It was later than usual, and he must hurry off without lighting the fire or filling the kettle for mother, because he had to go round by Andover Street for the basket. It was a great relief on reaching Oaklands to see old Jonathan afar off at work in the garden, so that Robin could skirt along by the avenue without being noticed.
Cook received the basket with a nod and a smile, saying—
"Come in after breakfast."
The old gardener stopped for a moment in his work as Robin ran up the path to join him.
"You are late, Robin," he said quietly; "this must not happen again. Remember, we rob our master if we do not give him the full time that he pays us for."
"I could not help it," murmured the boy as he met those kind eyes looking sadly at him.
"There is something the matter," muttered his quick-sighted old friend. "Out with it, Robin! What is troubling you, my lad?"
Ah! how often and often did the boy wish afterwards that he had responded to this loving appeal; but his heart seemed growing as hard as a stone, as, making some trivial excuse about Corrie, he continued his work, and even tried to assume a careless cheerful manner, talking and whistling by turns.
But Jonathan was not deceived, though he made no further comment.
"I must go in presently and ask cook what vegetables are wanted to-day," said the elder man, after working away for some time in silence.
"Oh, let me go!" answered Robin with alacrity; and, almost before his companion could look up, the boy was off at full speed towards the kitchen door.
Cook met him with a smile of approbation. "It is all right," she said. "Mother was so glad I was able to send her that note. I can trust you again to do errands for me. See! here is a good hunch of plum-cake, which you can put in your pocket; and if it is too much for you now, save a bit for your poor little sister. Another day you will go again to mother's house for me, won't you? I cannot get out very often; there is so much to be done in this family."
Robin was thankful she did not ask him to go again to Andover Street that day. It would be time enough to refuse the next time she asked him to do it; he would not make her angry to-day. Thus he silenced the inward monitor once more.
"Has mother been out long, Corrie?" was his first question that evening on returning home, to find the little sister playing alone on the floor with her toys.
"No, Robin, only a few minutes; she said you would be coming directly, and she was obliged to go and get the money from some of the houses. Oh! what is that?" she added, looking with unfeigned satisfaction at the piece of cake.
"Nice cake for Corrie," replied Robin; "you like plum-cake, don't you?"
"Yes, very very much; may I eat it now? We must keep some for mother."
"No," said Robin, as the uneasy thought struck him that it was the price of sin. "You may eat it all; I will bring mother some more another day. Make haste, Corrie, and then I will tell you a story."
"A pretty Bible story?" queried Corrie with a wistful smile.
"Yes, if you like."
So Corrie ate her cake and then curled herself up into her old attitude in Robin's arms, as on that happy night before Christmas, while he began to hunt in his memory for a story.
But somehow it seemed as though he were trying to sing a song and had forgotten the words; each Bible incident that came to his mind brought a condemning meaning with it.
"Tell me about the naughty people in the beautiful garden, Robin, who stole the fruit from the tree God told them not to touch!"
Her brother obeyed; and when he had finished, she looked up into his face and said—
"They would not have been afraid of God, would they, Robin, if they had not been naughty?"
"No!" groaned Robin.
"Does God see us all day and all night too?" continued Corrie. "Even in the dark, when we are under the bedclothes?"
"Yes," answered the boy. "It is never dark with God. He is always looking at us."
"But we need not be afraid," persisted the child, "because you have often told me, Robin, He loves us very much. Mother says she loves me, even when I am naughty, only it makes her heart sore when I do bad things. Does God love like that?"
"Yes, little sister, He does."
And putting up her hand, Corrie felt that Robin's eyes were wet.
At that moment their mother returned, and stories were over for to-night.
"Such nice cake!" whispered Corrie as she was being undressed.
"Did you bring it home for her, Robin?" asked Mrs. Campbell.
"Yes," answered her son; "they gave it to me up at the house."
The answer was scarcely heeded, for with a preoccupied air, the poor woman kissed her little girl as she covered her over in bed, and then sat down at the table to count her earnings, and consider what she could afford to buy the following day.
THE BROKEN VASE
TO free himself from the accusations of conscience, Robin determined to keep out of cook's way for a few days. But resolutions made in human strength are but as grass: "The sun is no sooner risen with a burning heat, but it withereth the grass, and the flower thereof falleth, and the grace of the fashion of it perisheth."
Repentance without a root will only endure for a while; and so the poor boy found.
Cook soon made an opportunity, and silenced his well-meant excuses by the most plausible reasoning, as well as by unlimited promises of dainty bits for himself and Corrie.
Again and again the covered basket was placed in readiness for removal from its place of concealment, and frequent practice made Robin very expert in eluding Jonathan's sharp eyes; so much so that the old man began to think his suspicions were groundless as far as the boy was concerned, especially as he had seldom now reason to find fault with his work.
Robin often noticed the clink of glass bottles as he was carrying back the basket to Oaklands, but as the cover was always securely tied down with cord, he did not feel tempted to look inside. It was not until long afterwards that he connected this sound with the woman's frequently excited manner, which at times quite frightened him. Yet the poor lad felt himself enthralled in a hard bondage. Cook had at first made him her slave, and now kept him so chiefly through well-timed flattery. So, though he often thought of rebelling, Robin still continued to obey her secret orders, having little reward beyond that of seeing his little sister's face brighten up when he produced a nice piece of cake or pudding for her. This pleasure could be enjoyed in some cool green spot beyond the town, where Robin would take her in her little carriage of an evening when his day's work was over. Yet the boy was miserable, and the prattle of his innocent sister made him more so.
"Why should I be afraid of cook?" he reasoned with himself. "I will tell old Jonathan all about it, and he will help me."
This sage plan would have been put into execution, if something had not happened the following day which tightened yet more closely the chains that bound him. Robin had put on the fetters when he first listened to the tempter's voice.
Some friends were invited to dine at Oaklands, and Jonathan had begged, as a special favour, to be allowed to arrange the flowers for the centre of the table. Robin had carried in the basket, and now stood beside the old man in the china pantry, watching him select the choicest blossoms for the handsome china vase placed ready to receive them.
The lovely bouquet was soon complete, and Jonathan went off again to the garden. Robin lingered behind for a few minutes, gazing with delight on the pretty cups and plates and glittering glass, all so neatly arranged upon the shelves. It was seldom he had an excuse for coming farther into the house than the kitchen. Alas! His curiosity cost him dear, for, turning round suddenly, his arm came in contact with the lovely vase, knocking it against an awkwardly projecting corner of a cupboard. One of the handles snapped off and fell to the ground. The boy stood aghast for one moment; then, snatching up the fragment, flew with it to the kitchen.
