image005
"I'm sure I'm glad to hear it," said Betsy Simmons; "and I hope it'll go on."
"I hope so too," said Janet. "I shouldn't like to go back and live all in a mess again. You haven't been near me for a great while, Mrs. Simmons."
"Well, no; it does seem a good bit," said Mrs. Simmons. "But I haven't had time to spare. Fact is, whenever I can I just go across, and sit with Miss Daisy for an hour, and let Mrs. Davis get out for a little fresh air. She ain't a strong woman, and the nursing's been a long pull upon her. And I'm sure nobody knows how much longer it mayn't go on. How's your husband to-day, Mrs. Humphrey?"
"He's quite well," Janet said; "and he's doing a lot of carpentering. It's wonderful how Jem has took to carpentering lately. He always was a good hand at it, but he used to say it wasn't worth while, and I couldn't get him to do anything. And now he's talking of making all sorts of things. Just look here, he's put up these shelves for me in the corner, so as I might have more room on the dresser. And he's just now making a book-case, and we mean to get it full of books too, in time. I don't see why we shouldn't. And Tommy broke the leg of a chair lately, and Jem got up early next morning and mended it. Why, if I'd asked him a while back—"
"It isn't so very astonishing," said Mrs. Simmons. "Stands to reason, a man don't care to waste his time in ornamenting a pig-stye."
"Oh, Mrs. Simmons, it wasn't a pig-stye," said Janet, rather hurt.
"Well no, my dear, it wasn't," said Mrs. Simmons. "Folks don't spend their whole lives in scouring and scrubbing of a pig-stye, and that's what you did, pretty nearly. But for all your scouring and scrubbing, you didn't get the place clean, Mrs. Humphrey."
"No, I didn't," assented Janet meekly. "I suppose it was because I hadn't regular times for regular work, and somehow I never seemed to finish anything off."
"Just that exactly," said Mrs. Simmons. "Well, and how are the children? I hope Janey's getting to be a help to you."
"Oh, she's only a child yet," said Janet.
"She isn't too much of a child to be trained into womanly ways," said Mrs. Simmons. "Now, Mrs. Humphrey, don't you give in to being one of them selfish mothers, as are always slaving for a lot of idle children, and never making the children do a hand's turn for themselves."
"Selfish!" Janet repeated in astonishment.
"Selfish—yes. Of course it's selfish," said Mrs. Simmons; "and lazy into the bargain. Of course it's a deal less trouble to do a thing yourself, than to teach Janey how to do it, more particularly if Janey gets a troublesome fit and won't try. But it isn't a question of just now only; it's a question of by-and-by as well. You've got to prepare Janey for being a woman; and one of the first lessons you ought to teach her is how to work. Half the wives and mothers of the present day are pretty nearly useless, because they've never learnt how to work."
"I shouldn't wonder," said Janet.
"Shouldn't wonder! Why, can't you see it for yourself? Children are left to grow up anyhow, and to scramble into any sorts of ways and habits, and then people expect 'em somehow suddenly to change into sensible hard-working useful women, with no trouble ever taken to make them so. O yes, they go to school, of course. But school can't do what I mean. School don't teach them to be useful and thoughtful and tidy in their own homes. School don't teach them scrubbing and washing, and dusting and cooking. Only a mother can teach them all that, or somebody in a mother's place. And mind you, it won't come by nature. Bees gather honey by nature, but girls don't scour and darn by nature."
"Well, I'm sure I never thought about teaching Janey such things," said Janet. "I thought it would all come by-and-by. And she hasn't got much time yet, what with schooling and all. She don't mind nursing the baby for me, when she's in."
"I should hope she didn't," said Mrs. Simmons. "Mind helping her mother! A pretty pass things are coming to! You're a deal too fond of thinking what your children 'mind,' Mrs. Humphrey. What is good for them is more to the point. Teach them to do their duty in God's sight, never stopping to think about their own fancies, and let them see you doing the same, and there's some hope they'll keep straight."
"I'm not what you may call a religious talker," said Janet.
