
"Remember the little captive maid who told her master of the One who could cure him. There are many at home who want to be cured by the Great Physician. Tell others about Jesus. If you don't begin doing this at home in England, you will never be able to do it abroad amongst the heathen. We want you to tell about Jesus; we want you to pray to Him for the poor heathen, and we want you to give of your money to help to send missionaries out to teach them. Prayers, purses, and preaching bring heathen to Jesus. Do not forget these three P's."
Peggy walked home full of thought.
When Helen asked her if she had enjoyed it she said "Yes 'm." Then, after a pause, she said irrelevantly, "I suppose 'm you'll never have a ill gentleman to live with you?"
"Why, no, Peggy."
"I did used to think I wouldn't get a place without a ill gentleman, but I couldn't find one, and then you come along, and so I came."
Helen looked puzzled.
"Why did you want a place with an invalid gentleman?"
"So as to be like the little servant in the Bible," was Peggy's prompt reply. "I somehow thinks I could 'elp him like the other girl did."
"But, Peggy, you need not wait for that opportunity," said Helen gently. "There are always people to be helped, even in our village—people who want to be told that Jesus will cure their souls if not their bodies."
"Do people have sick souls?" asked Peggy earnestly.
"Yes, indeed they do. The soul that hasn't Jesus living in it is always sick—sick unto death."
Peggy pondered over this.
"I'm a-goin' to think over those there three P's," she said presently. "And, please 'm, I've done one already."
"Which is that, Peggy?"
"Prayers 'm."
"I'm glad to hear you have prayed about it. You mustn't forget to pray every day, Peggy."
"But, please 'm, the gentleman told us of them idols that the heathen made. He said them were deaf, but God weren't."
"Yes?"
"So, please 'm, I ain't goin' to arsk God more 'n once. I kneeled down when I comed 'ome, and I arsked Him to save the heathen, every one. And He ain't deaf, so I ain't goin' to arsk Him again."
Helen looked at Peggy, but said nothing. And Joyce at this moment coming into the room, prevented further conversation.
Two days after this, an old pedlar came to the door. Peggy went to interview him.
"We don't want nothink, thank yer," she said, eyeing his wares with some curiosity.
"Now don't 'ee say so, my dear, with your pretty young face a-longin' for a bright bow of ribbon in your cap. Look at this piece o' blue, three yards for sevenpence. Why, 'tis givin' it away. Ah, I see you're a sensible girl; you don't care for finery. Now I dessay I have a book or two that may take your fancy; or a pictur' now. Look at this one. A religious one this is, very sootable for a bedroom."
"'Tis Christ knockin' at the door," said Peggy, with a pleased nod.
"'Well, I s'pose it is; only one shillin' and sixpence. Why, He be worth more nor that, hain't He?"
Peggy frowned at his chuckle that followed.
"'Tis Jesus Christ you be speakin' of. And that's our soul He's a-knockin' at."
"'Tisn't mine," said the old man; "I don't deal in such harticles. I hain't got no soul—don't believe in 'em."
Peggy stood gazing at him with horror.
"You was born with one," she said; "what have you been and done with it?"
He rubbed his head and looked at her with a curious sort of smile.
"What have you done wi' yours?" he demanded.
Peggy's voice hushed.
"I giv' it to the Lord Jesus. Teacher taught me how at Sunday School."
There was a little silence, then Peggy saw her opportunity and seized it.
"My missus told me there were some souls 'sick unto death.' Maybe yours is—nearly dead, but not quite."
"Wery likely," was the amused retort.
"Wouldn't you like it made alive agen?"
Such a flash of light lit up Peggy's plain little face as she asked this question that an answering gleam played across the old pedlar's.
"How's it to be done?" he asked.
Peggy pointed to the picture.
"Ask Him to come into it. If He lives in it, He'll make it alive agen; missus said so."
"Oh, ay," said the old man; but a long-drawn sigh escaped him. "Well, good-day, missy, as ye won't buy nothin'."
But Peggy seized hold of him by the lappet of his coat and detained him.