"Oh, cook, help me!" he cried. "What shall I do? Look what has happened! I didn't mean to break it; it just chipped off as I turned round. Please don't tell master or mistress: I might lose my place if they heard of it!"
"Yes, that you would," cried the cunning woman triumphantly, with a sharp look in her eyes, though she well knew that an accident such as Robin had just met with would not be considered in the light of a crime, but would only elicit a sorrowful regret and a request to be more careful in future from the gentle mistress of Oaklands. But at the present moment it suited her purpose to terrify the lad with the fear of consequences; so, raising both her hands with a deprecating gesture, she continued, "Well! You have got yourself into a fine scrape; but as you are a good lad, and always do what I ask you, I will be a friend in need. I know where the housekeeper puts the diamond cement; the handle shall be mended so that no one shall know it was ever broken; it will never show."
"Oh, thank you!" said Robin, in the relief of the moment feeling grateful enough to be always her willing slave. "Can I do anything for you to-day?"
"No, not to-day, but to-morrow perhaps."
And Robin went out feeling that now he was completely in her power. And so it proved. From that day his excuses were of no avail. The vase had been so well mended that no one knew of the breakage except cook; and she had only to threaten a disclosure of the fact if there was the least hesitation in the carrying out of her commands.
The poor boy found that the way of transgressors is hard, and that one false step leads to many more. He was very miserable now, though keeping up an outward appearance of good by being extra diligent at his work. Fear of man was the one thing that spoiled Robin's character; he lacked the courage to say no, and present a bold front to the enemy. He had not yet learnt how "to add to his faith virtue," that fearless valour for the truth without which no Christian soldier can fight the good fight, and as a conqueror obtain the victory over the world, the flesh, and the devil.
Some weeks after the accident in the china pantry, Clarice sat in the drawing room practising at the piano. It was a hot day in July, and the French windows were open down to the ground. The lazy hum of bees, and the sweet breath of flowers, and the sunshine outside made the child feel idle. A sudden fancy impelled her to leave her music and flit out through the open window.
She presently returned with some roses off a bush she was allowed to gather from. Looking about she perceived the china vase in the centre of the table, and proceeded to turn out some of the fading flowers, and replace them with those she had brought in. This was a disobedient act, for she knew well that neither she nor any of the children were allowed to touch that vase. However, she did not think of this until too late, so engrossed was she in her self-imposed task.
The withered rose leaves fell in a shower on the crimson cloth, and in one instant the child resolved to lift the vase to a side table, and gather up the fallen leaves to throw them away. Poor Clarice! The handle that had been so cleverly mended was the first she took hold of, and with a smash the costly china ornament fell upon the table, while the water streamed among the scattered flowers down to the carpet.
Clarice uttered a loud scream, which quickly brought her mother to the room, who stood in consternation at seeing the wreck before her.
"Oh, mother!" sobbed Clarice. "Indeed I didn't do it; it was not my fault. I don't know how it happened. I was lifting it so carefully."
"Clarice dear, you know quite well you are never allowed to touch anything in the drawing room. Your disobedience was the cause of this accident; and my favourite vase cannot be replaced. I am grieved that my little girl was tempted to do what she knew was wrong. You wasted your time instead of practising your music. How true it is that:
"Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do."
"But I did not break it, mother; it broke by itself!" pleaded the child in a tone of the deepest distress.
"Hush! Clarice darling. Do not say what is untrue. My beloved child must be careful to keep to the exact truth, come what may. I am not angry with you for breaking the vase, because an accident may happen sometimes even to the most careful. Your fault lies in the disobedient act. Go away upstairs now by yourself, and think about it quietly. By and by you will tell me you are sorry. I shall not be able to take you out driving with me this afternoon, as I intended."
Clarice did not wait to hear any more, but ran off to the night nursery, to fling herself on her bed and have her cry out there.
"It is very unfair!" she sobbed, pushing back the hair from her flushed face. "Mamma won't believe me. Oh, dear! What shall I do? Why did I look at those roses?"
"You were disobedient," suggested Conscience, that faithful monitor, as Clarice began to feel the force of her mother's words. Yet she did not wish to give up the idea that she had been unjustly condemned. It was pride alone that prevented her going at once to her mother's room to confess her fault.
The dinner hour arrived, and Clarice took her place in silence with the other children. Still there was the same sulky tear-stained face, though her mother looked with such loving sadness at her naughty child.
Clarice watched her go upstairs to get ready for the afternoon drive, and longed, in spite of herself, to run and say just the little word that would put it all right again. But no, she lingered and hesitated until it was too late; and from the schoolroom window downstairs she watched the carriage drive away, with Milly seated beside mamma. With her eyes full of tears, Clarice sat down to prepare her lessons for the morrow.
While so doing she heard steps on the gravel path, and knew old Jonathan was at hand. He had heard about the accident from the servants, and felt very grieved that his dear little Miss Clarice should be in trouble. She was so seldom naughty that it was a great puzzle to him how such a thing could have happened. The child gave one look, to make quite sure it was her dear old friend, and then held out both hands towards him.
"I have been naughty, Jonathan," said the honest little offender; "but it was not quite my fault, though nobody believes me."
Then followed a faithful narration of facts, exactly as they had occurred.
"Well, my dear little lady," replied the gardener, twisting the rose off the empty watering-pot he held in his hand; "old Jonathan is but a poor comforter; yet he always likes to look for the rainbow in a shower. Dry up the tears, and let us see what can be done. God knows all about everything, and that is why it is such a comfort to go and tell Him. There! There! Don't cry any more," added the affectionate old man, taking up a corner of the child's white pinafore to wipe away the blinding tears, which flowed all the faster for this loving sympathy.
"Mamma loves her little girl more than a thousand flower vases. She is not angry with you for breaking it, my love. Bless her dear, kind, gentle heart, she is the last to punish for that sort of thing. It was only because you did not mind your music, my dear, and what she told you about keeping from touching the things in the drawing room.
"My mother used to tell me when I was a little chap that I had no eyes in my fingers; and 'twould be a good thing if all children remembered that wholesome lesson. It would save them from many a mishap. Now, when mamma comes back, let her find her little girl with a sunny face and lessons all ready for to-morrow. Why, some day perhaps you will be able to buy her another vase; that will be something for you to save up your pennies for. Crying will not mend the broken pieces. When we have done a naughty thing, the best way is to be very sorry for it, and then turn over a new leaf and to begin again quite fresh."
As Clarice began to see the force of this sound reasoning, a happy light broke over her face, and the sobbing ceased.
"Oh, Jonathan!" she whispered. "You always make me want to be good."
