IT was the evening before Granfer's birthday, and Mr. and Mrs. Maple had gone for a stroll together, leaving the house in the charge of Nellie and Bessie, with instructions that they were to wash up the tea things and feed the poultry during their parents' absence.
Granfer sat in his accustomed seat, for though it was May, and the weather quite mild, there was a cheerful log fire on the hearth, and the old man was glad of the warmth.
When the children had finished their duties, they joined their grandfather, and Nellie commenced a conversation by saying:
"Your birthday cake in the larder looks delicious, Granfer! Mother has baked it beautifully!"
"She showed it to me," he replied. "Ah! I had hoped the little lady from Coombe Villa would have been here to tea, to taste it; but I suppose it will be some days before she will be able to walk as far as this?"
"Yes," Bessie answered, "though her foot is much better. Mr. Manners called us in to see her when we were coming home from school to-day, and she can walk a little; but Mrs. Gray says the sprain will pass quicker if she rests her foot a bit longer."
"Oh, Granfer," Nellie cried, "we saw the picture Mr. Manners is painting; he showed it to us; wasn't it kind of him?"
"Very kind," Mr. Norris agreed; "he seems a nice gentleman."
"He is indeed! Mother says he is like Uncle David!"
"Eh? What?" cried the old man.
"Like Uncle David, Granfer, and he's called David too!"
"Yes, yes!"
He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, and presently two big tears gathered in his eyes and rolled slowly down his withered cheeks. The little girls looked at him in mingled surprise and awe, and Bessie crept to his side and laid her soft cheek against his shoulder.
"Don't cry, dear, dear Granfer," she whispered. "Oh, don't cry!"
"Ah, child," he answered sadly, "if I could but have my heart's desire, and see my boy once more; and if that is too much to ask of God, I wish I could know that my harshness did not spoil David's life!"
"Why, here come mother and father back already!" Nellie cried in astonishment as the door opened, and her parents crossed the threshold. "They cannot have gone far!"
The children noticed at once that their mother looked agitated and flushed, but, though her eyes were full of tears, they shone with a bright, glad expression. She came to her father's side, and took one of his hands in a firm clasp.
"Father, can you bear news—blessed news?" she asked simply. "Oh, my dear father!"
He looked at her doubtfully, and she continued in hurried accents very unlike her usually calm tones:
"Just now we met Mr. Manners, little Miss Una's father, and he tells us that he has news of David!"
"Of David?"
"Yes, he says that David is well and prosperous!"
"Thank God for that!" the old man exclaimed fervently.
"And that he is coming to see us!" Mrs. Maple continued. "He may be here any moment!"
"Let me go to meet him!" Granfer cried excitedly.
"No, father, not yet! There is more to tell! David has been living near us some time, but he never came to see us because he was afraid you were angry and bitter against him still; and father, he has a child of his own whom you already dearly love! Oh, cannot you guess who our David is?"
The old man shook his head, and looked around him in painful bewilderment. Suddenly Nellie gave a little cry of glad surprise.
"Oh, I know, I know!" she cried excitedly. "Uncle David is Mr. Manners, and Una is our cousin!"
"Yes," Mrs. Maple replied, "you have guessed rightly, Nellie." And turning again to Mr. Norris she said: "Una is your own grandchild, father; do you understand now?"
Granfer made no response in words, but his full heart arose in a prayer of thanksgiving to God. There was a brief silence, then the farmer beckoned to the children to follow him, and together the three left the kitchen, while Mrs. Maple hurried to the door and spoke to some one who was waiting without.
"I have told him, David," she said softly. "You can come in and see him now!"
Granfer turned his head quickly, and peered at the tall form that came to his side with outstretched hands that sought his own.
"Father, forgive me!"
It was his son David's voice, and the old man trembled exceedingly, whilst his quivering lips murmured the two words: "My son!"
Mrs. Maple stole gently away to join her husband and children, and to have a good cry, because, as she said, she was so very, very glad.
Then, after an hour had passed, they all returned to the kitchen to find father and son seated side by side talking quietly and happily.
"This is the one like you, David," Granfer said, calling Bessie to him. "I wonder you never noticed the likeness yourself! Your little Una does not favour you in the least!"
"No, she is like her mother, and I am glad she is!"
"Her mother must have been a very sweet woman, I am sure," Mrs. Maple said.
"She was indeed. Her death was a great trouble to me; we had only been married eighteen months when she died. My little daughter is very fond of you, father."
"Yes, she is," the old man admitted, smiling with pleasure. "The first time we met she asked if she might call me Granfer."
"Did she really? How strange!"
"And it was she who led me to pray for you, David: I never did till your child suggested it! God bless her!"
"She is a dear little soul—my Una! Ah, she has looked forward joyfully to the return of your son, never dreaming him to be her own father!"
"Have you not told her yet?" Mrs. Maple asked.
"No, but I shall do so to-morrow."
"Cannot you manage to bring her here to tea? It is father's eightieth birthday, you know, and he will want you and Una to taste his birthday cake. Oh, you must come, David!" Mrs. Maple said appealingly.
"I will certainly see if it can be managed in some way," he responded smiling.
"We will send the gig up to Coombe Villa to fetch you," the farmer offered hospitably.
"Thank you; if you do, we will certainly come. Una will be delighted, I know."
"Shall we call you Uncle David now?" Bessie asked, looking up into her new-found uncle's face, with shy, dark eyes.