"But look 'ere, you just do it! I'm a-tellin' you of a cure for your soul. Don't you go away without a-listenin'. I'm a-tryin' to be a missionary at 'ome, I am, and you've a splendid one to talk to, almost as good as a 'eathen. You listen! I ain't goin' to let yer go. Do you mind the girl in the Bible who sent her master, the leper capting, to be cured? I'm a-goin' to send you, and you'll 'ave to go. 'Course you will. Who'd stay with a sick, dead soul, if they could get it made alive agen? You go, do yer hear me?"
"Oh ay, bless the girl, what a tongue she has! Make a fine preacher one o' those days."
A bell rang, and Peggy know she must answer it.
"Goodbye," she said, with disappointment in her tone. "But I say, mister, if you go and get your soul cured, you come back and tell me."
"Ay, that I will."
The pedlar departed shaking his head; and so ended Peggy's first sermon. She was very silent all that day thinking about it.
Shortly after this she was called into the little dining room by Helen, to receive her first wages. It was an eventful day in her life. She looked at the money as it was placed in her hand. It was half a sovereign. Never had she handled a gold coin before. Her aunt's money had been left to her in silver.
"I am very pleased with you, Peggy," said Helen to her, "but of course you have still a great deal to learn. You are too noisy, too fond of talking, and break too many things. All this you must try to get the better of. I know you try to do your duty faithfully and well; ask God to help you to cure these faults."
"Yes 'm," said Peggy, who was certainly learning humility. Then, with a little burst of enthusiasm, she added, "Please 'm, I've never had so much money of my own afore. May spend it just as I have a mind?"
"I think you had better lay half by, for you will be wanting some new boots soon. You will have to be careful over it."
A shade of disappointment came over Peggy's face. She took her treasured coin upstairs.
"Now, Peg, don't you be a silly," was her advice to herself. "You does as your missus tells you. 'Tis the country that wears the boots so."
She turned the half-sovereign over in her hand.
"Five shillin's for boots, and five to make the other P. I'll ask missus to give it to me in silver to-morrow. But, oh my! How grand I am to be havin' gold of my own!"
The next day she got her coin changed, but a pang went through her as she did so. It seemed as if she had only received it, to lose it at once. However, when she found an old stocking, and put five shillings carefully into it, her happy smile shone out again. Laboriously she wrote out on a piece of paper which she dropped inside with the money, "Margaret Perkins—Her heathen stocking." And then tying the stocking into a tight knot, she deposited it at the bottom of her box under her bed.
"There, Peggy," she said, with a long-drawn sigh of relief, "now you've made a beginnin', mind you keep right on, and keep it secret from everybody. And then one day you'll walk up to the clergyman and you'll roll a stockin' of gold out at his foot for them there savage heathens. Oh my! 'Twill be grand!"
One afternoon Joyce came into the kitchen where Peggy was cleaning her hearth.
"Peggy, we want you to take a message for us. A walk will do you good. It is a lovely day. It is to Mallow Farm; you have to go through fields the whole way, but you can't make a mistake, as there is a beaten footpath. Take your time about it, and give this note to Mrs. Webster there. Bring us back an answer. We want her husband to supply us with some wood for our fires."
Peggy departed with alacrity; Albert Edward accompanied her as a matter of course. She was directed where to go, and lifted up her little heart in gladness when she got out into the sweet spring air and sunshine.
"Oh!" she said, sniffing vigorously, "I feel as if I could h'eat the air to-day. I'm quite hungry for it!"
The first field was crossed in peace. The second was full of young bullocks. Peggy's heart came up in her mouth. She had not yet conquered her fear of all cattle. She peeped cautiously over the stile, and waited till some of the nearest ones moved away. Then, gathering courage, she addressed Albert Edward.
"Look here, you've got to keep quiet. If you go barkin', they'll run at us, I knows they will. You foller me."
Albert Edward wagged his tail in response, but instantly obeyed, only out of the corner of his eyes he watched the cattle. Presently two of them turned and steadfastly gazed at Peggy.
"Oh my! They're a-comin'! I'm a-goin to scream!"
She took to her heels, and Albert Edward, considering he was released from his bond, dashed with a vigorous bark at the nearest bullock.