"It is not me, dear child; it is not me! It is God's Holy Spirit, which is promised to all who ask for it. This is the candle of the Lord; and when it lights up our dark hearts, we see our faults as God would have us see them, and we are so sorry. Then He makes us good again, and the darkness all passes away, and we are happy once more. O Lord, help Thy dear lamb!" murmured the aged man, looking up into the blue sky as he moved away to continue his work.
Now Robin happened to be weeding a path close by, and consequently overheard most of this conversation. Every word had pricked him like a sharp thorn, for he knew well that if it had not been for his concealed transgression, Clarice's trouble would not have been so great.
Yet he dared not confess the truth. A guilty feeling made him tremble and turn pale as he passed that window and caught sight of the tear-stained face within. He could watch the quickly moving lips, as Clarice set herself resolutely to master her lessons; yet, though it touched him and made his heart sore, he had not the moral courage to say the word that would free her from much of the blame. He dared not face the consequences involved in such a course of action, and therefore still determined to keep his unhappy secret.
That night the silver moonlight shone down alike into hall and cottage window. Dear little Clarice knelt by her white bed, with her hands clasped and a happy smile upon her face as she looked up into the starry sky. She was thanking God for making her good again. The burden had been lifted off her heart by her mother's kiss of forgiveness, and "the peace which passeth all understanding" left its seal upon her brow as she fell asleep.
Not so Robin: he looked out of his bed into the moonlight, and turned away from it quickly with his face towards the wall. The brilliant beam seemed too pure for his eyes to-night, and he could only think of the words his mother had been just reading aloud from her Bible: "'The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!'" (Matt. vi. 22, 23).
THE BIRTHDAY QUEEN
IT was like a musical alarum, when Carolus, a bright golden canary, began to trill one morning early to Mistress Clarice. His companion, Chérie, who shared with him the pretty blue and white cage, thought the song was meant for her, and began to stretch her wings and plume herself as she listened. Blackbirds and thrushes called and chirruped from the garden below; but the canaries could not see them, as the nursery blind was not yet drawn up. Those merry singers on swinging boughs outside in the clear morning sunshine made Carolus very restless. He hopped from perch to perch, pecking up seeds faster and faster, and peering through the slender wires with his bead-like eyes, as if longing that the sleeper in the small white bed near the window would awake and talk to him.
But Clarice was still in dreamland, and so was Milly in the opposite cot; for it was only six o'clock, and even nurse, who was an early riser, had not yet begun to stir.
Poor Carolus grew desperate, for the sunlight came slanting in between the bars of the venetian blind in the most provokingly tempting manner. At last, he piped his loudest, shrillest notes, and actually succeeded in making Clarice open her eyes.
"Thank you, Carolus," she whispered, springing up lightly; "you are the first to wish me many happy returns of my birthday. Oh, it is a fine day! I so am glad. Is Milly awake, I wonder? Yes, the clothes are moving."
In another moment two little feet were standing on the cane chair by the window, and Carolus came to the bars of his cage to take some hemp seed from a pair of red lips. One peep through the blind, out into the garden lying in sunlight and cool shadow, a happy look towards the rosy-tipped clouds in the blue sky, and Clarice skipped across the floor to the other cot.
"Hush! Don't wake nurse and baby," said the elder child gravely, with upraised finger. "Come into my bed. I want to talk to you about so many things."
Milly rubbed her eyes as if she could not quite tell what was happening, then her arms were round her sister's neck in a loving clasp. "Do you know what I am going to give you for a birthday present?" was Milly's first question.
"No. Shall I guess?"
"Yes, you may guess it; but I cannot tell you if you are right, because it is a great secret."
"One of your white rabbits?"
"No."
"A gardening-basket?"
"No."
"A story-book?"
"No."
"Something to use?" suggested Clarice.
"Oh, please don't guess any more! I am so afraid you will find it out; and you must not ask me about any of the parcels I saw in mamma's room last night. One was such a funny shape, I wanted to open it, and peep."
"Who is awake so early, I wonder?" laughed nurse, for it was in vain to try any longer to close her ears to the whispering buzz. "Many happy returns of the day, my dear Miss Clarice."
"Oh, nurse!" pleaded Milly. "Please dress me very early to-day, because I want to go to my garden before breakfast. You know what for, nursey dear."
"Oh yes, I know," answered nurse; "but you must have a little patience. There! You have wakened baby with your chatter. I thought you would. Now I wonder if you two little girls can keep him quiet, and amuse him, till I am ready."
"Oh yes! Oh yes!" chimed in both voices. "Come here, you darling baby-brother!"
Baby allowed himself to be transferred from the cradle to his sister's bed with the greatest equanimity, only opening his large solemn eyes a little wide as they laughed and played with him.
"Baby George has only had one birthday since he was born," cried Clarice, kissing him. "I have had eight; that is seven more than he. I don't think he cared much about his presents, not even the pretty coral and bells that grandmamma gave him. Did you, darling?" she added, proud of the responsibility of holding him in her arms. "One, two, three, four, five kisses more for the sweetest baby that ever lived."
A merry shout from the adjoining room told the sisters that Alfred and Arthur were also awake.
"Many happy returns of the day!" they cried, peeping in at the door. "Make haste, Milly; we want you in the garden."
Just then mamma appeared to give the birthday kiss and carry off baby. When the chatter ceased, the children were got ready for breakfast; and Carolus went on with his song through everything, trilling out his full clear notes in the summer sunshine, which now flooded the room.
Pale blush roses, with the dew still upon them, nodded in at the window, and ivy-twigs bent and trembled as the free birds alighted on them every moment, charmed and attracted by the clear song of the captive canary.
The four elder children were allowed to breakfast downstairs with papa and mamma on birthday mornings; and this was considered a special treat. Clarice felt quite shy when Milly met her at the dining room door with a wreath of flowers, wherewith to crown her queen of the day, and papa led her to the chair beside him.
A number of tempting unopened parcels half-buried in flowers quite covered her plate, as though she were not expected to eat any breakfast. Then all the servants came in to prayers, and papa asked God especially to bless his dear little girl on her birthday by giving her His Holy Spirit, to teach her to walk in the heavenly way all the years of her life.
Clarice herself joined earnestly in the petition, for she had lately learned by experience that being happy meant being good, and this made her long that God would teach her the way. It was a great puzzle to know which packet to open first, there were so many. A reference Bible from papa; a writing-case from mamma, fitted up with everything a little girl could want to write a letter with; a birthday text-book from Milly; a silver thimble from Alfred and Arthur; a blue sash from Aunt Emily; and last of all, in a little box to itself, an old-fashioned embroidered silk purse, with a golden sovereign shining inside.
Clarice gave a cry of delight, and clasped her hands together. Papa looked grieved as he saw the fascination the piece of gold had for her, and said, "I hope my Clarice is not too fond of money?"
