"A REAL LITTLE HOME MISSIONARY"
MRS. DALE was rather astonished one morning when, coming into her sitting room to breakfast, she saw a rather crumpled note lying on her plate, directed in an uneducated hand:—
"To Mrs. Webster's lady."From Ellen's friend what spoke to you lastTuesday. With her respects and best wishes."
She was still more astonished when she opened and read Peggy's recipe.
And she read it, not once, nor twice, but she seemed to be weighing every word; and then slowly her eyes filled with tears.
The interest of a little servant-maid in her welfare did not seem impertinent; it touched the heart that had till now been filled with aching bitterness.
When Ellen came to clear away the breakfast things she spoke to her.
"Did your little friend give you this note to give me?" she asked.
Ellen crimsoned, then answered nervously—
"Yes, please, mum. And I hope you'll excuse her, mum, if she have written anythin' not proper, for Peggy be different like to most of the folks here. You see, her come from Lunnon!"
"So do I," said Mrs. Dale pleasantly. "If she comes to see you again, I should like to have a little chat with her."
"Yes, mum, thank you."
Ellen retreated in confusion; then she came back.
"If you please, mum, you won't let on to missus that I give you a letter from Peggy. Her might think it forward, and I telled Peggy it were."
Mrs. Dale promised, with a smile, that she would say nothing about it. Two days later she was walking out when she met Peggy with a basket of eggs on her arm.
Peggy smiled broadly, and Mrs. Dale stopped her.
"Thank you," she said, "for what you sent me the other day. I wonder what made you do it?"
"Oh, please 'm," was the breathless reply, "I knowed you would be glad to hear what would be good for yer 'eart. You did tell me 'm you had the 'eartache, didn't you? And I has set my mind all along to be like that there little captive maid in the Bible. Only she had a sick capting, and I can't find one nowheres. And there be no prophets nowadays—only doctors, and they don't seem certain sure of theirselves bein' able to cure everybody. So, please 'm, I were very down'earted, and then I were told by a missionary gent and my missus that some people didn't know where to go to get their souls or 'earts cured. And, please 'm, I thought I'd just like to tell 'em, and I hopes you'll be quite well in your 'eart soon 'm; I does indeed."
Her big blue eyes looked so earnest and confiding that Mrs. Dale felt she could not damp her ardour.
"Thank you, Peggy," she said. "You are the first person that I have ever met in my life that has cared for my soul."
She walked on rapidly without another word, and Peggy stood staring after her.
"Oh my! She is a nice lady. I do hopes she will be better soon."
She was very interested a few days afterwards when she heard that the Miss Churchhills were going to call on Mrs. Webster's lodger, and she ventured to ask Helen when she came back if she had seen her.
"Yes, I have, Peggy. I have discovered that my father knew her some years ago. She used to be one of his Sunday school teachers. Then she married, and has had a lot of trouble since. She has come into the country to recruit her health."
Helen did not tell Peggy Mrs. Dale's history. It was a pitiable one. She was tempted to marry a man she did not love, for the sake of a home. Her husband proved to be an atheist and a drunkard; he led her a miserable life. Three out of her four children died in their infancy. Her only boy began to develop a taste for drink when he was only fourteen, and was expelled from two different schools. She took him abroad, and more to her relief than grief, he died of a rapid decline when he was seventeen. Then she came back to her husband, and had now only been a widow for a few months.
She said to Helen very sadly—
"My life seems finished, for all that makes life pleasant has gone from me. I have no belongings, no religion, no hope; I bury myself in books, but they are beginning to weary me."
"There is never an end of anything," said Helen softly. "Life is made up of continual fresh beginnings, is it not?"
"Ah, that is talk—a mere platitude," Mrs. Dale said a little impatiently. "I can never make a beginning."
"But out of chaos God can."
Helen could not resist this remark.
Mrs. Dale looked at her.
"I have lost my faith in God, and yet—"
She moved across to her writing-desk, and placed a slip of paper in Helen's hand. It was Peggy's recipe.
"You may smile at it," she said; "but this has brought back such an overwhelming charge of memories that I dare not say there is no God. I believe it is the production of a small maid of yours. Was it her own idea?"
"Entirely," said Helen, looking at the paper, with a grave smile; "but there are great truths, Mrs. Dale, wrapped up in this small message."
"There are," responded Mrs. Dale; and then she talked of other matters.
"Peggy," said Helen to her sister afterwards, "is a real little home missionary. However queer her methods are, she has the two requisites for success—enthusiasm and perseverance."
"Yes," said Joyce, "but we engaged her to be our little servant; we don't want her to be a missionary. However, I will say she shows both enthusiasm and perseverance in our service; her scrubbing can be heard half a mile off!"
Spring slowly turned to summer, and when the fresh-cut hay lay about in the meadows a sad trouble came to Peggy.
She had been out one afternoon on an errand, and when she brought in the tea her eyes were red and swollen. Helen was very busy that evening getting some letters written for the foreign mail, but after tea, when Joyce went out to the kitchen to fetch something, she came upon Peggy sitting on a low stool by the fire, her apron up to her eyes, and great sobs escaping her.
"Now what is the matter?" Joyce asked a little sharply. "Have you broken anything?"
Peggy rose from her seat, and looked at Joyce with tragic eyes.
"No 'm, 'tis a deep trouble of my own, and I shan't never—no never—get over it."
Joyce seated herself on the edge of the kitchen table, and prepared herself for a little entertainment. She was sincerely fond of Peggy, but she did not regard her little maid's personal experiences with such sympathetic interest as her sister did.
"Well, what is it, Peggy? Has any one died?"
"'Tis worse 'm. My friend for life has giv' me up."
"Oh dear, that is sad! Is that a friend in London?"
"No 'm. 'Tis Ellen at the farm."
"You haven't known her for very long, Peggy. But why has she given you up?"
The apron went up to the eyes again; and thou came the explanation, poured forth with many sobs—
"'Tis like this 'm—it has struck me so sudden and so cruel that I'm fairly dazed to think on 't. Me and Ellen were life friends. I was bringin' on her fine to like the heathen, and she giv' me twopence halfpenny last week for my stockin'. We was goin to grow up side by side as it were, and I telled her everythink! And when you and Miss Helen were dead 'm, we was goin' up to London to get ready for bein' missionaries. That's what we arranged 'm.
"I never forgot Ellen in my prayers 'm—not once—and when I says 'Our Father,' I thinks of Ellen and me right through. You see 'm, the two of us made it seem right. I never could understand who the 'our' were. And my heart and Ellen's were just made for one another. I often says to her,—
"'Ellen,' I says, 'you listens and I talks; isn't that just right?' I says.
"And she always said yes to everythink I said—leastways, after I had learned her to, she did. And I was a-think-in' 'm that p'raps one day you might let me go into the town by the carrier, and then I was goin' to get Ellen a cap—a nice cap 'm—for present. I've always told her she'd look 'andsome in a cap.