In a minute they were all in a commotion, and how Peggy ever got across that field without being tossed or trampled upon, she never knew.
But she stood with beating heart when she had got through the gate, and looked up into the sky.
"Oh God, I arsk you to take care of me. I'm dreadful frightened of these here bulls. For Christ's sake. Amen."
Then she looked around her. What dangers awaited her in this field, she wondered!
A light came into her eyes as she looked, and then wonder and admiration hold her spellbound.
The field was full of sheep and tiny lambs. Peggy had never seen lambs at play before. She stood and gazed in delight, and Albert Edward looked alternately at the lambs and her with wistful eyes. If only he could be allowed to chase them! But his conscience told him he could not.
"I never, never see'd such darlin's! Oh, Peggy, you've come to a place at last that is worth gettin' through those bulls to see! Oh, the pretty little dears! Why, 'tis like bein' in a picture-book to be with 'em!"
A lark rose up singing before her. There seemed no end to the joys of this afternoon. Long she lingered in that sunny meadow; but the next field held a new joy, and only one or two horses at the farther end were the disturbing elements. In a sunny hedge were clusters of primroses. With a shriek of delight Peggy made a rush at them, and when she gathered the first handful and inhaled their sweet scent, she hugged and kissed them in ecstasy.
"I've never see'd 'em a-growin' wild. Oh! If only Mrs. Creak and Mrs. Jones and h'Arthur were here! Now this is somethin' like bein' in the country!"
She picked a large bunch, then renewed her way. Albert Edward had turned up his nose at the primroses, but he was delighted to poke it into the hedge, where he sniffed for rabbits, if not for the flowers that grew there.
Peggy came to one more halt before she reached Mallow Farm, and this was at a tiny cottage at the corner of a field. As she was passing by, she heard some one calling. Curiosity made her put her head inside the door, and there sat an old man cowering over a few lighted logs on a wide open hearth.
"Do you want anybody, mister?"
The old man turned and looked at her.
"'Tis Bill I wants," he said peevishly. "Bill who works to the farm. He said he'd be here to cook my taties, and 'tis gone four. I didn't have none for dinner and wants some wi' my tea, and I've a-been and upset the pot a-tryin' to put him on the fire, and the taties are burnt up. Oh, dearie me! I'm a poor lone man who can't do nothink for himself!"
Peggy's quick eyes saw the overturned pot. She went forward and picked it up.
"I'll peel a few taties in a minute and pop 'em on for you," she said cheerfully. "You sit still, mister. I see the taties. They're on the dresser there. Oh my! What a muck your things are in! Who cleans your room for you?"
The old man began to cry.
"'Twas my poor Janie did it last. She only died six months ago. And no neighbours be near—only the farm. Bill—he does what he can, but he be a bit clumsy with his fingers; and I be terrible crippled with rheumaticks. Thank 'ee kindly, my dear. You be new to these parts, I reckon."
"I live with my missuses at Ivy Cottage," said Peggy, as she deftly peeled the potatoes and dropped them in the pot. "I comes from London, I does; but, oh my! What a sight the country be this arternoon!"
"What be the matter with it?"
"The matter! Why, the sun be shinin' and lambs be playin' and primroses a-growin'. Look at my bunch! Did you ever see sich flowers? They hangs 'em round a black figure in London—on his birthday, I believe. That's how I knows 'em. Beckyfield his name be. Funny his name bein' a kind o' field; I never thought on that afore. Must have somethin' to do with the primroses.
"Oh my! You oughter walk out, mister; 'twould cheer you up. There's a kind of happy, wake-up feel outdoors to-day. And the birds are a-singin' and a-flyin' up miles above yer head. There now, mister; tell me where to get a drop o' water and I'll put the pot on for yer."
"'Tis to the pump outside."
Peggy found the pump and placed the pot on the fire.
"I'll ask my missus to let me come and see you one day," she said, with a confidential little nod. "There's a good bit o' news and talk I could give you about London."
"Ah, do 'ee come in agen, me dear. I be a poor lone old man, and no one comes nigh me."