"No, papa dear; I am sure you would not think that, if I could only tell you something. I am so glad I can do it now. I thought I should have to wait for months and months."
"Do what?" inquired mamma.
"Oh, mother, please don't ask! It is a real secret—only old Jonathan knows about it; and he will be so glad too. Papa, I shall whisper to you about it by and by. There! I won't talk about it any more now," said the delighted child, closing the snap of the purse resolutely, and beginning to admire the other presents over again.
"There is the postman coming up the avenue," said Alfred. "Let me go. Three letters for Clarice!" he cried, after a speedy return. "One from grandmamma, one from auntie, and here is another with the London postmark, and a roll of music. That must be from Uncle George. How rich you are, Clarice! I wish my birthday was coming soon!"
Breakfast over, and the presents removed to a side table, Clarice sat herself down in one of the bay windows to read her letters over and over again, for one contained an invitation from Uncle George to go to London with papa next month. The other children had left her alone, to run off and watch the erection of a large white tent on the lawn; for Clarice had begged, as her birthday treat, that she might have the school children and their parents to tea. To this request her father and mother had willingly consented, so glad were they to encourage kind thought for others in their little ones. The shouting and laughing outside soon drew Clarice from her retreat; and, as it was a whole holiday, the morning was spent in decking the interior of the tent with evergreens and flowers, Jonathan and Robin assisting.
"Jonathan," whispered the birthday queen, after enumerating to him her various presents, "only think: grandmamma has sent me a golden sovereign. Will that be enough to buy mamma another vase?" she added wistfully.
Robin heard the question and the assenting reply. "Ah, if Miss Clarice could only know the truth about the broken handle!" thought he. "I hate cook for making me so wicked," he said, half aloud, as he went off to the shrubbery for more green boughs. "I never was so unhappy in my life."
And all through that bright birthday there hung a gloom over the boy that he could not shake off; its shadow pressed upon him as he watched the merry groups of people trooping through the gate by Jonathan's cottage, and saw their smiles of satisfaction and delight as the white tent appeared in view. He had scarcely any heart to go home and fetch Corrie and mother, though Miss Clarice had herself told him how glad she should be to see them.
Once more he tried to forget as he watched the bright face of his little crippled sister, and saw that in his mother's eyes the weary look of toil had given place to one of real enjoyment and delight.
"It would break her heart if she only knew how bad I am; if it were not for that, I think I would make up my mind to tell her all."
"Robin does not look a bit glad," said Clarice to Arthur as she ran forward to welcome the trio. "Has Jonathan been scolding him, I wonder?"
"Mountains of cake!" shouted her brother in answer. "Look, Clarice, at the trays going into the tent. They will never eat all that."
It certainly did seem an endless supply.
Nevertheless the trays returned again and again to the house to be replenished, as the happy entertainers went in and out among those seated at the long tables, to see that everybody had plenty and enjoyed themselves.
Milly took especial care of poor little Corrie, and sat beside the basket carriage, holding her plate and cup. She had not forgotten the lesson of unselfishness learned while decking Corrie's fir bough. It had formed a link between the two children, that would never be broken.
A few kindly words were spoken by the master of Oaklands at the close of the feast. He said he hoped they would all remember the greatest birthday that had ever dawned upon this world, the birthday of the King of Glory, without whose presence and blessing no life could be a real true life.
"Everybody," continued he, "who loves God has had two birthdays in their history: the first, when they were born into this world; the second, when God opened their eyes by His Holy Spirit to know and love Him in believing on His dear Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood. For those who, in the power of this new birth, have entered the true life of the children of God there can be no doubt; for, when their earthly life is over, God will Himself open to them the gate of everlasting life. I want you all to remember about this wonderful soul-birth. You may all of you have it if you will, for the Holy Spirit waits to breathe upon you the breath of life; and God has promised to give that blessed Spirit to those who ask—'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' May our heavenly Father, who loves you, bless you one and all."
Clarice stood by her father to shake hands with everyone as they went away; and in that calm summer evening, as the happy village folk wended their way to their several homes, that message of peace and goodwill echoed in their hearts, causing many of them to covet earnestly the best gift—that blessing of the Lord which maketh rich, adding no sorrow with it.
"'Truly the Lord is good,' 'and His tender mercies are over all His works,'" said old Jonathan to himself as he lifted the latch of his cottage door, after bidding good-night to the last straggler at the gate.
It was not till the festivities of the birthday were over, that Clarice returned to the dining room to fetch her presents from the side table, where she had left them in the morning. She began gathering them up one by one, and only lingered yet another moment to unsnap her purse, and take one more look at her golden sovereign. It was gone! The pretty purse was quite empty. A look of dismay crossed the hitherto untroubled face; tears welled quickly into the blue eyes, and, a few minutes after, the little birthday queen was sobbing bitterly in her mother's arms.
"Oh, mamma! You don't know how dreadful it is to bear, because I can't tell you my secret. Who can have touched it? I put it so carefully into the purse this morning. Surely nobody can have come in from the garden to steal it!"
The poor excited child was gradually soothed and calmed, till nurse, with a pitying look, suggested she should go to bed. The search continued through the house. The servants were diligently questioned, and all set to work to look for the lost money, but in vain.
"Little missy must have thought she put it back into the purse," said cook, who, down on her knees, feeling all over the dining room carpet, was foremost in the search. "It must have rolled away into a corner."
Poor little Clarice dried her tears, and said good-night to her father with a desperate effort. She knew well that no one could be more sorry than he that a dark cloud should have come to overshadow her happy birthday. Yet when the nursery door was shut, and Milly asleep, another shower of tears wetted the tired child's pillow ere she sank into forgetfulness of her trouble.
"I never heard before that a piece of money had legs to walk away upon," said Jonathan the next morning, as the tale of the lost sovereign was repeated to him by cook. "Let those who hide find, say I."
"You don't suppose the thief is In the house!" replied the woman tartly. "I am as honest as yam, old Jonathan."
"I am glad to hear it," was the gardener's quiet comment as he went out.
CAUGHT!
"GOOD-NIGHT, my boy."
"Good-night, Mr. Jonathan," said Robin as he turned the corner by the lodge to go towards his home the following evening.
The old man shaded his eyes with his hand as he watched the retreating figure for some distance, until a bend in the lane hid him from view, then said aloud as he entered his house, "There is something wrong with the lad, and I cannot come at it; he is no more like the same boy he was three months ago than a fresh rose is like the withered one I have just thrown away. What can it be? Bad companions, perhaps; but I never see him about with any of the town lads. I wonder if his mother notices the difference."