"Well 'm, to-day I went to the village and posted your letters, and I was a-comin' across the fields, for 'tis shorter, and there were no bulls in 'em, when I see'd Ellen sittin' on a stile, and a young man beside her.
"I went up to her 'm, just as I always does, but the young man says in my very face 'm, 'Who be this guy, Ellen?'
"And she laughed, though her cheeks were red, and she says, "'Tis Peggy Perkins, servant down to Ivy Cottage.'
"'Tis Ellen's friend,' I said, lookin' at 'em straight. 'And, Ellen, I wants to have a word with you.'
"Ellen tossed up her head 'm, and says, 'I'm busy to-day. Can't you see it?' she says.
"'I sees you are idlin' with a strange young man,' I says.
"Then she turns upon me quite angry like. 'You go on, and mind your own business. I ain't a-goin' to walk out with you no more.'
"And then she laughed and he laughed, and I says, 'You mean to break our friendship, Ellen?'
"And she nodded; and then I come on home with a broken 'eart. He be a stranger 'm, come to help Mr. Webster with his bay; and Ellen is on with him, and off with me. I couldn't have believed she would have laughed at me—I couldn't indeed; and all our years to come—hers and mine—are no good at all now. And she don't love me no more. I h'ain't got one friend in the whole big world, and, please 'm, I didn't think Ellen would have done it!"
"Oh, well, Peggy, it isn't so bad. Cheer up! The young man will go away, and Ellen will come back to you."
"Never 'm, never! I shouldn't arsk her to. I couldn't never trust her agen."
"Well, Ellen is no great loss. There are other girls in the world quite as nice as she."
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"THEN I COME HOME WITH A BROKEN 'EART."
"But I were a-bringin' of her on so," sobbed Peggy. "I couldn't never make friends with no one else. She were a servant-maid just like me, and we had points in common, and we could talk our missuses over, and what we had for dinner, and the trouble the oving giv' us, and the cat and dogs, and the mice, oh! Please 'm, I couldn't find another Ellen, and she have broke my 'eart, she have!"
Joyce could not comfort her, neither could Helen. She cried herself to sleep that night, and the perfidy of Ellen was a daily, hourly nightmare to her.
"What's the good o' yer goin' on like this, Peggy?" she addressed herself passionately one lovely June day. "Better be like Albert Edward, and say nothin' to troubles that come to yer! He eats his food and sleeps, and don't make much o' disappointments. And nobody cares for your broken 'eart. The sun comes out just as fine, and the flowers keep on a-growin', and the summer don't turn to winter to soot your feelin's. You've been served shameful cruel, that you have, but just set yer mind to it that you has to walk along by yourself till you be growed-up. 'Tis wonderful what you can do if you sets your mind to it!"
And by dint of "setting her mind to it," Peggy did show a Spartan-like cheeriness, but her happy smile seemed to have turned into a hard grin, and Joyce could not stand it.
"Do, for goodness' sake, Peggy, keep from making such hideous faces!" she exclaimed.
And Peggy hung her head at once.
"Please 'm, I were only tryin' to be cheerful," she said. "I ain't a-goin' to cry no more."
"I'm glad to hear it. Ellen isn't worth the fuss; but you need not try to wear a perpetual smile. It isn't natural."
"No 'm, it ain't," said Peggy, with a sigh of relief. "It be my outside a-tryin' to smile, when my innards be still a-weepin'. But I'll do better soon 'm—I reely will!"
Failing to have Ellen's company, she turned her attention to old Job Somers, and whenever she could get an afternoon out, she spent it in his cottage tidying him up.
"And, please 'm," she informed Helen, "we do a bit of sighin' together, which be very comfortin'. For he have had a heap o' trouble, poor old man, near as much as Bible Job did have—and we reads about him together, and what he don't feel, I does, so every chapter seem to fit us."
"But, Peggy," said Helen, "I don't think moaning over each other's troubles will do you much good. I thought you were going to try to be one of God's little messengers, and cheer people up."
Peggy gazed at Helen in silence, then without a word she moved away. But she had learnt her lesson, and the next time she visited Job she put it into practice.
"Good arternoon, Mr. Somers. How are you—rather sadly? But I think you're lookin' a bit more spry."
"Oh no," said the old man, shaking his head; "I shan't never be better, and Bill have taken to go to choir practice in the evenin'. They do say he have a fine voice, but 'tis mortal dull for me, all alone! All alone!"
"So it be; but, mister, I ain't a-goin' to groan no more, for I have been a bad girl, forgettin' what I means to be, when I'm a growed-up. And I've forgetted all about the singin' heart, mister, which you'd best get as soon as you can."
"What be that? If Bill thinketh he can sing, 'tis more nor his old father can do."
"Oh yes, 'tis certain sure you can. 'Tis what I ought to have told yer this long while, but my trouble occpied me so. You do feel sick at heart generally, don't yer?"
"Ay, I do that, my maid, I do sure enough!"
"Then I'll tell you how to make it change. You give it right up to Jesus Christ, and He'll make a cure of it. You see, 'tis like this, mister: When He came to earth, you remember, He were always a-goin' about curin' sick folks. If any one had a sick body, and come along to Him, He always cured it. Nowadays, He's a just goin about the earth, a-curin' sick souls. O' course we don't see Him a-doin of it; He does it very quiet and private like, but that be what is goin' on. Now, wouldn't you like yours cured?"
"There's nought the matter with my soul," muttered the old man peevishly.
"Oh," said Peggy, "there is, mister. Yer soul or yer heart, 'tis all the same. You said 'twas sick. There be a deal o' folks with sick souls I've heerd tell, and there be no medicine for 'em that you can buy, for Jesus Christ don't mean 'em to be cured by anybody but Hisself. Now, who's a-takin' care o' yer soul, mister?"
"Myself," answered the old man promptly. "'Tis my business, and no one else's."
"You'll make a very bad job of it," said Peggy, shaking her head at him. "I 'spect it wants a gran' clean-up inside, like this here room that I've done so fine. Seems to me," she went on dreamily, "that souls be very like rooms. They ain't fit to live in till the Lord comes along and turns 'em clean inside out; gets rid o' the rubbish and dusts and tidies 'em proper. Even then, if He's to live in 'em, I 'spect He finds 'em wantin' a clean, and dustin' every day. There be always such a lot o' dirt and dust and rubbish in at the doors and windows, and if He misses one day, I daresay they gets in a pretty mess."
"You be a strange little maid," said Job; "I can't foller the argyment!"
"I'm only telling yer the way to get yer soul made well and happy," repeated Peggy. "If you has Jesus a-livin' in it, you'll feel awful well."
The entrance of Bill stopped further discussion. He looked at Peggy with a pleased smile.
"You do be a neat-handed maid," he remarked. "How you do hearten up our place!"
"'Tis you that untidies it after I goes," said Peggy, with her chin in the air. "I never can make out what you does to get the place so muddly."
She always gave herself airs with Bill; he seemed so big and clumsy that she lost patience with him. He now stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth partly open, rumpling his shock of thick hair with his big hands.
"We oughter have womankind to set us to rights, and to keep us there," he murmured.