"So much the better," answered Mrs. Simmons. "What folks call a 'religious talker' is very often a sham sort of specimen. It's more important to ask if you're a religious doer, Mrs. Humphrey."
"I've been trying to do better lately," said Janet.
"Yes, I know you have. It's good, so far," said Mrs. Simmons. "And yet that isn't all. Cleanliness and order of themselves aren't religion, though they ought and must go alongside of religion. If you're truly serving God from your heart, and if you sweep your room and cook your dinner the very best you possibly can, just because you want to please God, doing it with thoughts in your heart of trying to honour Him, why then your sweeping and cooking are a part of your religion, sure enough. But not else."
"I don't know as I've given much thought that way," said Janet shamefacedly.
"I'd begin," said Mrs. Simmons gravely. "I wouldn't put off, Mrs. Humphrey. And mind, you've got to train those children of yours for Heaven. That's the work that lies ready to your hand. It isn't only a question of training them to be useful men and women by-and-by. It's a question of training them for Heaven."
"There don't seem much time," began Janet.
"There's time enough for eating and sleeping, and dressing and seeing friends," said Mrs. Simmons. "Time enough, I suppose, for everything except that. And yet that's the one thing above all that calls most for attention."
"They go to Sunday-school," said Janet.
"That's something, but it isn't enough," said Mrs. Simmons. "It is mother's teaching they want, Mrs. Humphrey. It's the teaching that will help their little feet day after day to follow in the steps of the Lord Jesus—teaching that'll make them want to serve Him, and fight against naughty ways. That's what they want. You don't think an hour or two once a week can do everything. No, no—it's home teaching as well as Sunday-school that's needed. God has given them into your hands, for training."
Janet said, "But,—" and paused.
"Yes, there's a 'but,'" said Mrs. Simmons, lowering her full hearty tones, and looking gravely at Janet. "There's a 'but,' Mrs. Humphrey. I don't quite see, for my part, how you're to manage to bring your children to the Feet of the Lord Jesus, if you haven't ever come to Him yourself, and asked Him for healing. There were mothers that brought their little ones to Him to be blessed, and He sent none of them away. But I've marked often, in my mind, how those mothers brought the children themselves. They didn't just send them by somebody else."
"IT'S gone, Daisy, gone! It's all gone! I'm a poor man now. The gold's gone—gone—gone. I haven't anything left, Daisy."
They could do nothing to comfort old Isaac Meads for his loss, so at last they brought Daisy to him. It was now a month since the robbery, and the thief had not been discovered. No one had any hope that he would ever be discovered. Too good a start had been allowed him at the first. Isaac's treasure had utterly vanished.
He had been very ill since that evening, so ill that a great part of the month had been passed in unconsciousness or in delirium. But all through his wanderings of mind, he had kept up one monotonous cry of "Gone! gone!" and now that he was creeping back to life, the same plaint went on, only more bitterly.
Strange to say, Daisy had taken a sudden turn for the better, at the very time of her father's greatest danger. She could scarcely yet stand quite alone, but she had been able to walk slowly across the room, with the help of Mary's arm, and the doctor spoke hopefully of complete restoration to health. They had hitherto kept her from her father, fearing the possible effects of excitement and distress. But at length Daisy's own pleadings and the condition of the unhappy old man prevailed. Daisy was carried across the passage in a chair, by Mary Davis and Betsy Simmons, and was set down by her father's bedside.
Daisy looked very small and thin still, after her long illness, but the bright look in her face was in strange contrast with the utterly dismal and gloomy expression of old Isaac's unshaven and fallen visage.
"Oh, poor father, isn't he changed?" she said sorrowfully, her smile clouding over. Then she laid her hand on his and said, "Father, don't you know me?"
Yes, he knew her, that was plain; and the first thing he did was to break into his pitiful cry of "Gone, gone!—all gone, Daisy!" But suddenly he paused, as if with a new thought, looked round eagerly, and tried to draw Daisy closer, muttering, "Daisy, don't you tell, now don't you tell. I've something to say to you."
The two women kindly moved away, and stood in the window, talking. Daisy bent towards him. "Yes, father," she said.