Jonathan was about to seat himself in his big arm-chair for a good rest, when suddenly he recollected there was something he had forgotten to see to in one of the glass-houses; so, taking his knotted stick from behind the door, he once more began to trudge slowly up the avenue. Did his eyes deceive him? It was surely Robin that he saw leaping over the fence and running across the field as if for his life. Why did he come that way? Was he going to the house? Yes; he opened the white gate leading to the back premises, and presently disappeared.
Jonathan's first impulse was to meet him in the field on his return, and question him as to his errand; but the old man knew his stiff legs would not reach thus far in time, the boy was flying at such a rate. He therefore hid himself behind a large tree, and from his place of concealment saw Robin a few minutes after return through the gate, and by the same short cut regain the high road. But he had a basket on his arm! Where was he taking it to? Why did he come back to fetch it? Here was an explanation of the boy's restless impatient manner when detained at the lodge gate for a few moments before wishing him good-night.
"There is something underhand going on," muttered old Jonathan sadly. "I was sure of it. The poor lad could not look me in the face to-day when I asked him a question; he got scarlet when I mentioned cook's name. What can it be? He has got into a thorny path, and I must see him out of it, even though my own hands get torn. I will be his friend, whatever it costs; and I pray God we may see the right side of this business before long."
While his dear old teacher and friend was thus sadly musing over what he had just seen, Robin, wholly unconscious of detection, was doing his utmost to make up for the time so unwillingly lost while talking to Jonathan at the lodge. But he had not got more than half-way when he heard the sonorous tones of a church clock warning him that the hour had come when he had promised his mother he would try to be at home. She had said she wanted him particularly.
There was therefore no time to go round by Andover Street, though cook had urged the necessity of his doing so. He must carry the basket home with him, and take it there in the morning. Thus resolved, he sped swiftly up the street leading to his own home; and, lest his mother should question him about the basket if she saw it, he ran quickly through to the court, and deposited it in a corner hidden by a stack of sticks, before entering the room where she and Corrie were sitting.
Mrs. Campbell greeted her son with a bright smile, saying, "Ah! Robin, you are a good boy. I hoped you would not keep me waiting long, for I have to go and see a lady to-night who owes me some money for washing. Take Corrie out for a bit to the green fields. It has been so hot here all day for her. I am obliged to keep up the fire for the ironing."
"All right, mother," was Robin's quiet response. And she, hastily putting on her bonnet and shawl, had not time to observe how miserable he looked.
After her departure, Robin carefully considered whether he could not first take Corrie to Andover Street and leave the basket. But he knew that the house his mother was bound for was in that immediate neighbourhood. What if she met and questioned him? He dared not risk it.
Besides, she had often said she did not wish Corrie to be taken into close dirty streets; and there had been a great deal of fever in the town of late. The child, too, would be sure to tell mother about the basket if she saw it. No; he must leave it until to-morrow morning; but meantime, for greater security, he would remove it from the backyard and hide it away under his bed. So Robin kept Corrie waiting in her carriage outside the door while he did this.
"Oh, what a tangled web we weaveWhen first we practise to deceive!"
He went sadly and quietly along towards the fields, which lay some distance beyond the town. At last they turned off the high road to a favourite spot beside a running brook, where were grassy hollows and tall shady trees.
Robin was so busily occupied gathering wild flowers for Corrie, and so preoccupied with his own thoughts, that he did not notice the gardener of Oaklands was trudging, quite close to them, the other side of the hedge, along the white dusty road. But old Jonathan's sharp eyes had spied out the brother and sister, though he passed by without any sign of recognition, muttering, "There is no time to be lost."
Mrs. Campbell was disappointed In not finding the lady at home, and therefore returned sooner than she expected. Great was her surprise after reaching home to hear old Jonathan's voice at the door.
"Come in, Mr. Jonathan," she answered cheerily, on catching sight of the wrinkled face. "It is many a long day since I have seen you down as far as this. I hope nothing is wrong at the house, or that Robin is not wanted, for he is gone out with Corrie; but I expect them in soon."
The old man seated himself, and paused for a moment to wipe his forehead with his red handkerchief and regain his breath, for he had walked quicker than was his wont. Then he said, "Did Robin not tell you about the lost sovereign?"
"No," replied the widow, turning pale at the thought of her son being suspected of a theft. "Indeed, he has had no time, for I went out directly he got back this evening. Pray tell me about it."
The gardener accordingly proceeded to recount the story of the missing money as he had heard it in the kitchen that morning.
"You don't think Robin touched it, do you?" said his listener, aghast and trembling.
"No," replied her true-hearted friend, "I don't, for I believe he is honest to the backbone; but, for all that, there is something wrong with the boy, Mrs. Campbell; and I've failed as yet to find it out. I can only see he is miserable and unhappy; and I've a notion that cook has beguiled him into underhand ways. I have long suspected this, but could prove nothing until this evening, when I watched him return by a short cut over the fields to fetch a basket from the back premises."
"He brought no basket here, Mr. Jonathan. Of course I should have seen it if he had," added the poor woman hotly, for she felt her temper rising.
"Then he did not come straight home," said the gardener.
"Oh yes, he did; he was in much earlier than usual, and there was nothing in his hand."
The conversation continued until it was suddenly interrupted by Corrie's voice in merry chatter as Robin brought her in. Jonathan was the last person he expected to see, and he looked both ashamed and foolish on perceiving him seated by the fire. The boy's guilty fears, bred of an accusing conscience, nearly made him drop his sister after lifting her from the carriage. Mrs. Campbell saw the look, and, taking Corrie from his arms, she carried her into the adjoining room to put her to bed.
"Robin," said Jonathan sternly when they were left alone, "tell me the truth at once: what did you do with that basket I saw you fetch from the house?"
"The basket?" stammered the boy, hoping to evade the question by gaining time to frame a suitable answer; but, meeting the piercing look of those keen grey eyes, his own fell before it. The whole truth must come out now, and Robin burst into tears. "Oh, Mr. Jonathan!" he sobbed. "I am so glad you know about it! I have been so very very miserable? There it is," he added in a husky tone of voice—"there it is, hidden away under my bed, because I could not take it to Andover Street to-night for cook. But oh, Mr. Jonathan, I know no more than you do what is inside it!"
Then followed a full and free confession of the sin that like a millstone had been weighing him down for so many weeks. Mrs. Campbell entered the room unobserved by her son, so great was his agitation.
She listened in silence for some minutes, then sat down upon a chair, to cover her face with her bands and weep bitterly.
"Oh, Robin, how could you be so wicked?" she cried. "What would father have said if he had been here? Oh, that I should have lived to see my son act so deceitfully!"