"No," said his father, "we'll do finely, Bill, without 'em."
"So you will," said Peggy brightly, taking her departure; "and I'll give you a look up agen soon, mister; and you just do what I was a-tellin' you of. 'Tis easy if you sets your mind to it."
"I'M A-GOIN' BACK TO LONDON!"
ONE Monday morning Peggy was very busy making raspberry jam under Helen's superintendence. Joyce had gone away for a week's visit to some friends, and Helen was alone. Helen had just left the kitchen and gone upstairs to get some jam papers, when Peggy heard a terrible crash and heavy fall. She rushed out of the kitchen and, to her horror, found that her mistress had fallen the whole length of the narrow flight of stairs, and, in falling, had struck her head with considerable violence against a corner of the wainscoting. She was lying unconscious at the foot of the stairs, and blood was oozing slowly out from a cut on her head.
For a moment Peggy lost her presence of mind. She uttered a loud shriek, and rushing to the front door screamed, "Help! Murder! Thieves! Fire!"
No one heard her cries, and, as she afterwards remarked, "'Twas as well, for it were lies I shouted, but the words wouldn't come proper, I were so full of horror, but I knowed the very worst had happened, and so the worst slipped off my tongue!"
As no help came, she recovered herself, and valiantly tried to raise poor Helen from the ground. This she found she could not do, so she fetched a basin of warm water and a sponge, and bathed the cut, tying a large pocket-handkerchief round it, and then, after placing a pillow under Helen's head, dashed out of the house. Albert Edward darted after her with a delightful bark, but he was ordered back immediately.
"Stay with missus, you bad dog, and take care of her till the doctor comes!"
So back Albert Edward went, and lay down across Helen's feet with a little wistful sigh. Peggy sped on to Mrs. Timson's, who was fortunately at home.
"Dear heart!" she exclaimed, when the accident was made known to her. "I'll go round to the poor dear at once! You'd best get the doctor, for I've known 'em bleed to death afore any could get to 'em! Dr. Nairns be the nearest, but 'tis six miles away. Run up to Farmer Bedford's. He may send his lad and horse. Whatever you does, Peggy, be quick about it."
There was no need to tell Peggy that. She was off like the wind, but, alas Farmer Bedford and all his men were harvesting.
"Can you ride, my girl?" said Mrs. Bedford. "For we have our pony in the stable. I could put a sack over him, and you're welcome to take him if you like."
Peggy went to the stable, and eyed the white pony in terror.
"Would I be there double quick on him?"
"For certain you would. Here! We'll soon fix him; but, bless the girl! You can't ride into Ferndale without a hat!"
Peggy put her hands up to her cap in dismay. But Mrs. Bedford seized hold of a cotton sunbonnet, and clapped it over her head. Then she assisted Peggy to mount.
But it was a dreadful moment to the inexperienced rider when the pony ambled out of the yard. And before the gate was reached, he broke into a canter, and over went Peggy, head foremost, into a heap of straw. She picked herself up in a moment, and, barring a shaking, was none the worse for her tumble; but nothing would induce her to mount again.
"I haven't the legs for ridin'," she explained; "and I'll not waste a minute more time, but run off for the doctor at once."
Off she started, an odd little figure in her print gown and apron, and a sunbonnet perched on the top of her cap. She soon found that too much speed was a mistake, and she relapsed into a slow jog-trot along the hot, dusty highroad. Oh, what an interminable way it seemed!
The sun beat fiercely down, and Peggy began to fear that her breath and strength would give out. On she toiled, and at length raised a hot, streaming face to the sky—
"Oh God, I arsks you to make me keep on, for 'tis my missus's life I'm a-thinkin' of. I arsks you to make the road shorter, or my legs stronger!"
And was it an answer to prayer, when the hot, pitiless sun became shut off by a long line of woods on each side of the road? Peggy thought it was, and smiled contentedly as she trudged bravely on. Milestone after milestone she passed, and at last came in sight of the town.
People stared at her as she jog-trotted along in the middle of the road, a panting, dusty little object, only once pausing to make sure of the doctor's house.
But when she reached it, she could hardly make herself understood. Happily the doctor had just come in from his morning rounds, and when his servant told him, he came out to interview Peggy himself.
"Have you come from Sundale? Why, that is a long walk! An accident? Yes. Take time, my girl. Here, sit down!"
Peggy swayed from side to side.
"Please, sir," she gasped, "my legs is done for. They've walked theirselves silly!"
She remembered no more, for she fainted dead away. And it was some minutes before Dr. Nairns could restore her to consciousness.
When she could tell him what had happened, he wasted no more time, but had his trap round at once, perched Peggy up by his side, and drove rapidly towards Sundale.
At first Peggy felt too shaken and exhausted to speak, but after a time she found her tongue.
"You see, sir, that there hoss would have brought me quicker, but I h'ain't been brought up to ridin', havin' come from London, please, sir, and the hosses be mostly wanted for carts up there. If I'd a-knowed you'd want to ride a hose when you go to service, I'd a-tried to practise ridin'. I've see'd circus girls who don't think nothin' of it, but I weren't acquainted with hoss-keepin' folks in London. I ought to have kept on him, but he bumped so sudden, that it took me with a shock. I do hope as how my missus ain't dead, I does indeed!"
A great sob stopped further utterance.
Dr. Nairns, with a little smile, tried to comfort her.
"I daresay we shall find her up and about," he said. "Perhaps she was only stunned for a minute or two."
Peggy cheered up at once.
"Do you think so, sir? Well, p'raps she was, only 'twas a awful sight to see. Have you been to see many stunned ladies, please, sir? Do they get up the nex' mornin' same as if nothin' happened?"
"Sometimes they do."
"It must be wonderful nice to make sick folks well," went on Peggy. "You does just what the Lord Jesus used to do. Now He have turned people's sick bodies over to you, hasn't He, sir, while He looks after the sick souls? And I'm a-tryin' to help in it, sir. It don't take a very clever person to fetch a doctor, or to tell folks where to go for one. I tries to tell 'em where to go for sick hearts and such-like; and, please sir, ain't it a good thing the Lord don't live six miles away from anybody, like you does?"
Dr. Nairns discovered that he was driving beside a little "character." But Peggy's simplicity and faith touched him, as it did every one with whom she came in contact. He let her talk on, and did not snub her, and by and by they came to Sundale.
They found Helen still unconscious, but Mrs. Timson had managed to get her on the sofa in the dining room, and, with Dr. Nairns' help and instruction, they carried her upstairs to her own bed.
"Concussion of the brain," was the doctor's verdict. "You must telegraph to her sister, and had better have a nurse," he told Peggy.
But she objected to the latter suggestion.
"Please, sir, I'm a first-rate nurse, and if Miss Joyce comes back, we shall manage fine. I've nursed a crippled aunt, sir, from the time I was a baby, and I did everythink for her! She could never use her legs at all, sir."
"Well, well," said Dr. Nairns; "send for her sister. She will settle it."