"All right, I'll turn up. Good arternoon!" She turned to the door and almost ran into the arms of a tall young man.
Shyness was not one of Peggy's characteristics.
"I s'pose as how you're Bill," she said, with a queer look up at him. "I've bin doin' what you oughter! Yer poor old father wants some one to look arter him. Why don't yer keep the place clean? 'Tis as bad as London for dirt and mess. You jest giv' it a good lick up afore I comes this way agen!"
She marched off, Albert Edward at her heels, and Bill Somers stared after her in stupid amazement.
A FELLOW-GIRL
MALLOW FARM was reached at length, and Peggy's delight was great when she found a gate that did not lead into the farmyard. The door was opened by a bright, rosy-cheeked girl about Peggy's age, who said that everybody had gone to market and she was alone in charge.
Peggy looked dismayed.
"Who are you?" she asked bluntly.
"I'm the servant."
"Reely? Well, I'd best leave the letter for your missus, and she'll send an answer. Is this your first place?"
"Yes. Be you in a place?"
"My place is with the Miss Churchhills. They lives at Ivy Cottage. Real ladies born they are. I comes from London."
"You don't say so!"
The girl stared at her as if she were some foreign product.
"Yes," Peggy went on, tilting her chin in the air, "I've seen a deal o' London, too much by a long way, so I set my mind to get a place in the country, and here I am. Don't you wear no caps?"
"No," said the girl, "us don't do with them in the farms. I've a sister in proper service, and she do."
"Ah, well," said Peggy grandly, "they take a lot o' care and keepin'. My name be Margaret Perkins. What be yours?"
"Ellen Tate. My home is in the village. I only come here four months gone."
"Don't you like it?"
"No, I wants to go to a town. Tell about London. There are miles o' shops, ain't there?"
"Miles and miles; but the country is a deal nicer."
"I'm sure it ain't."
"You has to pay for everything in London," Peggy said, slowly thinking it out, "and the country gives it to you free. I picks up sticks for the fires, and in London you'd pay a mint o' money for 'em. Look at my primroses! I didn't pay nothin' for 'em. In London they'd cost a shilling quite, and Miss Joyce brought some watercreases in the t'other day from the stream. She got 'em free. In London you pays."
"Yes," assented Ellen; "you wants money if you goes to Lunnon. I knows that."
"Have you got many friends?" demanded Peggy, looking at her with great interest.
"Why, I haven't one."
"Would you like me as a friend? I think I'd like you. You see we be both in service, and pretty near of an age. I'd like a friend in these parts, and I believe we'd get on fine."
Ellen looked delighted.
"I'd like you first-rate, 'cause you'd tell about Lunnon. But what day do you get out? I'd meet you on a Wednesday."
"Oh, I'll ask my missus, and let you know. I must be off now, for I have my tea a-comin' on."
Peggy returned home safely, and in very good spirits.
"Please 'm," she said to Helen, as soon as she could get a chance, "I've made two acquaintances this arternoon—an old man and a fellow-girl, who is a servant. And, please 'm, I should like to see 'em both agen, and my fellow-girl and myself intends to be friends. I h'aint got a friend here, for no one keeps servants in the village, 'cept the Rectory, and they do seem so grand up there. I hope you don't h'object and I thought I'd ask you if I could have Ellen to tea once in my kitching. I wouldn't ask you 'm to give her tea, but I'll manage and half mine with her. I'll eat extry at dinner to make up, and she won't take no notice if I don't seem to have the appetite for my food!"
Peggy paused for breath.
"I shall be glad for you to have a friend," Helen replied, "if she is a good, steady girl, but I should like to know about her first. She is Mrs. Webster's servant, I suppose?"
"Yes 'm. She seems a very nice girl 'm; o' course I dessay I could learn her a few things. She don't wear no caps, but then she ain't with real ladies. But if she ain't what I like 'm, when I gets to know her, I'll learn her to be different, and if she won't be, well, I'll give her up!"
Helen smiled, as she generally did when Peggy held forth.
But the friendship was formed, and Peggy and Ellen exchanged visits, and walked out occasionally together.