A piteous glance at his mother was the only answer he could make.
"Give me the basket," said Jonathan, stretching out a hand, which shook as though palsied. "Robin, you must return with me to Oaklands. I must see the master to-night. There can be no sleep for either of us until this matter is cleared up."
"Oh, Mr. Jonathan, I dare not see master! He will turn me from his service directly he hears what I have done."
"Don't be a coward, Robin! 'Dare and do the right!' is the Christian's motto, whatever the consequences may be," said the old man resolutely. "Master is a just and upright man, and ever a friend to those who need one. Commit your cause to God, and He will plead it for you."
But the boy's agony of mind was so great that he still sought for a subterfuge, and said, "But there may be nothing wrong in the basket. I never looked inside to see what cook put there. She said it was only something for her mother. Do open it and see."
"Not for the world," replied Jonathan. "Nobody but master shall cut that cord. Ah, Robin, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you like wheat; but the Lord Jesus is praying for you, I am sure of that, though you are now too miserable to pray for yourself. If there was nothing wrong about that basket, there would have been no need to send it away secretly. You know that as well as I do. I quite believe you did not know what terrible trouble you were bringing upon yourself when you promised to obey that dishonest woman; but that is another matter altogether."
"It will be in the hands of the police to-morrow!" sobbed the poor mother as her head bent still lower.
"Well, I believe there will be a piece of work for them here," said Jonathan, pointing to the basket, "if ever they were wanted; but I hope, for your sake, master will not expose it publicly. Come, Robin, we are wasting precious moments."
But the boy still lingered, though his old friend had moved to the door.
"Mother, forgive me!" he cried, melted into the deepest contrition, and quite overcome at sight of her hopeless stricken expression. His arms were round her neck now. "I never never will do such a thing again! Do believe me!"
"Robin," she said slowly, and raising her tear-filled eyes to his, "you have sinned deeply against God, and brought a stain on our good name which can never, I fear, be wiped out. Your master could not keep anyone in his service who had acted as you have."
"Do not add to the lad's distress," said kind old Jonathan, returning to lay his hand upon her arm. "Rather encourage him to face his duty like a man. Master is a Christian gentleman, who will do the right, whatever that may be. Pray for Robin; and may God send you an answer of mercy and peace! But take heart to believe your prayer will be answered, or it will not be the prayer of faith. I will do my best to speak up for the lad, you may be sure."
So saying, he went slowly out.
The boy gave one more look at his mother, and followed Jonathan with a sinking heart.
The two walked on together for some time in silence, Robin feeling as though he were being led to execution, while Jonathan lifted up his heart at every step to entreat the Father of the fatherless to look down in pity, and avert the shadow of evil now resting upon those in whom he took so deep an interest.
SET FREE!
THE master of Oaklands was somewhat surprised late that evening to receive a message from his gardener requesting to speak with him in his business room.
"Say I will be there in a few minutes," was the answer. "I hope there is nothing wrong," said the gentleman to his wife. "It is most unusual for Jonathan to ask for me at this time in the evening."
The few minutes seemed like hours to poor Robin as he sat waiting with Jonathan, his ear attent for the first footstep along the passage, his eye fixed on the handle of the door, watching for it to turn. Even the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to be pronouncing a severe sentence as it ticked loudly, and presently struck the hour with a sharp decisive clang like the strokes of a hammer. Before Robin had finished counting it, the master entered; and one look at the lad's downcast shame-covered face caused him to inquire quickly, "Why, what is the matter, Jonathan? Is Robin in disgrace?"
"Ah, sir, he is in sore trouble," replied Jonathan, rising to speak, "and there can be no relief for him till you know all about it. I will tell you the whole matter from beginning to end, and may God guide your judgment."
So the master listened patiently to every word, only interrupting the gardener now and then to ask Robin some questions, which were truthfully answered.
"Say to your mistress, I should be glad if she would come here immediately," said the gentleman to a servant, after ringing the bell; "and tell cook I wish to speak to her."
Robin ventured to lift his eyes to the gentle lady's face as she entered, hoping to find pity and sympathy there. As he did so, cook appeared, looking very red and uncomfortable, yet with a bold stare on her face, as though she could not imagine why she was wanted. She darted a keen look of hatred at her victim, when she caught sight of the fatal basket on the table, which so terrified the poor boy that he shook from head to foot.
"Cook, will you tell me what is in that basket?" said her master quietly.
The woman muttered something indistinctly about mother wanting a few things; then, trying to cover her defeat by an outburst of passion, said fiercely, "That is my basket. No one has a right to touch it but me. That boy is a sneak and a liar, and—"
"Silence!" interrupted the master. "Before you say any more, I will, in the presence of these witnesses, open the basket; and if it is found to contain nothing but what belongs to you, all shall be returned."
The string that had so carefully secured the cover was then cut, and the contents exposed to view. There was a large piece of bacon, with some lard, half a pound of butter, two pots of jam, and a good-sized cake. Nor was this all. On searching further, a small box was discovered containing a sovereign, and beside an empty bottle marked "Gin" lay a note addressed to her mother, and signed by cook. It directed that fifteen shillings of the money should be taken to a certain pawn-shop in Andover Street, with the enclosed numbered ticket, to redeem a certain valuable ring her mistress had dropped in the hay-field three weeks ago. Further instructions were added about the refilling of the bottle, and a special request that all might be ready for Robin to bring back the following morning. This was read aloud.
And the woman, seeing now there was no hope of escape, confessed to the whole of her misdeeds, imploring forgiveness, as the sudden terror seized her that the affair would be made public in the police-court. She said she had been tempted to take the sovereign from the embroidered purse on the morning of the birthday, when everybody was engaged in the tent on the lawn. She had heard her master promise a handsome reward to the finder of the lost ring, and therefore wished to redeem it quickly, that she might receive the promised sum.
The truth was all out now; but the master and mistress soon discerned there was no real repentance connected with cook's confession. It was only made under fear of the retributive justice she expected would swiftly follow. This was evident from the fact that, though the reading of the note had proved Robin to be no accomplice in the theft, she did her utmost to involve him in her own disgrace by telling tales of his frequent visits to the kitchen, the half of which were untrue.
"You have said enough, cook," said her master sternly. "I do not wish to hear any more. You have nothing to do with Robin; he has his own punishment. You will leave my service to-morrow. A cab will take you to your mother's house. For the sake of Mrs. Campbell, whom I respect, and whose son's ruin you have sought, I will not bring the case before the police; but let me never see you on these premises again."