So Joyce was telegraphed for, and came back late that evening. Then ensued some very anxious days and nights. Peggy was at her best. Joyce forbade her to speak in the sick room, and when her talkative tongue was silent, she proved a very quiet and skilful little nurse.
Helen slowly mended, but when she was convalescent, the doctor ordered change of air for her, and after a good deal of anxious thought as to ways and means, Joyce decided to take her to Bournemouth.
Then she had a talk with Peggy.
"We cannot afford to take you with us, Peggy, and you are too small to be left in the house alone. We mean to shut it right up. Nov the question is, what is to become of you?"
Poor Peggy's face fell considerably.
Joyce went on—
"You have been a good faithful little maid to us, and we don't want to lose you. We thought that perhaps you might be able to take a temporary situation with some one, and now we have heard of one. Mrs. Dale, who you know came to see us yesterday, is going back to London, and has offered to take you with her. If you would like to go, she wants to see you this afternoon. We thought it would be very nice for you, as you will be able to see your London friends again. And then when we come back to the Cottage you will be here to meet us."
"Please 'm, how long will you be away?"
"Perhaps two months. We are not sure."
"And, please 'm, does Mrs. Dale want me to do cookin'? For you know 'm, I ain't a very good hand at it yet, for you always does the sweets and pastries."
"I don't think you will be required to do any cooking."
"Please 'm, I'll do my best."
Peggy's face was very grave, and it was graver still when she set out to walk to Mallow Farm. She had not been there since Ellen had treated her so badly, and she wondered what she should say to her if she saw her.
On the way she met old Job Somers, hobbling between two sticks, a few yards from his cottage.
Albert Edward who, as usual, accompanied Peggy, made a frantic dash at his legs; but it was only a friendly recognition, and the old man looked down at him with a pleased smile.
"He be a proper little dawg, so he be! And I be always pleased to see 'im, for I knows my tidy little maid be not far off."
"I'm a-going back to London," said Peggy, with serious face. "I hardly knows what 'll happen to me now. 'Tis a shock my head hasn't got over, for my missuses are goin' away and don't want me. And two months is a long time, mister; and another place will be very anxious work for me."
"Dear life!" ejaculated the old man. "Bill and me will miss you sorely. 'Twas only yester-night Bill were sayin' p'raps one day he'd ask yer to come and stop prop'ly with us. He do like the place kep' tidy."
Peggy was too full of the impending change in her prospects to realise the full significance of this speech.
"Bill will have to keep the place tidy hisself till I comes back agen," she said. "I'll come in and say goodbye afore I goes, mister, but I must hurry along and see Mrs. Dale now."
She reached the farm, and Ellen opened the door to her. For a moment both girls looked at each other silently, but Ellen's cheeks were crimson, and though she gave her head a little toss, she looked thoroughly uncomfortable.
As for Peggy, her chin and nose were uptilted, and her voice as steady as a rock.
"I wants to see Mrs. Dale."
Without a word Ellen ushered her into that lady's sitting room.
Mrs. Dale received Peggy very kindly.
"Your mistress has told you, Peggy," she began, "of my plan, has she not? Would you like to come with me?"
"Please 'm, what will be my work? I should like better to come to you than anybody else, please 'm."
"I have an elderly servant, Peggy, who wants a girl to help her in the housework. You will not be in the kitchen at all except for meals. I want a quiet, steady girl, who will do what she is told, and shall be very glad to have you for the two months your mistresses are away. After then, I think I shall be going abroad."
"I think I'm steady," said Peggy reflectively. She was not quite so sure of herself now as she used to be. "And I tries to be quiet. My missuses say my tongue be my worst trouble, but I will try to say nothink to nobody if you wishes it 'm. And I won't speak never to you unless you speaks to me first 'm. I think if I sets my mind to it, I can do it 'm."
"I am sure you will, Peggy," said Mrs. Dale pleasantly. "I hear your mistresses are leaving next week. I shall go up to town on Thursday then, and would like you to travel with me."
"Yes 'm, thank you 'm. I will reely do my very best, please 'm."
The interview was over, and Peggy let herself out of the front door. There was no sign of Ellen, but when she reached the garden gate there was her former friend standing by it, with an awkward look of shame upon her face.
"You might pass the time o' day wi' me, Peggy," she muttered.
Peggy stood still, and regarded her gravely.
"I'm a-goin' back to London," she said, in a solemn tone, "and so I says goodbye to you, Ellen. I wishes you well, and I hopes as how you'll never get a friend like yerself is. I forgives you for breakin' wi' me, but I h'ain't got no more to say to yer."
"It were all that Ned Thorpe," said Ellen eagerly. "And he have gone away, Peggy, and won't come back no more, and I've heard tell he's goin' to be married soon. He carried on with one of the Rectory girls same as me, and I never knowed it, and I do be sorry, Peggy, for I liked you better 'n any girl I know."
Peggy's old pleased smile came back.
"Do you really mean it, Ellen? Oh my! How glad I be! Do you mean to come back to me faithful?"
"Sure as I be standin' here I does," asserted Ellen; "and I be awful sorry you be goin' to Lunnon, and I only wish Mrs. Dale would take me too. Can't you ask her, Peggy? You and me would do for her grand!"
Peggy's eyes glistened.
"So we would; but she have got other servants, Ellen, and I'm all of a tremble, for I've never been with proper servants afore, and hardly knows what they be like. Oh, Ellen, I do be very glad you and me is friends again!"
And in rapture Peggy flung herself into Ellen's arms, when they hugged and kissed and promised to write to each other "every Sunday faithful!"
Peggy seemed to tread on air as she walked home that afternoon.
"Please 'm," she said to Helen. "I'm so full of egsitement that you must 'scuse me smilin' a lot. Ellen have made it up, please 'm, and she and me is where we was afore. And, please 'm, my heart is full up agen. It have been dreadful empty since Ellen left me. And, please 'm, Mrs. Dale is a-goin' to take me with her nex' week on Thursday."
The next week was a very busy one to Peggy. She seemed to have so much to prepare and do. She went to old Job and paid him a farewell visit, and then had the great joy of seeing her old pedlar again, and of hearing from him that her words "had taken hold of him."
"You told me to come back and tell yer," the old man said, "if my old dead soul were made alive agen. I didn't much believe I had one till you spoke to me; but when I went my ways it seemed to be prickin' me and a-heavin' of itself into my thoughts, and I couldn't sleep that there night at all. And the nex' day and the nex' I were uncommon dull and low, for I kep' thinkin' o' my old mother buried in churchyard thirty years ago or more; but she were a very religious woman, she were. And texes she used to say kep' comin' through me. 'Come unto Me . . . and I will give you rest—' that were one on 'em.
"And then you says to me, 'You'll 'ave to go to get your soul cured,' you says. And then last week I got tooked off to a mission service by a neighbour, and then it all come up agen, and after fightin' and strugglin' agen it, I giv' right in, and I kneels down and calls myself a wicked sinner and beseeches of the Lord to save my unhappy old soul. And, my girl, He listened to me, that He did, and 'tis wonnerful; and I be trustin' Him to keep me and my soul together in His hands 'till death us do part,' and then He'll take my soul to glory."