"I would give a good deal to hear their conversation," said Joyce one afternoon to her sister when Ellen had come to tea in the kitchen. "Peggy's tongue never ceases; what does she find to talk about?"
If she could have heard them, this was what Peggy was saying—
"So you see, Ellen, I made up my mind then and there when the gentleman spoke that I would be a missionary when I was growed-up."
"But," said Ellen, with round eyes, "you want to be eddicated, don't yer? And how are you to get over the seas? And what will yer do when yer gets there?"
"Oh, that 'll all come very easy," said Peggy loftily. "You has to make up yer mind that you is goin', first thing; same as I did about goin' into service. Then yer has to set to work to get yer clo's, same's I did too. But my Miss Helen told me, 'tis very hot where the heathen live, and they don't wear much clo's, not to speak of. So I dessay I shall do fine. P'raps three cotton dresses, and a hat would last quite a long time—and no jacket, you see—that 'ud save wonderful."
"But what would you do when you got there?" persisted Ellen.
"I'd have my Bible under my arm," said Peggy solemnly, "and I'd tell 'em all to come round me, very quiet like. I wouldn't have no pushin' or fightin'. And then I'd read 'em about Jesus."
"And nothin' else?"
"Well," said Peggy, considering, "I think I'd tell 'em very distinckly that Jesus died to let 'em go to heaven. I'd tell 'em He loved 'em, and they must be good, and He'd help 'em if they arsked Him, same as He does me."
"And then what?"
"Oh," said Peggy, still thoughtfully, "I s'pose they'd ask a few questions, and then p'raps we'd 'ave a hymn, same as the street preachers do in London, and then I'd have done till the next day. I don't expec' it would be very differcult, Ellen—not if you set yer mind to it."
"But I heard tell," said Ellen, "that people over the sea don't speak English like us do, and can't understand it. Like a Frenchman who came to our village inn once."
Peggy's face fell.
"I never heard that the heathen talked French. I hopes as how they don't. I don't think they could be clever enough, Ellen. They be poor ignorant critters, that be what they be, and wouldn't never have the sense to speak in foreign langwidges—it be only eddicated ladies and gents that do that."
With this reasoning she recovered her cheerfulness, until she remembered sundry beggars she had seen in London who were not at all educated, but talked in strange tongues.
"Anyhow," she said, after a pause, "if they does speak French, I'll have to learn to speak it too. 'Tis wonderful what you does when you grows up, Ellen. Most things come easy then. And I'll ask God to help me, like He mostly does."
Ellen shook her little rough head doubtfully. "It don't sound as if you'll do it, Peggy. It don't sound real. I h'ain't heard much of heathen, but they live with lions and tigers, don't they? And I have 'eard tell that they eat one another up alive."
"I h'ain't heard that," said Peggy firmly, refusing to be deterred from her purpose. "I believe that's a make-believe in story-books. The gentleman the other evening called 'em 'poor critters sitting in darkness, callin' out for light.' And he said we must take it to them."
"Then when you be growed-up, you won't be a servant any more?"
"I don't know quite, Ellen. You see, I ain't quite sure about missionaries. Some on 'em p'raps goes to the heathen for a bit, and then comes 'ome agen. And if my missuses ain't dead, I don't know as how ever I shall leave 'em. But it isn't till I be quite growed-up, you see, Ellen, and my missuses will be very old then—and p'raps they will die—though I don't like to think of it."
Ellen subsided.
"You be a wonderful girl," she said. "I never have see'd any 'un quite so queer as you be!"
One day Ellen was able to give Peggy a piece of news.
"My missus is goin' to have a lodger—a lady what's ill. She be comin' to live with us for a month, and I'll have to wait on her!"
"Oh," said Peggy, with a long-drawn breath. "What a pity 'tis she's not a sick capting!"
"Why?" asked Ellen.
"Is she comin' by herself? She ain't got no sick husban'?"
"No, that she ain't. I shouldn't like to wait on two sick folks—one be bad enough. And how I be goin' to get through my work is the wonder!"