"Yes, indeed you must, and Una is your cousin, remember. But my name is really Manners," he added, turning to Granfer. "It was my wife's maiden name, and on our marriage her father stipulated I should take his name on account of some property which had to come to his daughter at his death. He died seven years ago."
Mr. Manners remained some time longer, but at last he rose to leave, saying that Una would wonder what had become of him; and after he had gone a silence fell upon the little party in the farm-kitchen, which was broken only by Mrs. Maple remarking:
"I feel as though I must be dreaming! I cannot realise that he is really David—can you, father?"
"Yes, I recognised his voice in a moment. I had never seen him since he came to live at Coombe Villa except in church, but if I had met him face to face, I should have known him immediately," the old man declared, with conviction in his tones. "God has been very merciful to me, and heard my prayers, and I am happier to-night than I have been for years—indeed ever since David went away."
"Will Uncle David show you the beautiful picture he is painting, Granfer?" Bessie asked. "Oh, you will want to see it, won't you?"
"Yes, I shall," he acknowledged. "Do you remember, Bessie, when you said if painting was his talent, it would have been wrong for him not to use it?"
"Of course I do, Granfer!"
"You were quite right, my dear, quite right!"
"Has God given you your heart's desire, Granfer?" Nellie questioned softly.
"Ay, that He has!"
"And now you will be so happy, won't you?" the little girl continued: "and you shall have such a beautiful birthday, and Uncle David and Una will come to tea, and we shall all have such a lovely time together! Oh, I wonder what Una will say when she knows that you are really and truly her grandfather?"
"She will be very pleased, I feel sure," Mrs. Maple said, her face beaming with happiness. "You children shall have a holiday from school to-morrow, and then you will be able to help me get everything straight by the time our visitors arrive!"
FAIR dawned the morning of Granfer's eightieth birthday. The sun rose behind a gray mist which it quickly dispelled, and shone on a world decked with fresh green fields, tender budding leaves, and myriads of flowers. Never during all the eighty years of his long life had Granfer seen a more beautiful May morning; never had his heart beat happier, or his soul been filled with a greater joy, than to-day as he came downstairs to be greeted with good wishes, loving kisses, and kindly looks from each member of the family in turn.
At Coombe Villa Mr. Manners was awake and up early. He went into the garden and gathered a bunch of flowers for his little girl; then returned to the house to wait till she should come downstairs. At last she entered the room, looking a trifle pale still as a result of the shock of her fall, and limping in her walk, but smiling and bright as ever.
"Oh, you dear old father!" she cried when she caught sight of the flowers. "I know those are for me!"
She went up to him and put her arms around his neck, giving him a tender, loving kiss.
"Has my darling slept well?" he enquired.
"I fell asleep the minute I was in bed, and never woke up till Nanny called me just now," she answered.
"Is it not a lovely morning?"
"Beautiful. There has been a heavy dew during the night, and everything in the garden is the fresher for it."
"It is Granfer's birthday," she reminded him. "I wonder if his son has come home?"
"Yes, Una; he returned last night!"
"Oh!"
For a moment she said no more; her lips trembled with emotion, and her eyes shone through a mist of tears. Presently she said simply:
"God has answered Granfer's prayers at last."
Her father kissed her again and again.
"Was Granfer very delighted to see him?" she asked. "How did you know, father?"
Then he told her the whole story, how he himself was Granfer's son, and how he had gone to Lowercoombe Farm the night before and become reconciled to his father. She listened in silence, too amazed to utter a word, but there was a glad light upon her face and joy in her tremulous smile.
"So you see, Una darling, Granfer is your grandfather as well as Nellie's and Bessie's; and Mrs. Maple is my sister Mary, and your aunt," Mr. Manners said in conclusion. "They are so pleased to think that you are related to them, and I have promised that we will have tea at the farm this afternoon because it is Granfer's birthday, and he wishes it."
"Oh!" cried Una again, with a little gasp of astonishment. "Oh, how wonderful! Father, you only told me half the secret, after all! You never said you were Granter's son! I am so glad you are! Oh, dear Granfer, how pleased and happy he must be!"
"And I am happy too, Una, happier than I have been for many a long year. It was you who told me my father had forgiven me and wished to see me again."
"Granfer loves you so much, father darling, and I am sure you love him, don't you? Fancy Nellie and Bessie being my cousins! But I don't think I can care for them any more than I do now, because I am really very fond of both of them, and I'm sure I don't know which I like best!"
Una was full of excitement. After breakfast there was Nanny to be told the wonderful news, and to the little girl's great astonishment she discovered that her nurse was not so surprised as she had anticipated she would be.
"I have guessed your father was old Mr. Norris's son for some while now," Nanny confessed, "on account of different things I have heard Mrs. Maple say about her brother, and by putting two and two together. I am glad it has come out at last. Ah, Miss Una, this life is too short for folks who love each other to be angry long; we ought to learn to forgive and forget!"
"Granfer is not angry now!" Una said quickly, fearful lest Nanny should not have grasped that fact.
"I should think not! There, dear, I won't say a word against your grandfather, for I believe the good Lord has really softened his heart; even to my eyes, he doesn't look quite so grim as he used," and Nanny gave Una a kiss, adding gently, "God does everything for the best, my dear, and He makes all right in the end!"
At four o'clock the gig arrived from Lowercoombe Farm, driven by the farmer himself, and with the faithful Rags in attendance.