"I durstn't do anything. She'd maybe pay me out," whispered Isaac. "But mind you, Daisy, it's she has gone and taken the money. It's she. See you look out sharp and get it back, else you'll be a workhouse lass, Daisy."
Isaac's pointing thumb left no doubt as to his meaning.
"O no no, indeed," said Daisy hurriedly. "O, father. It's nothing of that sort. You mustn't think so for a moment, for it's quite untrue."
"Who was it, if it wasn't she?" demanded Isaac.
"It was somebody else," said Daisy; "somebody who got in through your window, and who had man's boots. The police know that, but they can't tell who it was. Nobody can tell. Only it was a man, father, not a woman."
"When ever is the money a-going to be found?" demanded Isaac.
He had asked that question often of Mary Davis during the last month, as she had cared for him and tended him in his helplessness, toiling hard without hope of reward, for love of Daisy; and she had answered often, to soothe him, "Oh, I dare say it won't be long first, Mr. Meads. You must have patience."
But Daisy laid her hand upon his, and said gently, "I think—perhaps—never, father."
"Never!" echoed Isaac, with a tremulous start.
"I think perhaps not," said Daisy. "I'll tell you why father. I think you have loved the gold so much that it has kept you back from caring about God and Heaven. And so it has had to be taken away. And I don't much expect it will ever come back, because then you might love it again too much, and that would be so dreadful."
"So dreadful!" repeated Isaac mechanically, not as if he understood.
"Yes, dreadful," echoed Daisy's soft voice. "It is a dreadful thing, father, to love money more than you love God. I think that must be why the gold has gone."
Isaac caught up the words, and broke anew into his sorrowful cry. "It's gone, Daisy," he moaned, "all gone! I'm a poor man now. I haven't anything left."
She let him say this over and over, as he seemed disposed, but presently she chimed in with, "Yes, father, it's all gone—all gone. You haven't anything left."
The two women looked on curiously, half inclined to remonstrate, yet half disposed to think that Daisy knew well what she was about.
"It's all gone, Daisy," repeated Isaac once more and he burst into tears.
"Yes; I'm so glad, father," said Daisy.
The old man looked up at her in startled wonderment, and Daisy smiled.
"I'm so glad it is gone, so very glad," she said.
"Why, Daisy—you don't know what you're a-saying," protested Isaac. "Why, Daisy! you'd have been a rich woman one day, with lots of gold, and now there'll be near upon nothing for you, It's all gone!" and the last word sounded like a sob.
"I don't want to be rich," said Daisy. "I don't care about riches, father. They wouldn't make me happy. I'd a great great deal rather be poor now for a few years, than see you poor, up to the very end."
"See me poor!" said Isaac, perplexed.
"Father, having gold doesn't make a man rich," said Daisy. "You've had gold, but you have been poor. I want to see you free and rich now, able to think of something better."
"Something better!" repeated Isaac helplessly.
"Something better than gold," said Daisy. "That is what I mean. As long as you had the gold you didn't seem able to think of anything else. And, father, the gold wasn't really yours,—not yours for always, for ever. You only had it for a little while. And if it hadn't been stolen from you now, you would have had to leave it soon. You couldn't have taken it with you when you died."
"I'm not a-going to die yet. Whatever makes you talk about dying?" asked Isaac uneasily.
"I think about it often," said Daisy gently. "You and I have both been so near death lately, father. We are both getting well now, but it won't be for very long, you know. Father, I don't think I should have been afraid to die. Should you?"
Isaac's glances wandered about the room uncomfortably.
"I don't know as I'd need," he said. "I haven't been so particular bad,—not like some folks. I've never took a thing that wasn't mine,—not like that thief that's stolen my money. He deserves to be hanged, he does."
Daisy was looking so pale that the two women came to her side.
"You've been here long enough," Mary said. "It's no use talking too long to him, Daisy. He don't half understand."
"I wanted to say more," Daisy answered sadly. "But I suppose I am too tired. Yes, I'll go back. Only I must come again—every day. Poor father."