"Oh!" gasped Peggy. "I is uncommon glad, mister. I telled yer 'twould make you happy, didn't I?"
"Yes," the old pedlar said, as he hoisted his pack on his shoulders and went his way. "I be wery much obliged to you, me dear, and I'll thank you if so be you offers just a prayer in company wi' me now and agen that the Lord 'll, help me to live proper like, and not disgrace Him."
Peggy said nothing of this to any one, but it sent her about the house with such a radiant face that Joyce said indignantly to her sister—
"I declare, Peggy seems quite delighted to leave us! I suppose she really wants to get back to London. She is an ungrateful little thing, after all we have done for her!"
But if she had heard Peggy talking to herself and Albert Edward the last night in the kitchen, Joyce would not have judged her so hardly.
"How do you feel, Albert Edward? 'Tis an end and a beginnin' agen, ain't it? And I'm dreadful sorry for the end. I always did have a leanin' to the country, and it's come and gone very quick like. 'Tis very well for you to take it so calm. Your missuses are a-goin to take you with 'em, but they don't want me, and I shall miss 'em awful."
A little sob interrupted her speech. She continued, "But I ain't a-goin' to fret, for Ellen and me is friends, and that there old pedlar done what I told him to, and I shall see Mrs. Creak agen, and I likes my new missus. And London do be very home-like after all said and done, and you and me will be back here before long, Albert Edward, and if you take my advice, when you comes to disagreeables, you'll set your mind to make the best on 'em, like I does. And we won't think no more about the goodbyes to-morrer, Albert Edward, or I shall be a-roarin' and a-cryin' afore the time!"
"A SICK CAPTAIN!"
"YES, Mrs. Creak, 'tis me right enough! And how do you be? Ain't you astonished to see me? And ain't I growed? Does I look nice? I hopes as how I does, for I've put on my Sunday best to come and see you."
It was Peggy who spoke. She stood in the little sweet-shop, and it seemed to her as she saw Mrs. Creak, with her mending basket behind the counter, as if it were only yesterday she had been there.
Mrs. Creak put down her spectacles, and came out of her corner to gather her into her arms and kiss her.
"Dearie me! Who'd have thought it? I always felt you'd do well, Peggy. You were so set on service. You look quite fat and rosy. Let me have a good sight of you!"
Peggy could bear inspection. She was in a neat black coat and gown, a white tie round her throat, and a white straw hat with black ribbon on her head.
Not pretty. Our Peggy would never be that, but fresh and bright and happy, and Mrs. Creak nodded with smiling content at her.
"Now tell me how you be back in London? You must come into my back parlour, and we'll have a cup o' tea together. Mine be just ready."
She led the way into a shining little parlour, with a bright fire in the grate, and a tabby cat in full possession of the small gay-coloured hearthrug.
Peggy proceeded to give an account of herself.
"And I've been in London a week 'm," she concluded with. "And I've never seen such a 'andsome house as my missus has. I never thought I would have come to it! 'Tis full of picturs, and curtings, and chiny, and has three stairs all carpeted, and there is Lucy, the cook, and Nesbitt, the 'ousemaid, and me to help Nesbitt. She's a bit grave 'm, and don't like me talkin', and she be that partic'lar I has a hard job to please her, but Lucy be awful good-natured, and my missus is very kind. And this be my afternoon out 'm, and my missus have give me two new print gowns. She said she liked me to look nice, and Lucy's niece is a-makin of them."
"Why, you're gettin' on splendid," said cheery Mrs. Creak, when Peggy's breath gave way. "I always says that some girls go up, and some goes down, and 'tis their own doin', as a rule, which way 'tis. And how be you managin' your money, dearie?"
"Oh," said Peggy, with a wise shake of her head, "I never spends no more than I can help. I'm a-savin' of it slow and sure."
"A very good thing, Peggy; for the time will come when you may need it; sickness or old age—"
"Oh, please 'm, I shouldn't think of savin' it for myself." Peggy looked quite shocked. "Why, I never would be so greedy like. 'Tis for other—Well, there 'm, I can't tell you, but I be savin' it sure enough, and I means to. I have set my mind to it."
"And are you glad to get back to London, Peggy?"
"I is and I isn't 'm. 'Tis nice feelin' you're somebody in the country. Why, Mrs. Creak, there isn't a man or woman in our village that don't know me, and says 'Good evening' or 'Good mornin'' to me. You see we be like one big family in the country; there be so few on us to know that folks know everybody; and now in London, I be just like a fly. There be too many like me to notice one in partic'lar.
"Oh, I likes the country 'm, I does indeed, but it ain't so clean as it ought to be, and there be no water-carts nor mud-carts nor any road-scrapers along the roads, so 'tis terrible for yer boots. But when I come back to London and see'd the shops and people and hosses and carriages, I could have hugged 'em in my arms 'm, I was that pleased to see 'em agen. And how be Mrs. Jones and h'Arthur 'm? Do you see 'em?"
"Yes, I does on occasions, Peggy. You must just run in and see 'em for a minute, if you've time."
"That I will. But oh my, Mrs. Creak! Ain't I glad I went to proper service! Why, do you know, Nesbitt is gain' to learn me wait at table? I'm a-tremblin' with the thought o' it, but I means to try my very best. And if I can ketch hold of the dishes and hand them proper without breakin', shan't I be just proud of myself!"
It was a happy little visit. Peggy ran over to Mrs. Jones, and was embraced most warmly by mother and son.
When she returned to Mrs. Dale's house, she assured Nesbitt "that visitin' old friends and places were most excitin' and agreeable."
"For, Nesbitt, I looks at myself as I were a year ago, and then at myself now, and I says to myself, 'Why, Peggy, you was a dreadful common girl when you first took a place, you didn't know nothin', and you hadn't seen nothin', and now you feels as if you were full up with h'information about house cookin' and housework.' And Nesbitt, I'm awful glad I don't live in Bone Alley now!"
Peggy did not see much of her mistress. Mrs. Dale was out a good deal, and she received a great many visitors, but one day she sent for her. She was suffering from one of her headaches and lay in a darkened room.
"Peggy, I remember you telling me of hot water fomentations. I wonder if you could bring me some hot water and try it. As Nesbitt is out this afternoon, I must rely on you."
Peggy was delighted at the honour conferred upon her. She was away and back again in a very few minutes, and as she bathed her mistress's forehead, she said softly—
"I does wish I knew a certain cure for the headache. You has had yer heart cured, but the head is the trouble."
"I don't think I have had my heart cured," said Mrs. Dale, half-smiling.
Peggy looked at her gravely. "I thought you did, please 'm. I thought you wanted it made well, and that's what made me tell you."
"Yes," said Mrs. Dale, "but I haven't followed your prescription, Peggy."
Peggy looked troubled, but for once her tongue failed her.
Mrs. Dale went on—
"A patient must always believe in their doctor, Peggy, must they not? And they must be ready to take the medicine he gives them."