"I hope you are going to take kindly to your new uncle?" Mr. Maple said with a merry twinkle in his eye as he lifted Una in his arms to put her into the conveyance.
For answer the little girl clasped him tightly round the neck, and, after pressing a kiss on his bronzed cheek, answered promptly:
"Indeed, I love you very dearly already! You are so very kind!"
They drove off, Una seated between her father and the farmer, the latter amusing her with an account of how the tame lamb was daily growing bolder, so that they had great difficulty in keeping it out of the house.
"It's so tame that it follows my wife everywhere," he declared, "and she has to shut it up on Sundays when we go to church, or we should never keep it at home!"
In ten minutes they arrived at Lowercoombe Farm, where Una was carried into the kitchen, and surrounded by her aunt, and grandfather, and the children. They had so many questions to ask and to be answered, and made so much of her, that she felt quite bewildered at first; but by-and-by she noticed that Granfer was wearing the suit of clothes he usually wore on Sundays, and that Mrs. Maple and Nellie and Bessie were attired in their best gowns in honour of the day.
Presently, they had tea in the best parlour, which room was only used on great occasions, or when there were visitors at the farm. Una sat between her father and grandfather in a sort of dream-like happiness. In the centre of the table was Granfer's birthday cake, which he cut himself, and every one declared to be most delicious.
The old man and each member of the little party seemed merry and pleased. Now and again Una met her father's eyes and smiled in answer to his affectionate glance that mutely asked if she was happy and content. She was both, though it seemed very strange to find herself and her father so much at home at Lowercoombe Farm.
During the evening the little girl had a few words alone with her grandfather, and took the opportunity to tell him how glad she was to know of the relationship between them.
"God has been very good to me, my dear," he said gratefully. "He has given me back my son."
"Yes," she answered, smiling brightly, "God is good." She took his hand in her little, soft fingers, and looked tenderly into his aged face, as she added lovingly:
"He has given me my Granfer too!"
IT was a wretched evening, only a few days before the joyful Christmas season. The weather was damp and chill, and the London streets were slippery and comfortless. Pale, shivering forms sheltered themselves in every conceivable nook which was safe, for a time at any rate, from the keen scrutiny of the police; business men and women were wending their different ways homewards from the City, and the theatres and other places of amusement were not yet open. The shops were with enticing articles displayed to the best advantage, and many a poor child stood wistfully gazing at the fruit in the grocers' windows, so temptingly set out, as though to purposely tantalize hungry eyes.
And then the toys! Wonderful inventions made for the children of the wealthy! Engines worked by machinery! Dolls that opened and shut their eyes, and even walked and talked! Noah's arks of marvellous workmanship, containing every known animal on the face of the globe!
A young man, hurrying along, turned his head and glanced smilingly at a shop window full of dolls of all sizes and conditions and prices, from the gorgeously apparelled waxen bride-dollie in satin and orange blossom to her penny Dutch sister with flat figure and nondescript features.
"That would be the place to buy a doll for Nellie!" exclaimed the young man, as he came to a full stop and stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing at the motley faces that seemed to stare at him unblinkingly with their glassy eyes. "I suppose she would rather have a doll than anything else, although she has so many already!"
He was a good-looking lad, a medical student, Jim Blewett by name, and Nellie was the only child of his brother in Cornwall, and a great favourite with her uncle.
"I think I could afford half-a-sovereign," he ruminated; "for that price it would appear one can get a most desirable dollie!"
He was turning into the doorway of the shop when he espied a child at his side, watching him with great interest, and he paused. She was a little girl of about seven years old, with a pale, thin face, and large dark eyes. She drew back when she saw he had observed her, and coloured. His shrewd glance noted she was poorly though neatly clad, and that her toes had worn through her boots, whilst her head was covered by an old sailor hat much too large for her, and with a dilapidated brim.
"I suppose I must have been talking aloud," Jim Blewett thought; then nodded encouragingly at the child, who responded with a smile.
The young man was not a Londoner; he was only studying at one of the London hospitals, and looking forward to the day when, fully qualified, he would be at liberty to practise his profession in the country. Brought up in a small provincial town, where he had known all the inhabitants, at any rate by sight, he could never understand the unconcern with which Londoners regard those who cross their path. He was always picking up acquaintances in an eccentric manner, as his fellow students declared, or mixing himself up in other people's business.
"It would be a much more unhappy world than it is, if no one interfered with what did not immediately affect himself!" Jim would retort good-naturedly. He was certainly in disposition very unlike the priest and the Levite in the parable, for he was always ready to go out of his way to assist any one; his desire was to be neighbourly to all the world. The young man was a general favourite, and though many of his acquaintances laughed at him, they could not help admiring him for his open, manly Christianity.
"Well, little one," he said cheerily, "are you having a peep at the dolls?"
"Yes, sir," the little girl responded, in a slightly abashed tone.
"I suppose you have a doll of your own at home?" he proceeded to enquire.
The child shook her head, whilst a smile crossed her face, as though she was amused at the thought. Then she turned to the window again and sighed. After watching her a few moments in silence, Jim drew nearer and asked:
"If you had the money, which would you buy?" She glanced at him doubtfully, being mistrustful of a stranger, but, reassured by his kind face, pointed to a large rosy-cheeked doll, in a gaudy amber-coloured frock. Jim saw it was ticketed half-a-crown.