"Oh, but," said Peggy reprovingly, "this sick lady is who you must do good to. Why, Ellen, 'tis splendid! You can be like the little Bible maid—she had to wait on a lady, and she got her master healed, and 'twas talked of everywhere. You can guess how much her was thought of to be put in the Bible! I wish I was you! Just for a bit, you know, to see what I could do."
"I never does understand what you be at!" said Ellen. "What can I do for a lady, 'cept to do what her wants?"
"You wait and see."
Peggy nodded her head mysteriously. She went on: "My Miss Helen told me, there was people with sick souls as well as sick bodies, and my teacher in London says to me just the same, only she was talkin' of hearts instead. But I believe it means all the same. And you see, Ellen, we've got to tell people who can cure 'em and then they goes. That's all the Bible maid did, and that's all we've got to do. You find out what your sick lady be like, and you tell me. I'll show you what ter say to 'er!"
Ellen shook her head.
"I shan't do nothin' but wait on her," she said stubbornly.
They did not meet again till a fortnight elapsed, then Ellen was full of information.
"She be a widder lady in black; and be very white in the face; and has the headache, and lies on the sofy. And she has a stern face, and don't smile much, but she talks to missus. She never says nothin' to me, and I don't say nothin' to her."
"That do seem a pity," said Peggy slowly. "Can't you ask 'er if you can't do nothink for her 'eadaches. Do ask her, Ellen!"
"She be a great reader," Ellen continued; "for she have books and books, so her knows much more 'n I do about 'eadaches and everythin'!"
"You jest arsk her," urged Peggy.
Ellen would not promise, but one afternoon Peggy was sent to the farm on an errand. And to her great delight she found the invalid lodger sitting out in the garden. She had to pass her on the way to the house, so Peggy at once seized her opportunity.
"Good arternoon 'm."
The lady glanced up. She had a book in her lap and another lay at her feet. She seemed tired and unhappy. She looked at Peggy without speaking, and, of course, Peggy hastened to introduce herself.
"If you please 'm, I'm Margaret Perkins—I'm Ellen's friend. P'raps you've heerd her remark on me. I lives with my missuses at Ivy Cottage. And, please 'm, have you the 'eadache to-day? And have you heard 'm that puttin' yer hankychief in boilin' hot water and soppin' yer 'ead with it is first-rate for the 'eadache? My aunt used for to do it, when her were took bad with them. It's a thing I ain't troubled with myself is the 'eadache, but 'tis very tryin' to bear' m, and I be mortal sorry for yer!"
It was impossible to be angry with Peggy, as she stood there wagging her head to and fro with great solemnity.
Mrs. Dale found herself smiling at the odd little figure before her, and wondering at her eager interest in her welfare.
"I did not know myself and my headaches were topics of conversation with any one," she said. "But I am much obliged to you for your recommendation. I have tried hot water in times past. I do not always suffer from headache. If that were all the matter with me I should be a happy woman."
She murmured these last few words, but Peggy's quick ears caught them.
"Please 'm, I'm sorry. I be very happy myself, and would do anythink I could for yer."
Again the lady looked at her with a sad smile.
"As you go through life, little girl, you will find there are many things worse than a headache. May you never have the heartache that often causes them."
She took up her book again, and there was something in her manner that even awed Peggy.
She walked on to the farm door and delivered her message to Ellen.
"And, Ellen," she said, in an excited whisper, "I've see'd 'er, and a-spoken to 'er, and 'tis what I thought. 'Tis a sick heart she has, and you and me will see she gets it cured whiles she's here."
There was no opportunity for more conversation, for Mrs. Webster appeared. She was a smiling, good-natured woman, and had a great liking for Peggy.
"Miss Churchhill do be a kind lady," she said. "She have sent me this recipe of her grandmother's for curin' spasms, which take me on and off. Will you please take her back my respec' and thanks for it. 'Tisn't every lady will give a thought to other folks' aches and pains and try to cure 'em!"
Peggy returned home full of thought. Later that day, just before her bedtime, when she had washed up all her dishes and tidied up the kitchen, Joyce came in and found her engrossed in a cookery-book; her pen and ink, a sheet of paper, and her Bible also lay before her.