DAISY came to her father again and yet again, day after day, as she had said; and as she grew better able to bear the fatigue, she stayed longer and longer with her father.
The old man's recovery was very tardy. After a while he was able to totter into the parlour, and to spend some hours in his easy-chair every afternoon; but there improvement stood still. He was by no means the man he had been before his illness.
There seemed to be failure of mind, as well as failure of body. Often his brain appeared to be surrounded by such a mist, that he could hardly grasp the sense of what was said to him. One day he would cry and sob like a child over his lost gold; and another day he would seem almost happy, in a sort of childish forgetfulness of his trouble.
As weeks went on, one change became visible, which cheered Daisy's heart greatly, and that was that he no longer showed indifference to his little daughter—Daisy was always called "little" despite her seventeen years—but clung to her and leant upon her in a way he never had done before.
Was it that the loss of his gold had left his poor old heart free to love?
Daisy thought so, and the thought made her very joyous. She was feeble still, and could do little except sit for hours together by his side; but often, in her new happiness, she broke into soft scraps of singing, and Isaac's face showed that he liked to listen.
Yet this was a time of grave anxiety to Daisy; she could not at all tell how she and her father were to live thenceforward. His money was gone. It seemed quite a necessity that his house should be sold.
John Davis was now nearly well, and was expected to be out of the hospital in a week or ten days. Mary would have to join her husband then, and everything would rest upon Daisy. She looked too small and frail for the coming burden.
"But it will be all right," Daisy said often to Mary. "It will be all right, Nursie. God will take care of us. If only father loved God, I should not mind about anything else."
Friends had been very kind in helping Daisy and her father through their time of trouble. Gifts of food and of money also had come in repeatedly, some known to Daisy, some known only to her faithful nurse. This, of course, could not be expected to continue always. She had some anxious conversations with Mr. and Mrs. Roper, about her own and her father's future.
One day she was sitting with old Isaac in the parlour, Mary Davis having gone out from Old Meadow for half a day's charing, as she had frequently done of late. Isaac seemed unusually awake and clearheaded this afternoon, and in consequence unusually disposed to lament over his lost gold. Daisy bore for some time with his sorrowful murmurs, and then she drew her chair closer to him, and took one of his aged hands between her own, and said,—
"Father, do you mean to go on always being so unhappy about the money?"
Isaac repeated the word "always," as he was given to doing. "It's gone, Daisy—gone!" he added.
"Yes, it has quite gone, father—every bit of it," said Daisy firmly. "I think God has taken it from you, because you loved it too much."
"Too much?" echoed Isaac plaintively.
"Yes,—oh, a great deal too much," said Daisy, earnest in voice and look. "You loved that bag of gold more than me, father—more than everything—more than God."
Isaac's attention seemed arrested. He repeated "More than God!" not in his usual dreamy manner, but as if awe-struck.
"Yes, more than you loved God," said Daisy, calmly and clearly. "And, father, that means that you did not love God at all, for if you had you must have loved Him best. And it means that you didn't think about the Lord Jesus, or have Him for your Saviour. And that means that if you had died, you would have had no Heaven to go to. For the gold was your god and your heaven and your everything—and, father, if you had died, you must have left that behind, and then you would have had nothing left—nothing at all."
Isaac gazed steadfastly at Daisy's flushed and eager face.
"Nothing left?" he said.
"No, nothing—nothing!" said Daisy, almost passionately, yet she spoke slowly still that he might understand. "O father, it is like the verse that I read to you yesterday out of Proverbs—'THERE IS THAT MAKETH HIMSELF RICH, YET HATH NOTHING; THERE IS THAT MAKETH HIMSELF POOR, YET HATH GREAT RICHES.' Say the words after me, father dear."
Isaac obeyed in his half-childish way, but before finishing he stopped. "Yes, I made myself rich, sure enough," he said, with a momentary gleam of satisfaction. "I toiled, and I saved, and I did it all. But I didn't make myself poor. It was that wretched thief, Daisy—as deserves to be hung too."