"If I gave you that doll, would you be pleased?"
She looked at him hesitatingly, then drew back, the tears springing to her eyes, her cheeks crimsoning.
"You're making game of me!" she cried.
"On my honour I am not! See here!" Jim seized the child's chill hand in his warm clasp, and drew her into the brilliantly-lighted shop. "Will you please let us see one of the dolls in the window?" he asked of the young woman who came forward to serve him. "It is the one in the yellow dress we want. The one marked half-a-crown."
In a minute the much-coveted doll was laid on the counter, and Jim turned to his companion.
"Is that the one you would like?"
The little girl lifted her eyes to his smiling countenance, her face alternately paling and flushing with excitement.
"Oh, sir!" she gasped. "Oh, sir! Do you really mean it?"
"Mean it? Of course I do! I'm going to give you a Christmas present because I have a little niece about your age, and you remind me of her, and I know if she was here she would want you to have this doll!"
"Oh!"
"I will put the doll in paper," said the young woman behind the counter.
"Perhaps you would rather take her as she is?" asked Jim. "Or shall the lady wrap her up for you?"
"She might feel the cold!" the child answered, looking at the doll with longing eyes.
"She might," he agreed laughingly. "We will have her put in paper, please."
The assistant turned aside, and in a minute brought forward a cardboard box, into which she carefully laid the doll, then, after wrapping the box in paper and securely fastening the parcel with a string, she handed it across the counter.
"There, my dear," she said, as the little girl took possession of her present, "your doll will be perfectly safe now."
"Oh, thank you, ma'am!"
"Thank you," Jim said, as he paid his half-a-crown. "You are very good to take so much trouble!"
"Not at all, sir! I am only too pleased!"
The young woman, who was weary with standing all day, and had been feeling decidedly cross and disheartened, seemed considerably cheered by the sale of the doll. She watched Jim and his companion leave the shop with interested eyes.
"What an odd couple!" she thought. "Fancy him spending his money on that street child! Well, he must have a kind heart!"
Meanwhile Jim Blewett was saying good-bye, and refusing to listen to the thanks which the delighted little girl was trying to put into words.
"Run away home," he said, "and take care of your dollie. I hope she'll be a good child, and give you no trouble!"
"Oh, sir! I can never, never thank you!"
"Never mind. I don't want thanks. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, sir!"
The child gave him a long look full of gratitude; then, clasping her treasure closely in her arms, she darted down the street, and was soon lost in the hurrying crowd of pedestrians.
"Poor little soul!" Jim thought. "I'm glad I was able to gratify her desire. Well, Miss Nellie will not have such an expensive present as I intended, but she won't mind, and I think I'll write and tell her of this little adventure; she will be interested."
The young man hastened home, swinging along with easy strides, his thoughts busy with his little niece in Cornwall and the child whom he had rendered happy in his impulsive way. Arrived at his lodgings, he found his tea awaiting him, and his landlady forgot her household cares as she answered his cheery greeting.
"A dull evening, Mrs. Metherell," he remarked, as she brought in the tea-pot, and he sat down to his frugal meal; "but I never mind the weather! We shall soon have Christmas now, and I begin to feel quite Christmassy already!"
"OH, how my eyes ache!"
The speaker, a weary-looking woman, was seated stitching away by the light of a single candle. She was a button-hole maker, so what wonder if her poor eyes did ache! To make button-holes from early morning till late at night is no easy task; but Mrs. Blundell was not usually a grumbler, and she rarely complained. To-night she was very tired, and a fear that had haunted her for months took strong hold upon her, and filled her soul with dismay. Supposing there should be something really amiss with her eyes—more than weariness? Supposing her precious sight should be really leaving her? She shuddered at the thought, for she had two children to support, and, as things were, existence was hard enough.
But Mrs. Blundell was one who always put a stout heart to a stiff hill. She had been country bred, and had come to London as a wife ten years ago. Her husband, a house painter by trade, had been led astray by evil companions, and had taken to drink and gambling. The downward path is always a swift one, and so it had been in John Blundell's case. When he had died, nearly two years since, he had left his widow and two little girls totally unprovided for; and Mrs. Blundell continued to work as a button-hole maker, as she had done during her husband's lifetime, in order to supply those necessaries which were so hard to provide.
"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,' the poor woman had murmured to herself over and over again when the weight of care thrown upon her would have seemed unbearable except for that great promise. She had learnt to turn to her Heavenly Father for assistance in time of trouble, and trusted in Him with all her heart. But to-night she was wearied out, mentally and bodily; and as she glanced round the garret that was home to her and her children she shuddered at the thought that even this humble abode might not be theirs much longer.
"Mother!"
The voice, weak and plaintive in tone, proceeded from a bed in a corner of the room, where a little girl of about eight years of age was lying.
"Yes, my darling!"
The mother spoke in tender, caressing accents, which she strove to make cheerful for her sick child's sake. Little Annie was always ill. She suffered from a spinal complaint, and only Mrs. Blundell knew that it was the result of a fall she had had from her father's arms when an infant. John Blundell had been intoxicated when the accident had happened, and, though it had been a shock to him at the time, he had soon recovered from his fright, although Annie had never had a day's health since.
"Oh, mother, do put down your work, and rest your poor eyes!"
"Presently, my dear; I am not going to do much more to-night. Have you been asleep, Annie?"