"In course they must, please 'm."
"And there are some people, Peggy, who find it difficult to get back the belief they once had. They would like to cure themselves if they knew how; they can't throw off their own efforts, and do nothing."
"Like the leper capting," said Peggy thoughtfully. "He was in a temper, when he was told he must just wash hisself."
"You know your Bible well."
And Mrs. Dale gave a little weary sigh.
"Please 'm, isn't your head a little better?"
"I think it is, but I can't talk any more. Do you think your Soul Doctor, Peggy, would take a patient that had spoken against Him—slandered Him, in fact—a patient that had once been to Him, and then had handed her case over to His enemy to take care of?"
Peggy's brows contracted with puzzled thought.
"He'd never send no one away, please 'm, would He? I come across a verse in the Bible, please 'm, that says, 'They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick!'"
"That will do, Peggy. Thank you. Now leave me."
And Peggy stole out of the room with a dim idea that her mistress was not yet heart-whole.
"She 've never gone and done what I telled her," was her assertion to herself.
And that night, by her bedside, she added this petition to her evening prayer, "And if you please, God, I arsks you to show my missus the way to Jesus, for she seems to have never got to Him yet!"
A few days after this, Nesbitt informed Peggy that the spare room must be got ready for a visitor.
"It's mistress's nephew, the only relation she has in the world, and he's a-coming home from India—been sent home because he is ill."
"I think I like sick folks," announced Peggy; "I feels so very much at home with 'em. You see, I've nussed an aunt who was sick all my life, so I seems to know just how to manage 'em."
"You won't be called on to have anything to do with this gentleman," said Nesbitt crushingly.
But Peggy was not easily snubbed. She continued to take an increasing interest in the coming guest, and when she was told his name was Captain D'Arcy, she was silent from sheer astonishment.
"What's the matter with you?" asked good-natured Lucy, as the three were having their supper in the kitchen together, and Nesbitt had mentioned Mrs. Dale's nephew by name.
Peggy drew a long breath, and put down her cup of cocoa that she was raising to her lips.
"I've a-dreamed and dreamed, and longed for a place," she said emphatically, "with a sick capting, and now it's come to me, I hardly knows how to take it in!"
"You've a lot of silly foolishness in your head," said Nesbitt severely, "that ought to be knocked out of it!"
"Lor, Nesbitt! Let her talk. I likes to hear 'er!" said Lucy. "Tell us why you're so taken with sick gents, Peggy."
"Well," said Peggy earnestly, "'tis like this. I heard tell of a servant-maid in the Bible, and I took a strordinary liking to her. It didn't say much about her looks, or what kind o' home she had, but 'twas what she did. And I've always said to myself, that if I ever found myself in a place like hers, I'd try and see if I couldn't do somethink like her. And—" here Peggy hushed her voice to a solemn whisper, "she were waitin' on a lady, and there were a sick capting in the house!"
"Well, what o' that?" said Lucy, laughing.
Nesbitt looked at her in stern disapproval, but the bell rang, and she had to go to her mistress.
Peggy hardly noticed her departure.
"The sick capting had a illness that couldn't be cured," she continued, in solemn tones, "and the servant-maid got him well by tellin' him who to go to. She sent him to some one who cured him."
"I believe I have heard the story," said Lucy indifferently. "Wasn't he a leper, and didn't he go to Elisha?"
"Yes," said Peggy, "but 'twas the girl who sent him."
"I don't see much sense in that story," said Lucy, with a yawn. "You reads yourself silly over your Bible, Peggy."
Peggy said no more.
She watched Captain D'Arcy arrive the next day with the greatest interest. He was helped out of a cab by a soldier servant, and seemed to be in very feeble health. His servant, Tom Bennett by name, proved a welcome addition to the household. He was a bright cheery man, devoted to his young master, and full of tales about his courage and endurance in foreign parts. He told a wonderful story of the capture of a tiger, and the three maidservants listened with breathless interest to this and other adventures.
Peggy was full of curiosity, and her many questions amused Tom Bennett greatly.
"Please, sir," she said, "have you ever seen a heathen or a missionary?"
"I believe I has," was the smiling reply. "Why, bless your heart, every blacky is a heathen, and they be as plentiful as flies where we've come from."
"And what does they talk? Is it English?"
"They talks gibberish; Hindustani mostly, but there be several mixed-up langwidges which be past me altogether."
Peggy's face fell. "And you've seen a missionary?"
"Yes. Is he a natural curiosity, do you think? They ain't much in my line, missionaries ain't, nor yet in the captin's, so we didn't introduce ourselves. They be just a set o' parsons, and has churches and schools same as in England."
"But," said Peggy hesitatingly, "there be some women and girl missionaries out in Indy, I knows there be."
"You're quite right; I've seen a few. But they keeps theirselves to their schools and such-like. They ain't in the captin's set, nor in mine."
He laughed as he spoke.
Peggy, for a wonder, subsided, but she thought the more. And then one day she saw Captain D'Arcy himself.
Nesbitt was out for the afternoon, and Peggy took tea into the library. Mrs. Dale had been called away on business, and her nephew lay on a couch by the fire, covered with a fur rug. Peggy regarded him with reverence and awe; but not all her training by her former mistresses, nor by Nesbitt, had cured her of beginning conversations with any and every one that she saw.
"Please, sir, I hopes you're feelin' better," she said, as she carefully put down the tea-tray.
Captain D'Arcy turned a surprised and languid look upon her, then a twinkle came into his eyes.
"I'm getting on first-rate, thanks," he said.
"If I can do anythink, sir, to make you better, I would," persisted Peggy, regarding him with anxious, earnest eyes.
"I'm afraid you can't," was the amused rejoinder, "unless you can give me a new inside. India ruins a man's digestion, and plays the dickens with him generally!"
Peggy's blue eyes fairly sparkled with delight.
"Oh, please sir, I knows who will make you new inside. I knows the very One. Please, sir, may I tell you?"
Without waiting for a reply, she went on—
"'Tis the Lord Jesus, sir. He says He'll give us new hearts if we ask of Him. If you go to Him, please sir, He'll make your heart quite well. He will, indeed, for I knows heaps o' people that have had their hearts put right, and I has myself, sir, for I give it into His hands, and He done it. Please, sir, you'll excuse my mentionin' it, but I should like you to get well, and it do seem as if you've got the right illness to be cured. 'Tis just the inside on us that the Lord can cure. For the Bible says, 'A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you.'"
She paused for breath, and Captain D'Arcy was so taken aback, that he remained quite silent.
Peggy had said her say and withdrew, excited and trembling at her audacity.
"You've done it, Peggy. You've tolded him where to go, and 'tis his sick heart that be makin' his body bad—he telled me so. Oh, I does hope he'll go and be cured—I does, indeed!"
But not a word did she say of her interview to the servants in the kitchen. She kept her own counsel. She had had her opportunity and she used it.
"I'm as good as the girl in the Bible, now," she said to herself, with a happy sigh. "She telled a sick capting who would cure him, and I've done it too. I can't do no more. I wonder if he'll go."