"We needn't think about him," said Daisy. "He will be punished some day, one way or another. People always are, if they go on in wrong-doing. I like better to think of it the other way—that God took away your money, so that you might be free to think about Him. O father, I do so want you to learn to serve God."
Isaac was silent for some seconds, and when he spoke it was with a recurrence to Daisy's text. "Makes himself rich—yet has nothing," he muttered. "That wasn't me, Daisy. I'd got lots,—only it's all gone now—all gone."
"You had lots of gold, father, but that was nothing. It couldn't make you happy. It couldn't keep you from dying. It couldn't take you to Heaven. You had the gold and you were poor; and now the gold is gone, I want you to be rich—really rich. I want you to be rich in the love of the Lord Jesus. Father dear, won't you try to come to Him, and tell Him you are sorry you haven't thought more about Him, and ask Him to forgive you everything and to make you His very own for ever?"
"I don't know that I durst," said Isaac tremblingly. "I don't know that I durst, Daisy. And I don't know how."
But when Daisy knelt beside him, and prayed aloud for him, in pleading words which presently ended in a burst of weeping, Isaac was strangely moved. He bent his head low, and tried to join in, murmuring the words after her; and when she broke down he said hurriedly, "Don't you—now don't you, Daisy. I'll never speak about the gold any more, Daisy."
THAT Isaac should never again allude to his lost gold was hardly to be expected, more especially with his infirm memory. But from that day it became apparent that a marked change was passing over the poor old man. He clung yet more to Daisy, and evidently liked to hear her voice reading from the Bible or speaking to him of the things of God, so long left utterly out of his life. And though at times he broke out into his old moanings, he would frequently check himself, saying, with sudden recollection, "No, no, I'm not a-going to cry for the gold,—am I, Daisy?" And later on he began sometimes to add, "It was God took the gold, wasn't it, Daisy?"
He was very feeble in mind, and very ignorant also. Daisy was often sorely disappointed to find how little he could understand, how rapidly the impression made upon him one hour would fade away the next. But Mr. Roper, to whom she one day confided her distress, warned her not to expect too much.
"Your father is like a child in many ways," he said, "only with less sense than a child, Daisy, and with no memory. It is of no use to attempt to teach him, as you would teach a man in full vigour. All we can do is to lead him on gently, by very short steps, and in very simple paths. If he can take in the two great truths, first that he is a helpless sinner, and secondly that Christ is able and willing to save him, it is as much as we can hope for." And Daisy was comforted.
John Davis was by this time out of hospital, but instead of his wife going to him, he had joined his wife at Old Meadow. The girl, Bess, had been dismissed, and Mary did all the house-work and cooking, besides attending to the wants of Daisy and her father, and besides taking many a half-day's charing. John was by no means so capable a man bodily as he had once been, but he found work without difficulty, much interest being felt in his case. And as he had now signed the pledge, and as he kept it, he worked more steadily than of old, and thereby actually made more money than when his bodily strength had been greater. He and his wife thenceforward had their abode in the kitchen regions of the old house, having house-room free, but costing Isaac nothing in the way of food, and saving him the expense of a servant.
The arrangement was a happy one. As months went on, however, it became apparent that a change was inevitable. Old Meadow would have to be sold. Daisy could see no loophole of escape from this conclusion. Through the gifts of kind friends, and the disposal of certain useless articles of furniture, she had managed to keep on for a while, but she knew that to keep on thus much longer was a simple impossibility.
The thought of leaving her home was a trouble to Daisy, and she could not for a long while resolve to tell her father what was impending. When she did, he was terribly upset, and cried like a child. He was angry also, and spoke to Daisy as he had not spoken for a long while. Daisy was firm, though grieved, and she told him that it would have to be. They had nothing to live upon, and the house and garden would bring in a nice sum of money.
Isaac seized upon this idea suddenly, as if it were quite new to him. "Bring in money! Why, it'll bring in lots," he said eagerly. "Lots of gold, Daisy!" and the old greedy glitter might be seen in his eyes.
"Father, are you going to love the gold again?" asked Daisy sorrowfully. "You can't love money and love God as well."