"Yes, mother. Where is Maggie?"
"I sent her out to get some thread an hour ago. She ought to be back by this time."
"I expect she is looking at the shops. She was telling me this morning how they were. Oh, how I wish I could see them!"
"I wish so too, Annie."
"It does seem hard not to be able to get about like Maggie. Oh, mother, why are we so poor? Has God forgotten us, do you think?"
"Oh, hush, my dear! No! God has not forgotten us; that is impossible! All the world may forget us, but not God!"
"But, mother, it's so hard to be poor at Christmas time!"
"Oh, Annie, don't say that! The joy of the Christmas season has nothing to do with riches, although it must be pleasant to be able to give happiness to others for Christ's sake. If we have no money to buy presents for those we love, the love is in our hearts the same; and the angels' message was to the whole world, rich and poor alike. Never mind our poverty, Annie, so long as Jesus is with us. Have you forgotten how He was born in a stable, and cradled in a manger, because His mother was of so little account that they could not make room for her in the inn?"
"Oh, mother, I do remember, but—"
"He was poor all His life," Mrs. Blundell continued softly, "and His friends were the working people. That thought has helped me to bear a great deal, for He understands all our trials and sorrows."
"Still, I should like to have some money to buy presents for you and Maggie, mother?"
"What would you give me, my dear?"
"A new gown, mother; it should be so warm and soft! I am not sure what I would give Maggie! A pretty new hat, I think, for that old sailor hat of hers is dreadfully shabby."
There was silence for a few minutes, then the sick child spoke again:
"Mother, I can't see the stars to-night; I expect it is raining."
Mrs. Blundell put down her work, and rising, went to the tiny window, and looked out.
"It is very misty," she said. "I do wish Maggie would come! Where can she be?"
"She is coming, mother!"
Annie's quick ears had told her truly, for in another minute the rickety door was flung open, and a breathless little figure ran into the room, and stood panting before her astonished mother and sister.
"Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Blundell, with mingled anxiety and reproof in her voice. "Where have you been?"
For answer the child laughed—a clear, ringing laugh, full of pure enjoyment, that echoed strangely through the miserable garret. Annie raised herself on her elbow, her eyes open wide with amazement, whilst Mrs. Blundell pointed to the parcel in Maggie's arms for an explanation.
"Oh!" the excited little girl cried at length. "You'll never guess what has happened."
She laid the parcel on the bed, and bade Annie open it, then stood by, somewhat impatiently watching the weak, tremulous fingers as they fumbled with the string. The cover was removed from the box at last, and the doll in the bright amber gown lay revealed.
For a moment there was an awed silence; then:
"Where did she come from, Maggie? Who is she for?"
"She is for you, Annie," Maggie answered brightly, "for your very own! A Christmas present! A gentleman gave her to me, and I ran as fast as ever I could to bring her home to you! You remember my telling you yesterday about that shop where there was a big window full of dolls? Well, I was looking in, and the gentleman asked me which doll I would like if I had the money to buy her; and then, when I told him, he took me into the shop and gave her to me!"
"Oh, Maggie!"
"And the lady in the shop put her in this box because she should not get damp," the excited child continued, "and then I ran home as fast as I could!"
"What a kind gentleman he must be!" cried Annie. "I wonder what made him do it! I think God must have told him!"
"I shouldn't wonder," Maggie agreed. "How do you like her, Annie? You haven't touched her yet!"
"She is so pretty, and her dress is so grand," the sick child answered in awe-struck tones. "I never saw such a lovely doll before."
"She is your very own, Annie."
"Oh, I don't like to take her from you, Maggie; the gentleman meant you to have her!"
"I would rather give her to you!"
Taking the doll carefully from the box, Annie placed her in her sister's arms, whilst Mrs. Blundell stood by, watching the children with tears in her eyes. She was pleased to see Maggie acting so unselfishly, for she well knew that in giving up her doll the child was making no slight sacrifice.
"See what lovely pink cheeks she has!" cried Annie. "And, oh, how blue her eyes are! Oh, you beautiful creature!"
"I knew you would like her," Maggie remarked complacently. "I was longing to be to able buy her for you when the gentleman spoke to me."
"Was he an old gentleman, Maggie?"
"Oh, no—quite young."
"He must have a kind heart," Mrs. Blundell said gratefully. "The doll will be quite a companion for Annie when you are at school, Maggie, and I am busy."
It was a strange scene in that humble garret home—a scene full of pathos and tender human nature. The sick child with the gaudily dressed doll clasped in her frail arms; her sister, her face radiant with happiness; and the careworn mother looking on with eyes that smiled through a mist of tears.
It was Mrs. Blundell who broke the silence in words that came straight from a heart full of thankfulness and gratitude:
"There, children! You have had a beautiful Christmas present! You have no idea who the kind gentleman was, my dear? No. Well, God bless him, whoever he may be!"
THE following morning the children awoke early, and the chill winter's dawn found them busily discussing the marvellous attractions of the wonderful doll. Annie was so excited that she could scarcely eat a mouthful of breakfast, and Maggie was nearly as bad. It was certainly not an inviting meal, being composed of a little weak tea and slices of bread and dripping; but the children ate so sparingly. Annie, posted up in bed, looked better than usual. She was a pretty child really, but sickness had made her wan, and had sharpened her features till she seemed all nose and eyes.
"What shall we call her?" she asked, pointing to the doll lying on the counterpane by her side. "She must have a name."