"Aunt Alice," said Captain D'Arcy that afternoon. "You have an extraordinary specimen of a maid in your household."
"You must mean Peggy," said Mrs. Dale smiling. "I daresay she does look queer, but she is a rough diamond, Harry. She is a true, faithful little soul, who puts her heart into her work. She is not my servant really, but I am taking her to oblige some friends whilst they are away. Do you remember a Mr. Churchhill, a clergyman in the East End? I used to work with him many years ago."
"I remember two little girls, when I was a very small boy, coming to tea with you once. Joy, or Joyce, one of them was called. She and I vowed perpetual friendship, or something of the sort. Where are they now?"
"The father died quite recently, and they are left very badly off, I am afraid. They took a small cottage in the country, and had Peggy as their maid. I was lodging in a farmhouse near them this summer, so renewed my acquaintance with them. They are at Bournemouth now, for Helen Churchhill has been ill and wanted a change of air. They shut up their cottage, and I promised to take charge of Peggy meanwhile."
"Is she by way of being a saint or a simpleton?" asked Captain D'Arcy languidly.
His aunt looked sharply at him.
"Has she been talking to you? Her tongue cannot be restrained, but she means no harm."
Captain D'Arcy gave a short laugh.
"She stood up there by her tea-tray, and preached at me. One of the shortest straightest sermons that I had ever heard, but the suddenness with which she plunged into her subject was rather startling!"
Mrs. Dale looked grave.
"I am sorry if she annoyed you, Harry; I must say her zeal outruns her discretion sometimes. But her motive is good, and she has been the means of bringing me into touch with things that for a long time I pushed into the background."
It cost Mrs. Dale some considerable effort to say those few words.
Her nephew whistled softly.
"She is an original," he said. "Don't forbid her to speak, Aunt. I shall be interested in seeing how she will follow it up."
"I don't think you will find she refers to it again. As far as I gather, Peggy gives her message and leaves it. She won't trouble you any more."
"A LITTLE TRUMP!"
CAPTAIN D'ARCY did not see Peggy again for some weeks. He was rapidly recovering his health, and one morning walked into the library to find Peggy relighting the fire which had gone out.
"Hulloo," he said, "are you getting any more sermons ready?"
Peggy stood up demurely.
"Please, sir, I don't have no sermons," she said.
"But you preached me one last time I saw you."
Peggy's cheeks became hot and red.
"Please, sir, I couldn't preach. I never has been taught nothin', but when I grows up, sir, I hopes to go and be a missionary."
"That's not surprising. I wonder you aren't off now."
"Don't you think me too small, please, sir?"
"You're not too small to preach at home. Now what good do you think you do by it? And what good do you imagine the missionaries do to the heathen abroad? They are much happier left alone."
"Please, sir, 'tis only to tell 'em about Jesus. They doesn't know He died for them—the missionary gent said so at the meeting."
"Well, why should they know it?"
Peggy looked very grave.
"They has a right to know it, please, sir. And our Lord said they was to."
It was not many that could worst Captain D'Arcy in an argument; he whistled and walked out of the room.
"She isn't a simpleton," was his murmured comment. And he did not try to tackle Peggy again.
Peggy's conversations with Tom Bennett were lengthier and more unsatisfactory. He would greet her in the morning with such mild chaff as "Good mornin', Mrs. Missionary, is your passage took for Indy or Africa?" or, "Seen any heathen, Miss Peggy, this mornin'? Wish I could get you a blackymore. Perhaps they may keep some at the Zoo. Why don't you go and inquire there?"
Peggy would not be wise enough to be silent. She plunged into talk at once, and would get so heated and excited over it that even Lucy would have to call her to order.
At last experience taught her that many words were wasted on Tom.
"I ain't a-goin' to argify no more," she said one day, "for you laughs at everythink, Mr. Bennett. 'Tis a pity you weren't born a heathen; you seems to think so well o' their darkness. But I ain't a-goin' to alter myself because you laughs so, and I'm a-goin' out to Indy if I grows up and can manage it. And I shall tell them heathen what you said of 'em—that they didn't want no Bibles."
"Oh, they'll like 'em," put in the irrepressible Tom; "they'll eat 'em up quite cheerful like, and ask for more."
"And I would rather," said Peggy, ignoring this sally, "be our black cat here, Mr. Bennett, with no head, nor understandin', nor nothink, than be you, who can understand what's told you to do, and only makes a mock at it. And I won't talk no more to you. I ain't angry, but I pities you. And I hopes as how you won't speak to me no more, except to pass the time o' day, and then we won't be able to argify."
This attitude of mind she preserved, and there was peace accordingly in the kitchen.
Captain D'Arcy was soon quite convalescent. His servant was full of importance one day.
"The captin and me has been to the War Office, and the captin has been asked a good many questions about our expedition up them heathen mountains. I told you that we were only just back when our major died, and the captin was taken ill. It seems that they be very interested in our doin's up in them outlandish parts, and the captin has to prepare some reports about 'em. He be in high feather about it, and he'll be knee-deep in pen and ink and paper for the next few weeks, you mark my words if he don't!"
Tom Bennett's assertion proved true. Captain D'Arcy spent most of his days now in the library, writing and rewriting his papers for the War Office. His aunt remonstrated one evening as she was going to bed, and he assured her that he had still a couple of hours' work before he could retire.
"You will not regain your strength at this rate, Harry."
"My dear Aunt, I am as fit as a fiddle. But I think to-night will see me through."
Two hours after, he was finishing his last sheet, and his last cigar.
"There," he said to himself, as he rose from the library table, and pitched his cigar-stump into the waste-paper basket, "I've finished at last, thank goodness! Now to bed!"
He locked up his papers in his despatch-box, which he left on a shelf in the corner of the room, and then, turning out the gas, he went lightheartedly upstairs.
The library fire was smouldering, and cast no light upon its surroundings; yet slowly a small flame danced and flickered, and gradually filled the room with light. It did not come from the grate, but from the waste-paper basket. Captain D'Arcy's cigar had set light to some fragments of paper, and it was the beginning of a greater conflagration. Slowly the contents of the basket were consumed; then the basket itself, and as it collapsed, it rolled into the folds of a muslin curtain near. The household was wrapped in sleep, no passing policeman gave an alarm, and so the fire slowly and surely made its way.
Peggy was sleeping in a top room with Nesbitt, when she was startled out of her sleep by shouts in the street.
She sat up in bed, then shook Nesbitt.
"Nesbitt, there's a fire in our street. Do you hear them shoutin'?"
Nesbitt sprang out of bed and looked out of the window.
She started back with a terror-stricken face. "'Tis our house, Peggy! Wake cook, and let's fly!"
At the same moment Captain D'Arcy's voice could be heard below, and in another moment the frightened servants were dashing downstairs.