But Isaac did not attend to what she said. He was strangely absent and restless, all that evening and all the next day. And instead of his former dislike to parting with the house, he now seemed quite eager to get rid of it as fast as possible. Daisy found the whole thing suddenly taken out of her hands.
The selling of the house was a matter of no difficulty. Mr. Marriott, a wealthy gentleman to whom most of the land in and around Banks belonged, had long wished to add to his possessions Old Meadow and the ground upon which it stood. As soon as he heard of Isaac's intentions, he offered a fair and liberal sum. Isaac Meads closed with the offer immediately, and the affair was quickly settled. Isaac's stipulation, that the full amount should be paid over into his own hands the day before that on which he and Daisy would quit Old Meadow, met with no opposition.
Daisy awaited that day in fear and trembling. A small low-rented cottage was found, and some of the old worn furniture was removed thither. John and Mary Davis would still reside under Isaac's roof, as before. Daisy was becoming quite reconciled to the thought of the move, and she even looked forward with positive pleasure to the tidy bright little cottage, instead of this rambling and gloomy place.
But how if the old money greed were to seize anew upon Isaac, shadowing their lives again?
Isaac's restlessness and abstraction increased day by day. He often refused now to let Daisy read to him out of the Bible, and checked her when she would have spoken of God. His manner quite ceased to be affectionate, and the eager unhappy look, of late absent from his face, was creeping over it once more.
Daisy could do little except pray for him. She had no power to meet the threatening evil.
The day of the money-payment at length came.
All through the night before Isaac had not slept. Daisy knew this, for his bed was undisturbed. He had not taken off his clothes or lain down at all. The old slavery to gold was tugging at his heartstrings, and he could not rest. At breakfast he seemed fractious and miserable.
Mrs. Roper appeared afterwards for a few minutes. She knew how things were, and she and her husband were very sorry for Daisy's new anxiety. Mrs. Roper hoped to have a few words with Isaac about investing the money that was coming to him; but when she spoke, she found his mind to be in a hopelessly stolid and dense condition. He either could not or would not understand a word that she uttered.
Then Mrs. Roper went away, and Mr. Marriott's agent and attorney came in. The business was very soon completed. Old Meadow belonged no more to Isaac Meads; but Isaac sat in the parlour, a bundle of bank-notes clasped in one withered hand, a small bag of gold pieces hugged to him by the other, and an expression of stealthy satisfaction in his face.
"Father, we must put this into the Bank for you," said Daisy.
Isaac looked up at her, chuckling. "Gold—gold, Daisy," he said exultingly. "Fifty pieces of gold in here, and lots more when I've changed all the bank-notes. Gold, Daisy!"
"Father, we must put all this money into the Bank at once, or it will be stolen," said Daisy steadily. "Then we can think what to do with it. Mr. Roper will advise us."
"I'm not a-going to have one penny of it in a Bank," retorted Isaac loudly. "The Banks are always a-failing. I'll keep it myself, so as no one shall get at it. I'll change all the notes for gold as soon as ever I can, and I'll lock it up safe—safe, Daisy."
"But the last was not safe," said Daisy. "It was stolen, in spite of all you could do. And there will be no secret places in our new home, father. And if the money is properly invested, Mr. Roper says it will bring in enough for you and me to live on; but if we keep it locked up and use it bit by bit, it will by-and-by be all gone."
"I'm not a-going to use it," said Isaac, "nor to spend it. I'm going to lock it up safe, so as nobody shall get at it."
"But, father, we have nothing else to live upon," said Daisy.
She could make no impression on him. He hugged his newly-gotten treasure tightly, and refused to answer her. All day he sat thus, gloating over it, seeming to care for nothing else.
Was gold once more to usurp dominion over his whole being, as the idol of his aged heart?