"Call her 'Rose,'" suggested Mrs. Blundell; "or do you want something that sounds grander?"
"I don't know," doubtfully. "What do you think, Maggie?"
"I think 'Rose' would do splendidly. She has such rosy cheeks, hasn't she?"
"Yes. And such lovely hair and eyes! She is beautiful! We will call her 'Rose,'" and the little invalid looked at the doll with admiring eyes, and gently smoothed the amber gown.
When breakfast was over Maggie started for school, and Mrs. Blundell was obliged to go out to take her work to the business-house that employed her; and for the first time in her life the time Annie spent alone did not seem very long. She lay back in bed, feeling perfectly happy and contented, talking to her doll, which she held in her weak arms, and every now and again pressing tender kisses on the blooming cheeks.
"Let us 'make believe,'" she whispered. "We are in a palace, a beautiful palace made of white marble, and the walls are shining with diamonds, and there is a grand feast for every one, and there are flowers everywhere! The King is having a party, and nobody is cold or hungry, because the King is so good and wise, he won't allow people to be unhappy or want for anything. It is warm, and oh, so comfortable! The King has asked us to sit by the fire with a lot of other little children, and we can feel the heat!"
The child paused, and shivered involuntarily, awakening suddenly to the reality; but in a minute she smiled, and continued to "make believe."
Meanwhile, the wintry sunshine was peeping through the tiny window; the mist was clearing, and in the streets people were remarking that there was a promise of a real old-fashioned Christmas.
Jim Blewett as he sat at his breakfast table looked at the sunshine, and smiled.
"The weather is going to change," he remarked to his landlady as she placed his fried bacon in front of him; indeed, "it has changed already. There's a more cheerful outlook this morning."
"Yes," she assented, "I expect we shall have a spell of real cold now. God help the poor folk if we do!"
"It will be healthier than all the damp we've been having, Mrs. Metherell."
"Maybe, but it'll be a deal more trying for the poor. You don't know London like I do, sir, or you'd know that!"
"I was bred in the country, thank God; and in the small town where I was brought up the poorest never lacked for fuel, I am sure. My father was the Vicar—he died several years ago—but in his young days, he had had some experience of London life, as he had held a curacy in the East End. He accepted a living in Cornwall when I was a baby, so my knowledge of London is built on what I heard from him, and my own two years' sojourn here."
"I was born and bred in London," Mrs. Metherell declared, "and I've an affection for the place, though they do call it modern Babylon. I don't suppose people are worse here than in the country. There's a deal of wickedness done in London, I must confess, but there's a deal of goodness too! For my part, I love the bustle, the continual movement, the life! It seems to me country folk are never properly alive!"
"I suppose all Londoners think that!" Jim replied laughing, as he looked at his landlady's good-humoured face. "I must acknowledge that you always strike me as being very much alive, and you say you're a real Londoner. You do not let the grass grow under your feet, Mrs. Metherell."
Jim knew no woman could possibly work harder than his landlady. She was at it early in the morning, and late at night; yet she was always bright and cheerful.
Mrs. Metherell was a little woman with a tip-tilted nose, a pair of honest gray eyes, and a wide mouth which was redeemed from ugliness by a beautiful smile. Her figure was spare, and she stooped slightly, as though she had been accustomed to carrying heavy weights, but she was quick in her movements, and her tongue was quite as nimble. Left a widow at thirty, she had, by means of this lodging-house in a quiet side street, contrived to bring up three children, and put them out in the world. They all had homes of their own now; but their mother kept on the lodging-house, and her cheerful countenance grew brighter still as the years passed on, and she found herself in easier circumstances.
Jim Blewett had lodged with Mrs. Metherell for the last two years. They had taken to each other at the beginning of their acquaintanceship, for, strange though it may appear, they were congenial spirits. The toil-worn Londoner and the country lad had much in common; they met on the ground of their wide-hearted Christianity. Mrs. Metherell often lingered thus for a few minutes' conversation, and Jim, being of a decidedly sociable disposition, always encouraged her to talk.
"You are not thinking of going home for Christmas, then, sir?" she asked.
Jim shook his head, whilst a shadow crossed his face.
"No," he said, "although my brother's wife has written and asked me to come, and my little niece Nellie sent a message to say it wouldn't be like Christmas if I was not there! But I have made up my mind not to go down till Easter. I want to work, and a break now would unsettle me, I know. If my mother and father were alive it would be different!"
"Ah! This season brings its sad memories to many a heart," Mrs. Metherell remarked, "but they cannot take away from the joy. The house will be well-nigh empty this week, as most of my lodgers will be away. I am going to give a party on my own account, sir!"
There was a twinkle in Mrs. Metherell's eyes as she spoke, which Jim was quick to notice.
"I hope you are going to invite me," he said, smiling; then, seeing Mrs. Metherell looked a little doubtful, "You surely won't leave me out in the cold!"
"It's a children's party, sir."
"So much the better! They are ever so much jollier than grown-up people's parties! I will help you amuse the children!"
"They are a few I know who will not be very likely to have anything done for their pleasure at home. I am going to ask them to come on Christmas Eve from four to eight. I shall give them a good tea—poor little souls! And I mean to dress up a Christmas tree for the occasion!"
"I shall insist on being present, Mrs. Metherell; and I'll help you dress the tree!"