"What are you doing, Peggy?"
Peggy looked up with her usual pleased smile. "Please 'm, I'm tryin' to write a recipe for the sick lady at Mallow Farm. I want to do it proper like. 'Twas missus a-sendin' Mrs. Webster a recipe made me think on it. Ellen seems as if she can't say nothin'! I do believe 'tis 'cause she never were born nor brought up in London!"
"And what is this wonderful recipe, Peggy? How did this lady come to ask you for one? Did you see her this afternoon?"
"Yes 'm. She were sittin' in the garding, and me and her had a few words of talk together. I thought 'twas the 'eadache was makin' her ill, but she told me 'twasn't, and when she told me, I was tooken aback like, and didn't think of the right words, and so 'm I be sendin it to her by Ellen."
"Sending her what?"
"The cure for a sick heart 'm. The cookery-book and the Bible is helpin' me to do it."
Joyce retreated.
"Helen," she said, coming into the little drawing room where her sister was seated working, "I think you had better look after Peggy. I don't pretend to understand her theology, but she is going to treat Mrs. Webster's lodger to some of it, and it is being done up in a very unorthodox way!"
Helen looked up.
"You are always laughing at my little Peggy, Joyce, but I tell you she sometimes shames me with her earnestness."
"Well, go and see what she's doing, for her originality may do mischief sometimes."
Helen went off to the kitchen. She came back some minutes after, with a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.
"I don't like to be always prying into her concerns," she said. "It is no business of ours, and really I don't think her purposes are ever harmful ones. So I did not ask her any questions, but she showed me this, and asked me if it was spelt right, and I told her it was very nice and came away. This is the rough copy."
Joyce bent over it and read—
"An excellent recipe for a sick heart to be made well."INGREDIENTS."You keeps quiet, and you puts your mind to it. First you kneels down and arsks Jesus Christ to cure it, and make it well. Then you gives it to Him to keep, for the Bible says, 'My Son give Me thine heart.' Then He washes it 'whiter than snow,' same as Psalm says, and then when He has cleaned it proper He comes and lives in it, same as He says, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man open unto Me, I will come in.' Then the sick heart begins to sing, because it's happy."This recipe has never been known to fail."Time in making: about half an hour."
Joyce looked at her sister, and Helen looked back at her in silence.
"I call it irreverent."
"She does not mean it to be so. She has been pondering every sentence. She asked me about the time with the greatest solemnity. I could not speak."
"It is almost clever," said Joyce. "What will she develop into, Helen?"
Helen shook her head.
"She is one of Christ's 'little ones,' Joyce—of that I am sure."
"If she sends it, make her strike out the time," said Joyce; "it seems almost blasphemous. I will tell her so myself."
She went into the kitchen. Peggy was just going to bed.
"Peggy, you mustn't play at such a solemn thing as a heart being changed by our Lord Himself."
Peggy's horror-stricken face was raised at once.
"Please 'm I never did!"
"But you've written that it can be done in half an hour. Do you know some people spend a lifetime in seeking peace for their souls. It is a tremendous transaction."
Peggy was silent for a minute; then tears began to gather slowly in her big blue eyes. "Please 'm I thought Jesus Christ was ready always. Teacher told me he wouldn't keep us waitin'. And, please 'm, I thought p'raps she might think she'd be too busy to see to it. I didn't go for to mean to play at it, please 'm, I really didn't!"
"You can't tie those kind of things down to time. It is irreverent," persisted Joyce, ignoring the tears.
"I warn't more nor harf an hour with teacher," sobbed Peggy. "She kep' me back one Sunday 'cause I spoke to her. But I won't say nothin' about time, please 'm. Only mayn't I put 'It won't take long if you put your mind to it?'"
"You're a very little girl to be sending these messages to grown-up people," said Joyce, eyeing her gravely.
But Peggy in an instant smiled so radiantly that Joyce felt quite nonplussed.
"Yes 'm, like the little maid in the Bible sent the leper capting to be cured. That's why, please 'm!"
Joyce left her.
"Peggy," she informed her sister, "is above and beyond me altogether!"