Daisy sorrowfully considered what to do, and consulted with Mary. They took care that he should be alone all day, fearing that a report might get about of the money in the house. Old Isaac, generally so drowsy, did not sleep; neither did he show any inclination to eat. But this could not continue. Towards evening they found that he was becoming very heavy; and at length, as he nodded in his easy-chair, the bundle of notes almost slipped from his grasp. Daisy gently took hold of it, and tried to draw it away. But Isaac in a moment was awake, and he struck at her savagely. Daisy narrowly escaped a severe blow.
A few minutes later Mr. Roper came in, and was made acquainted with the state of affairs. "This will never do," he said. "The money will be stolen to a certainty. I think you had better let me have some conversation with your father, Daisy. I will try to make him understand the danger of keeping so large a sum lying about."
"I am afraid it will be of no use," Daisy said sadly. "But do please try."
Mr. Roper went alone to the parlour, and the interview following was a very long one. A less kind and patient man would have given up the attempt in half the time. But Mr. Roper persevered, going over and over the same ground, repeating the same arguments, bearing with the old man's dulness and obstinacy, and at length his efforts met with partial success.
The parlour door opened, and Mr. Roper said, "Daisy!"
Daisy quickly answered the call, and found her father tottering towards the front door.
"Daisy, your father is going to pay his notes into the Bank at once for greater safety. He wishes to do it himself, so I will accompany him. I think he will manage that little distance, with the help of my arm. Where is his great-coat?"
"Oh, thank you!" said Daisy almost breathlessly.
"I have promised not to interfere about the bag of gold," Mr. Roper added in a lower voice. "It is not safe his keeping that about him; but the chief part of the money will be secured. You and I will have some conversation another day as to the investment of it."
Daisy could only repeat her "Oh, thank you," marvelling at his success. She brought her father's shabby hat and tindery great-coat, and watched him totter feebly down the road, leaning on Mr. Roper's strong arm, and muttering to himself.
The Bank was not three minutes' quick walk distant, but a good half-hour went by before the two came back. Isaac said nothing to Daisy. He reached his easy-chair, and sank into it with a groan. Then he drew out from under his great-coat the little bag of gold pieces.
"He has that still," said Daisy.
"Yes," Mr. Roper answered; "I must leave that to you. Here is the bank-book, Daisy. It is best in your charge. Put it safely away, and I do not think your father will remember to ask you for it. He seems content with the gold."
"CONTENT with the gold." That described Isaac's present state. He had gone back to the worship of his old idol.
Next day the move took place. Neither Isaac nor Daisy could walk so far as to their new home; and indeed poor old Isaac seemed quite spent with his unwonted exertion of the evening before. So a fly conveyed them together; Isaac hugging the bag of gold under his great-coat, caring for nothing else. He hardly spoke to Daisy, hardly looked at her. He seemed to want only to be alone, that he might enjoy his treasure. His former caution had forsaken him, and he was no longer willing to wait for the evening. The moment he was by himself, out came the wash-leather bag.
Matters went on so for two or three days. Isaac was sinking back into his old state.
Daisy could not be happy to leave him thus. Though the chief part of the purchase-money was safe, Isaac himself was not safe. She knew her poor old father to be in real and terrible peril. Daisy thought much and prayed much about her own mode of action. She feared greatly to take a wrong step; and the right opportunity for speech could not easily be found.
Every evening, before going to bed, Daisy read some verses to Isaac from the Bible. He had not refused to hear her the last few nights, but he had paid no manner of attention. She might almost as well have read to a stone wall.
The third night in the new home had come, and Daisy read as usual, old Isaac sitting opposite with an air of stolid indifference, while his fingers felt for the string of his bag.
Daisy suddenly put the Bible down, and said slowly,—.
"Father, there is that maketh himself rich, yet hath, NOTHING!"
"Eh?" said Isaac, his attention caught by her change of voice.
Daisy repeated the words distinctly, and a stirred look passed over his face.
"I've been poor," he muttered. "It was all gone—all. But I'm rich again now. I've got gold—gold, Daisy!"
"No, no; it is just the other way," said Daisy. "You have been getting rich lately, and now you are poor again." She came near and laid her hands on his. "Oh father, can't you see? It is a real great danger. If you keep this money, you'll love it again as much as ever, and then you will not care to hear about God, or to do His will. And when you die you will have no Saviour—no Heaven. Think, how dreadful."