A smile of gratification spread over the landlady's face as she answered:
"I am sure I shall be very glad of your assistance, sir. It's not much I'm able to do for my fellow creatures; but now, at Christmas, I think one ought to make a little extra effort to try to make others happy. It always seems to me Christmas is the children's festival especially, and I should like to think I was able to make some of His little ones glad, for His sake."
"Yes," Jim agreed. "I remember—oh! As long ago as I can remember anything—the excitement there used to be at home when this season drew near, and how my father used to remind us children that we must never forget in the midst of all the festivity the cause of our rejoicing."
"He was quite right, sir."
"Indeed, he was. Well, I hope you and I shall have a happy Christmas."
His thoughts flew to the child to whom he had given the doll the night before, but he made no mention of the matter to his landlady. And after a few more words she retired downstairs, and Jim turned to his breakfast.
IT wanted but two days to Christmas, and it was intensely cold. For a few hours in the morning the sun had shone brightly in a cloudless blue sky; but now evening had come, and the keen, frosty air was cruelly biting to those who lacked thick garments and warm furs to shelter them from the severity of the weather. It promised to be a trying Christmastide for the London poor, but those who had cosy firesides to turn to, said it was healthy and seasonable.
To an onlooker, things would not have appeared very comfortable in the Blundells' home. There was scarcely more than a handful of coals in the little fire-place. Mrs. Blundell, as usual, was stitching away at her work, whilst the children held a whispered conversation together. Yet, cheerless though the garret looked, there was an atmosphere of quiet contentment about its inmates. Christmas was coming! That was the thought which cheered their hearts, that made the mother almost forget her misgivings for the future, as she hummed softly to herself the lines of the well-known hymn:
"He comes the broken heart to bind,The bleeding soul to cure;And with the treasures of His graceTo bless the humble poor."
Suddenly Mrs. Blundell dropped her work on her lap, and turned her head expectantly to the doorway. She had heard a footstep, and in a minute there was a knock. Maggie ran to the door, and admitted a little woman with stooping shoulders—no other than Jim Blewett's landlady.
"Oh, Mrs. Metherell!" Mrs. Blundell exclaimed in quick, pleased tones. "Do please come in and sit down! Why, you're quite breathless with climbing up the stairs! I am glad to see you, ma'am!"
Brisk and smiling, Mrs. Metherell greeted the children cordially, and then, turning to their mother, said:
"I am not going to stay long, but in my basket here are a few things for you. The fact is, all my lodgers but one have gone away for Christmas, and they've left some provisions behind that it would be a pity to let spoil. Here's half a cold chicken and a knuckle of ham—'Nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat,' they say—and a few other trifles."
"Oh, ma'am, I shall never be able to thank you for all the thoughtful goodness you've shown to me and mine! If you had not been such a friend to us before now, I believe we should have starved!"
"You have a better friend than me, you know, Mrs. Blundell. We are all in God's hands."
"I do know it, ma'am; but sometimes one's faith seems weak!"
"'There hath not failed one word of all His good promise,'" Mrs. Metherell quoted in her pleasant, cheery tones. "Now please to empty the basket, and I hope you'll have a good supper, and enjoy it. Annie, my dear, how are you to-night?"
"Oh, much better, thank you, ma'am."
"Much better, eh? That's right. And what have you there?" Suddenly becoming aware that the little girl was evidently desiring her to notice the object in her arms.
"It is a doll, my doll, ma'am," in proud accents. "She is called 'Rose.' Isn't she a beauty?"
In a few words Mrs. Blundell explained how the child had become possessed of her treasure. Mrs. Metherell nodded her head approvingly as she listened to the tale, whilst her face simply beamed with smiles. "Well, now!" she exclaimed. "That was kindly done! Don't you wish you knew who the gentleman was?"
"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Blundell answered earnestly. "I feel quite sorry to think he will never know how thankful my children are to him for his gift."
"I can't thank him myself," Annie put in, "I only wish I could. But Maggie and I speak of him to God every night. I think God will bless him, don't you, ma'am?"
"Yes, I do," Mrs. Metherell returned in cordial tones, "I feel sure of it. She is, indeed, a beautiful doll, Annie; and I don't wonder you are pleased."
"I love her very much," answered the little invalid simply.
"There is one thing more I have to say before I go," Mrs. Metherell said, as she turned to Maggie, "and it's to do with you, my dear. I am going to give a little party on Christmas Eve to a few children I know, and I want you to join us. Would you like to come to my party, Maggie?"
In her astonishment Maggie turned very red, then quite pale, and for a minute did not answer. At length she gave a little gasp of mingled pleasure and surprise as she exclaimed:
"Oh, ma'am! A party!"
"From four to eight. Will you allow Maggie to come, Mrs. Blundell?"
The mother looked doubtful, as she mentally pictured Maggie's best frock, which was decidedly more than a little shabby. Then she reflected that her visitor, who knew her position very well, would not expect her child to be dressed smartly, and she gave a cordial consent.
"It is indeed kind of you to ask Maggie, ma'am," she said, "and I'm sure I shall be only too pleased for her to go. It will be a rare treat for her."
"It is decided, then. At four, mind, and be in good time, Maggie."
The little girl accompanied their visitor down the rickety stairs in order to pour into her ears the thanks she had at first been too astonished to utter. When she came upstairs again she found her mother and sister in quite a state of excitement.