The sentence was received with an expression of dogged indifference, which changed to a look of defiance as she left the room. Long and earnestly did her gentle mistress plead with the woman before her departure, trying in vain to awaken the hardened heart and conscience to a sense of sin. Those words of loving reproof and counsel fell upon an ear of stone—an ear that some years afterwards longed for that voice of Christian love, when none were nigh to speak a word of hope, as she sat a wretched prisoner in a county jail.
Robin did not lose his place. His humble and penitent confession, given without reserve as soon as cook had left the room, convinced the master that his was genuine sorrow. Another chance of gaining an honourable character must be given to the boy. This kind decision was confirmed by Jonathan's entreaties, who pleaded for Robin as if he had been his own son.
"Go home," said the old man after the interview was concluded, and he was walking down the avenue with Robin. "Go to your knees in humble thankfulness, and pour out your heart to your loving Father, against whom you have sinned. If you want words, turn to the fifty-first Psalm. You will find everything there; and God has said, 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"
So Robin went home; and there, after saying good-night to his mother, who had awaited his return in much anxiety, and receiving her forgiveness, he knelt down beside his bed, with his Bible open before him, to cry with his whole heart:
"'Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy loving-kindness; according unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions. Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy sight. Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.'"
That prayer rolled back the cloud's dark face, and showed its silver lining. The load was gone from Robin's heart, and he could rest in peace.
Jonathan's master did not forget to thank his faithful servitor for all the trouble he had taken in discovering the theft. But the ring was still to be redeemed. Would Jonathan go to the pawn-shop and fetch it back?
To this, he willingly consented.
"It will be best for me to go," said he. "They are a rough lot down in that part of the town."
Accordingly, the following morning, he trudged off upon his errand, and slowly threaded his way with his trusty staff through long close streets, every turn of which he knew well.
At last he stood before a house, above whose doorway swung the familiar sign of the three gilt balls. Jonathan had to wait ten minutes before he could be attended to, as the shop was rather full, even at this early hour.
"What a history some of those things could tell!" thought he, as he stood and surveyed the various articles hanging one above another without reference to sort or kind. Those little petticoats and shoes! Where were the poor helpless children who once had worn them? Alas! Perhaps hungry and barefoot, because the huge public-house at the corner had tempted fathers and mothers to rob their little ones for the sake of that cursed drink. A small hungry-eyed girl, with a tattered pinafore and no frock, who held on by her mother's dirty gown, glanced up at the kindly old man, as if the smile she found on his good-natured face was something new in her experience.
At length there was a movement and shuffling of feet towards the door. Jonathan's turn to be served had come. Several of the rough customers eyed him askance as they passed out. His honest respectable face looked as if it had no business in such a place. A sullen-visaged woman scowled suspiciously when he made known his errand by presenting the ticket. Some low-muttered words passed between her and the rascally-looking man who held out his hand to receive the money. The pearl ring was in Jonathan's possession; and he clutched it nervously, lest by any mischance it should slip through his big fingers before he had restored it to its rightful owner.
Robin met Jonathan as he went to his work, and the old man noticed that the lad looked into his face with glad fearless eyes. The guilty shame was no longer there. Ah! How happy Robin felt as he ran along the road after that morning greeting! The birds' merry matin song made true music in his ear, for he was in tune with it now. The hardest work would be light to-day.
But it was some time before the shadow of that dark experience left the boy's heart. In his calm review of the past, each wrong step showed clear before him; he could see how pride had been his stumbling-block, because he had been "wise in his own eyes." How easy he had thought it was to be a Christian!
"The grass is always greenest in the valley of humility," he had heard old Jonathan say, and wondered what he meant. It is there that the Good Shepherd maketh His flock to lie down in the sultry noon, beside the still waters. The boy recalled the lesson taught by the fragrant almond boughs, and awakened to its meaning. Out of the shelter of the golden ark, the rod had remained bare and fruitless. It was the work of the Holy Spirit alone to revive and freshen, by leading him back to the ever-open door.
One day, to Robin's great delight, he saw Miss Clarice running through the garden gate towards him, rake in hand. There had been no opportunity of speaking to her since the day cook departed, and there was still something on his heart which made it heavy; so, moving forward to meet her, he said, with a downcast look, "Please, miss, I wanted to tell you it was I who broke the vase, and got you into trouble. Mr. Jonathan knows about it."
"Oh yes, Robin! And so does mamma now; but she is not angry with you, because you are sorry. I was naughty, you know," added the child, with a sad look, which, however, quickly changed to a bright smile as she ran to her garden, calling out, "It is all right now, Robin."
Ah! How free and unfettered did the boy feel now! That gentle touch had healed the wound remorse had kept open.
"The birds have never sung so merrily before," thought he, as he worked away with a happy will. "Surely the sky was never so blue!"
Certainly the mother had not heard her boy whistle so blithely for weeks, or noticed such a bright smile on his face, as she did that evening when he ran in and put his week's wages into her hand.
"I am so glad to think you know about everything, mother, and that there is nothing to hide now," he whispered.
"You will tell me a nice story to-night, Robin," pleaded Corrie, who had caught the reflection of her brother's smile.
"Yes, darling. Come away to the green fields. You shall fill your basket with beautiful flowers to-night, and we will be so happy!"
"Happy and good," said Corrie, repeating a favourite household word.
Its significance sent a strange thrill through Robin's heart as he bent down to kiss the pale face.
FOREST LODGE
THERE was great excitement in the small hamlet near Oaklands when one day some passers-by observed that bricks and mortar lay in heaps close beside Jonathan's cottage, and that workmen had already begun building just behind it.
"The old man's home was going to be pulled down," they said. "It was too bad, after he had lived in it so many years."
Jonathan smiled at the gossip, and patted the children's heads as they stopped to stare or climbed upon the railings; yet no amount of questioning could make him give the information so eagerly sought.
"Those who live longest will see the most," was his conclusive answer; and nothing further could be got out of him, though everybody tried by turns.
Day by day the walls of the dwelling-house grew higher and higher, until it was ready for its roof and chimneys. Not much could be seen of it from the road, as it was partially hidden by Jonathan's cottage, and faced the forest trees he loved to muse among. The setting sun would glide over their waving tops and fill the rooms with a happy evening glow, and the wood-pigeons would coo their dreamy song close by, all the summer day.
So thought the old man, for it was spring-time again before the last workman departed. But though the new house stood ready for use, who was to occupy it still remained a secret. Neither had any orders been given to pull down the old lodge,—that was the strangest part of all, people thought.
And Robin was as much in the dark as anyone else, though every evening, he recounted in his own home what was going on at Oaklands.
The mystery was solved a little sooner than was intended, through the following circumstance.
Mrs. Campbell, hard at work as usual, was one morning interrupted in her occupation by the entrance of the rent collector, who with his cross red face and inevitable book was seldom a welcome visitor among the poor.