Volumes of smoke were issuing from the library door, but the stairs and hall were untouched, and all reached the pavement outside in safety. It is true they were very indifferently clad. Mrs. Dale was in her fur cloak, but Lucy and Nesbitt only had their thin waterproofs on, and as for Peggy she was so occupied in getting hold of her beloved stocking, that she only had time to wrap a counterpane round her shoulders.
Firemen were already on the scene. The library faced the front, and the flames were pouring out of the windows. An opposite neighbour offered Mrs. Dale shelter. Turning to her nephew, who looked quite distraught, she said—
"We must thank God we are all safe."
Captain D'Arcy muttered an expletive—
"My papers are in there in my despatch-box! I'd give ten pounds to get them out!"
"Where did you leave them?"
"On the corner shelf by the bookcase."
"I am afraid they are doomed. How trying for you!"
Then calling the servants to follow her, Mrs. Dale went into the opposite house.
But Peggy did not go. She had heard the few words about Captain D'Arcy's papers.
"Peggy," she murmured to herself, "You've got to go and get 'em; set your mind to it!"
And silently she slipped into the house again.
A fireman saw her go, and raised a shout of warning.
Then a thrill ran through the crowd when they know that some one was within. For a moment or two they waited in breathless expectancy for her to reappear. The passage, was already smoking, and the hose was kept steadily playing upon it. A fireman dashed up the steps to the door, and disappeared. He was only just in time, for out of the burning, smoking room staggered a little figure, and dropped like a stone at his feet. Holding her in his arms, he faced the crowd, and a ringing cheer went up—a cheer that brought Mrs. Dale and her nephew to the windows, wondering at the cause.
Nesbitt burst into the room and enlightened them.
"Oh, if you please, ma'am, Peggy is burnt to death!"
It was a startling announcement, but when Mrs. Dale saw the blackened and unconscious little figure she almost feared it was true. In one hand she still grasped her stocking, in the other was Captain D'Arcy's despatch-box.
The young man took it from her clasp with some emotion.
"What a little trump! She must have heard my words, and gone straight to get it."
After a short consultation, poor Peggy was conveyed in a cab to the nearest hospital, Captain D'Arcy going with her himself. And, thoroughly unstrung, Mrs. Dale sat down and burst into tears. Nesbitt drew near to sympathise, but hardly to comfort.
"Lucy and I have often said, ma'am, that she be quite unnatural for goodness. They say them that have short lives have to make up for it, and gets all their goodness crammed up one end, so to speak. I never did hear a young girl so simple and earnest about her religion, and we have remarked that she would die early. They always do, that class o' girl, but it do seem so terrible an end. I really don't think, ma'am, there were any life in her when she were brought out. She must have been suffocated where she dropped, and perhaps it was a mercy!"
"Faithful unto death!" murmured Mrs. Dale, trying to compose herself. "Oh, Peggy, how you have shamed us all!"
A couple of hours later the fire was extinguished, and the crowd dispersed. Only one or two firemen and police guarded the house.
In the early morning Captain D'Arcy returned to his aunt.
"She is alive, Aunt, but very badly burnt. I am afraid she may not recover."
And this was the fear of both nurses and doctors who attended her.
The days and nights seemed a long delirium of pain and fever to Peggy. But the day came when she recovered consciousness, and began to inquire where she was.
"In a hosspital," she repeated weakly; "and, has missus got another girl to do my work? What's been the matter with me?"
"You got burnt," said the nurse gently; "but you are getting better. Don't think about it."
Peggy moved her head restlessly on the pillow; then she put one of her bandaged hands to her head.
"I feel so light-headed; where be my hair? Have you cropped me like the workhouse girls?" A frightened look was in her eyes.
The nurse wondered at her vanity.
"Your hair was burnt," she said. "It had to be cut off."
Peggy looked at her in dismay; then tears trickled down her cheeks.
"How can I fasten my caps on?" she sobbed. "I'd jist got 'em to look so nice. I'll never be able to go back to my place. If my hair be gone, caps is no use, and my missus won't have girls with no caps."
"Look here," said the nurse determinedly, "you leave your caps and your hair alone. You won't be fit for service yet awhile, and by that time, who knows? Your hair will be grown, and you'll be your old self again. Now drink this beef-tea, and stop talking!"
Peggy lay back exhausted, and resigned. That was the only murmur that ever passed her lips.
As she regained her health, her spirits returned, and she was soon with her bright smile and quaint speeches a favourite patient.
The first Saturday after she recovered consciousness, she had a visitor. Captain D'Arcy himself came into the ward.
It was a proud moment in her life; and in spite of the pain she was suffering, her eyes lighted up with delight.
"Well, Peggy," said the young man, "I thought I must come and thank you in person for what you did for me. You are getting on first-rate, I hope?"
"Yes, sir. Please, sir, excuse me arskin', but did I drop my stockin'? I've kep' thinkin' on it, and I feel sure I had it in my hand."
Captain D'Arcy smiled.
"Yes, I think my aunt has it in her keeping. You had it right enough."
"And please, sir, is your papers safe too?"
"All safe. They would have been a great loss to me. And I am deeply grateful to you."
He pulled out of his waistcoat pocket two five-pound notes, and put them on her pillow.
Peggy's face grew very red.
"Please, sir, I don't want no money. Oh please, sir, you didn't think I went to get 'em for money?"
Tears were in her eyes. Such a little brought them there now.
"Of course not," said Captain D'Arcy hurriedly; "but I'm going away, Peggy, and I wanted to give you a little present before I left. You know the fire was my fault I am afraid; and certainly it was my fault that you nearly lost your life. You will greatly oblige me if you take this."
Peggy's smile shone out.
"Thank you very, very much, sir. I'll take it for my stockin', and it will be lovely! And, please sir, are you going back to Indy?"
"Not just yet. I am going to visit some friends first."
"I shall always think on you, please sir," said Peggy earnestly. "I always have longed to meet you, and I never did think I'd have done it. And, please sir, I does hope I told you right the fust time I sawed you. I was in such a hurry to get it out, that p'raps I said it wrong."
"Oh no, your sermon was quite plain," said the young man, looking at her this time without the customary twinkle in his eye. "I shall remember it, Peggy, every word. I shall never be able to say that I didn't know who to go to for a new heart. I haven't got that article yet, but I daresay I might be the better for it."
Peggy looked at him in perplexity.
"'Twas the sick capting in the Bible goin' so quick and getting cured, that made me think you would p'raps," she said wistfully. "I always did want to be that there maid, and when I really did meet a sick capting I was so overjoyed that my heart nearly busted!"
"A sick captain in the Bible," said Captain D'Arcy, looking at her meditatively; "now who was he, I wonder?"
"'Twas a leper captin, and the maid were waitin' on his lady, and she told him to go to Elisha, and he went, and he was told to wash hisself, and he wouldn't, and then he did, and he come home quite well!"
"How interesting! And do you think I want washing?" The twinkle was in the captain's eye again.
"I believe your inside does," said Peggy. "You said it was awful bad, didn't you, sir?"
"Did I? Well, Peggy, if I ever follow your advice, I will let you know. Now you hurry up and get well. Have you got all you want?"