"No—Heaven!" repeated Isaac.
"Not if you love this money best, father. It will come between you and God, and cut you off from Heaven. Oh, you had much much better put it behind the fire."
"Why, Daisy!" Isaac said in amaze, quite roused up. "Why, Daisy, you're mad. You wouldn't have me throw it into the fire. It's gold, Daisy—gold."
"Yes, poor miserable gold," said Daisy. "It is gold, father, real gold. I know that. You love those gold pieces dearly; more than you love me."
"No, no, I don't know as I'd say that, Daisy," put in the old man, with a gleam of his late affection for her.
"More than you love God, father."
Isaac was silent.
"And yet they can't give you back any love,—they can't help you,—and when you die, you will have to leave them all behind. What will you do then? O father, think, is it worth while?" asked Daisy, and tears streamed from her eyes.
Isaac looked uneasily at her.
"I think it is like that text," said Daisy, "'What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul, or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?' The bag of gold is 'the whole world' to you just now, father."
"What 'ud you have me do, Daisy?" asked Isaac, with a perplexed air, and Daisy's heart sprang.
"I'd have you give up the gold, father," she cried eagerly. "It isn't safe for you to keep. It shall be taken care of for you; and we shall have plenty of money coming in every quarter to keep us going; plenty, for I mean to be very careful. And Mr. Roper will arrange it all for us. But if you keep that gold and love it so, father, you'll never be really happy. It will hang on you like a weight, and drag you back from serving God. Won't you give it up?"
There came a long pause. Isaac seemed to be thinking, with his head sunk on his chest. Daisy's hand lay still upon his.
"Father, the Lord Jesus loved you and died for you," she said softly, after a while. "And He wants you to love Him and serve Him. But I don't see how you can, if you keep that gold and love it best of all."
"No, I don't see how I can," echoed old Isaac.
Then, quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he pulled out the wash-leather bag, and held it with both hands towards Daisy.
"Take it all, Daisy—quick—quick," he said. "And don't you ever let me set eyes on it again."
Daisy caught the bag from him, and fled out of the room, as if she had been carrying a very serpent from his path. She ran to the kitchen, and then and there she sent Mary Davis straight off to Mr. Roper, asking him to take charge of the fifty pounds, and pay the sum next morning into the Bank, which would now be closed. Daisy knew she could thoroughly depend on the faithful Mary.
Coming back to the tiny parlour, she found Isaac crying and sobbing in his childish fashion, with his old moan of "Gone—gone—gone—all gone!"
"Yes, it's gone, father, gone to the Bank," said Daisy brightly. "Quite safe there, till we want it. And the danger is gone, too, thank God."
"Danger gone!" repeated Isaac in his dreamy fashion, and he added, "But it do go against the grain, Daisy."
"It won't in a little while," said Daisy. "It will be all right soon."
She began singing softly one of her favourite hymns, and Isaac presently fell sound asleep. When he awoke, an hour later, strange to say the longing for his bag of gold seemed for the time to have left him. He was quiet and affectionate towards Daisy once more, as he had been before it came into his possession.
As weeks and months passed by, this quiet content increased; and gradually the hunger after gold appeared to die quite out of Isaac's heart.
For a new heavenly treasure was taking the place of the old earthly treasure, and thus all sense of craving was stilled.
Isaac did not know much, could not understand much. But the aged eyes which had once glittered at the chink of coin, might now be seen to shine with happiness when Daisy read to him holy words from the Book of Life. A marked change passed over the old man. He ceased to be peevish and ill-tempered and untidy. Daisy made it her delight to attend to his needs, and he was at last willing to leave everything in her hands.
"In fact, he's like another man," Mrs. Simmons said. "I wouldn't know him for Mr. Meads, if I met him in another place. Dressed so decent and respectable, and ready to give a civil answer to any body that comes near him. I declare I never could have thought it! And Miss Daisy seems that happy, she can scarce contain herself."
THE END
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. Edinburgh & London