"Called for the rent," said he gruffly.
"It is quite ready," replied the widow, reaching down a cracked teacup, into which she had put the required sum the night before, to be at hand when wanted.
"All right, missus! I've come to tell you the rent is to be raised five pounds a year."
"Oh no surely not," replied the poor woman, aghast. "I cannot pay more, and you promised it should not be raised for three years."
"Then you must be off; property is rising in this part of the town," was the only answer as he tore off the receipt; "plenty of room in the workhouse, failing other lodgings."
This parting piece of insolence went to the poor woman's heart like a sharp arrow, though she concealed her feelings till the man had departed. How dared he say such a thing, when she had always paid her rent like an honest woman! For the moment she forgot to lift her heart above, and her tears fell fast.
But Corrie's arms were soon about her neck, and the child's touch recalled her to herself.
"I will go to Oaklands this evening when Robin comes home, and ask to see the master; he will help me, I am sure, if he can, and will tell me what I had better do."
Thus setting aside her care, and asking her Father in heaven to give her strength and guidance, the widow went briskly to work again, and by the time Robin returned, was quite ready to set forth on her errand.
"'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,'" was the reassuring whisper she seemed to hear as she walked along, though fears innumerable would crowd into her heart. "He has never failed me yet; and I will not distrust Him now, for He has promised to help me."
Meeting her kind old friend Jonathan at the gate, she told her tale to him first.
"The master is just gone up the avenue," he said. "Follow him at once, and you will be able to speak to him."
Mrs. Campbell obeyed, and ten minutes after found herself sitting waiting in the business room, where the gentleman did not keep her long in suspense.
"Well," said he cheerily, "good-evening, Mrs. Campbell. Nothing wrong, I hope? But it is unusual to see you so far from town at this hour."
The poor woman then told her story without interruption; and as soon as she had finished, her patient listener looked at her with a kind smile, saying—
"I do not think you need distress yourself. I was coming to-morrow to tell you something that I think you will be glad to hear, and which will quite set your heart at rest about the landlord. The new cottage has been built for you and your children. You are to live there rent free as our laundress."
"Beg pardon, sir?" said Mrs. Campbell, in her sudden joy believing she could not have heard aright.
Robin's kind master repeated his speech, adding, "We want you to move into your new quarters next week."
"Oh, sir!" she faltered, in an unsteady voice, and feeling completely overcome. "I have done nothing to deserve such kindness. Robin has often told me about the new cottage; but I never paid much heed to what he was saying, not thinking I should have anything to do with it."
"Neither did he, my good woman. Jonathan and I have kept it a secret; and in concluding my bargain, I shall ask you to be a good neighbour to the dear old man, and look after him in his old age. He is failing sadly; and I much fear we shall not have him with us many years longer. Now go home and tell Robin about it. It will be convenient for him to be near his work; and Corrie will, I hope, get some colour into her pale cheeks in this fresh country air."
Oh, what a light heart did the glad mother carry back with her that evening to the smoky town! The distance seemed as nothing to her eager feet. Could it be really true? It must surely be a dream. But no; the sight of the two joyful faces at home when the news was told made her begin to realise the fact. Neither Robin nor his mother could sleep till late that night for thinking it over. The stern landlord might do what he pleased now; they would soon be out of his power.
The evening before the departure to the new home, Robin sat with Corrie in the old window-seat. His arms were round her, and she was looking up into the sky, watching the twinkling stars.
"Do you remember that Christmas Eve, Robin, when you told me what the bells sang about?"
"Yes, Corrie; that was a happy time for us all. God has sent us good things ever since, and now the best of all is coming. Mother need not work so hard; and you will be always in the beautiful country, instead of coming back from the green fields into this dark street. Perhaps you will get well."
Corrie looked at her helpless feet, and shook her head.
"I don't think so, Robin," she said in a grave sad tone, far beyond her years. "The doctor told mother I should never run about like other girls."
Her brother kissed her, and could make no answer. He knew it was true.
Presently the child looked up again and said, "Will going to heaven be like that, Robin?"
The boy did not catch her meaning at first.
"Like what, Corrie?" he asked.
"Like going to Oaklands," she replied, watching his lips for the answer.
"Yes, something like it, because the Lord Jesus will take us to a brighter, fairer home than we have lived in before. But heaven is more beautiful, little sister, than anything we can think of on earth."
And with this explanation, Corrie was content.
The day of the flitting was quite a festival, the children coming down from the big house to give their willing help and hearty welcome to the new occupants of Forest Lodge, for so Clarice had named the house. There were bright pictures to be nailed up on the spotless white walls for Corrie to look at, and pots of flowers to arrange, that Jonathan had brought in for the window-sills.
A comfortable old couch had been found and placed in one corner, for the invalid child to lie on. It was drawn close to the window that looked towards the wood, so that she might watch the green trees waving, and see the gay flowers in the pretty garden, that Jonathan and Robin had put into such neat order. It was indeed as perfect a home as anyone could desire; and Mrs. Campbell thought so again and again, after taking joyful possession of it. Old Jonathan was there also to give her the word of welcome.
"So glad to see you back again at Oaklands! I remember when you first came here as under-nursemaid; you were quite a young girl then. It is not many that can look back as far as we can into the history of the dear old house. Every stick on the place is dear to me."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Campbell; "I little thought to return to such rest and peace after all my troubles. 'Hitherto hath the Lord helped me,' I can truly say."
"'The Lord is thy keeper,'" responded her aged friend, "'the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore.'"
The fresh country air soon told favourably upon poor little Corrie, and it was indeed a new life for her. She revelled in the rural sights and sounds around her, and flowers were her perpetual delight. The fretted wistful expression that pain and weakness had stamped so early on her face began to wear away, and a bright contented look to come instead.
In summer she liked to lie among the fragrant swaths of hay, while Clarice and Milly played beside her; and when the days were very hot they would take her to the shady wood, to gather wild strawberries or fill her basket with flowers. The sick child was a source of continual interest to the little ladies of Oaklands, and scarcely a day passed without their paying a visit to Forest Lodge. They taught her by degrees and with much patience how to read and write, and sew and knit, that she might, as well as the stronger ones, enter into the life of busy occupation, and know how to work for others.
And whenever there was any special treat or pleasure, the crippled child was always remembered. So, although she never got quite well, Corrie's childhood grew brighter and brighter; and in her happy home, those earlier years in the dark street faded away into a dim and uncertain remembrance.
And when Robin's work was done, and he would sit beside her of an evening to tell the favourite stories, he often said, "Ah, Corrie, our happy days all began that winter when you had your first Christmas tree. Do you remember it?"