"Oh, I am so glad!" the latter exclaimed. "Oh, what a wonderful week this has been! First came my doll, and, now, to think that you are going to a real party, Maggie, not a 'make believe' one! Mind you notice everything, so as to be able to tell me all about it!"
"That I will," Maggie agreed readily, "I only wish you were going too, Annie."
"Oh, I don't mind now I have Rose for company. I shall be able to imagine it all, and that will be nearly as good as being there," was the contented reply.
"I am very pleased too. It seems to me that we have more friends than we thought. I am sure I'm delighted that Maggie should have this pleasure," Mrs. Blundell said, with a loving glance at her little daughters, and remembering how the younger child had given up her doll to her invalid sister.
"I wish we were all going," Maggie went on, "but, never mind, I'll tell you everything about it afterwards. I wonder what we shall do? Play games, I expect."
"And there will be refreshments—all sorts of nice things!" Annie suggested.
She was not in the least a greedy child, but her capricious appetite often hankered after such luxuries as she rarely tasted.
"We will have supper now," Mrs. Blundell said, and Maggie began to busy herself preparing the evening meal.
They had not tasted meat for the day, and the knuckle of ham and scraps of chicken seemed a feast indeed. Cheered by the good food, the children grew quite merry, and chatted and laughed. The mother watched them, and thanked God for putting it into Mrs. Metherell's heart to remember them that Christmas.
Jim Blewett's landlady had been a kind friend to them ever since, two years ago, she had by chance learnt to know of the hard-working widow and her children. Many a time Mrs. Metherell had sent a dainty dish to tempt the little invalid's appetite; and on rare occasions, as on the present, she had paid a visit to the family, but never before had she invited one to her home. How deeply Mrs. Blundell appreciated her kindness to Maggie only one in her position can realise, and Mrs. Metherell herself would have been surprised and much gratified could she have known the intense pleasure which the anticipation of her party was giving in at least one humble home.
IT was getting late by the time Mrs. Metherell arrived at home, for she had had a good bit of shopping to do, which had taken her longer than she had anticipated. As she was going upstairs a voice called to her:
"Is that you, Mrs. Metherell?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come in here a minute, will you, please?"
There was an eager note in Jim Blewett's voice as he spoke, and as Mrs. Metherell stepped into his sitting-room she cast an astonished glance around. An empty hamper was on the floor, whilst the table was strewn with what had been its contents—a turkey, some sausages, a plum pudding in a mould, a large cake, a couple of pounds of butter, a tin of clotted cream, and half-a-dozen pairs of hand-knitted socks.
"You see the folks at home have not forgotten me," Jim remarked smilingly. "I've had a hamper from my sister-in-law. She says—" referring to a letter in his hand—"that the pudding is sufficiently boiled, and only wants warming through. She knitted the socks herself. Aren't they capital?"
Mrs. Metherell took up the articles and examined them approvingly, whilst her lodger went on:
"I know my sister-in-law's Christmas puddings of old! You can't beat them! Mrs. Metherell, I shall never eat that huge turkey all by myself, although I have such an excellent appetite, and I'm going to dine with our senior house surgeon on Christmas Day. I want you to cook the turkey for your little visitors, and have the cake as well. If you are going to have a high tea, as I think you told me you intended, cold turkey would come in nicely, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, it would," Mrs. Metherell acknowledged, "but I don't like to take it from you, sir. The turkey will keep several days, and you might have it hot for dinner one night, and as to the cake—why, I don't suppose your sister-in-law meant you to eat all these good things at once!"
"Well, no," he responded, laughing, "but I'd so much rather the children shared them with me."
"I'm sure, sir, if that's the case, I'm quite agreeable, and I'm very much obliged to you for wishing it."
"And, Mrs. Metherell, I've bought a few things to help decorate your Christmas tree. I passed a toy shop on my way home from the hospital to-night, and the toys were so enticing, I couldn't possibly resist buying some. The fact is," he explained, speaking in confidential tones, "my godfather has sent me a five pound note for a Christmas box!"
"Oh, Mr. Blewett, you ought not to have spent your money in that way!"
"Only a small part of it—there's a lot left, I assure you. I've bought a beautiful doll for my little niece, Nellie—such a grand doll! And a Russia leather pocket-book for my brother, dear old chap! And half-a-dozen pairs of gloves for my sister-in-law. And look here, Mrs. Metherell, what do you think of this?" Drawing a small jeweller's box from his breast pocket, and exhibiting therein a pretty silver brooch.
"For Clara," he explained, "only I shall not give it to her till Christmas Day. Do you think she will like it?"
"I am sure she will, sir! I believe you are the only one of my lodgers who ever shows her the least consideration, and I'm sure you'll be the only one to give her anything for Christmas."
Clara was the indefatigable maid-of-all-work of the establishment, a good-natured girl who had imbibed some of her mistress's qualities of mind and heart.
"When I think of the scores of times she has toiled up to my room here, in answer to my bell," said Jim, "and what dirty boots she has had to clean for me, I feel sorry I have no handsomer present to give her."
"She will be delighted," Mrs. Metherell declared. "Clara is a good girl, and she's a great help to me. I will send her upstairs to tidy up your room for you, Mr. Blewett. As to the turkey, and that big cake, which, if looks go for anything, must be simply delicious, I accept them gladly for the children, and the toys too. I won't say you ought not to have bought them, for I know it's a pleasure to you to give."
"When do you decorate the tree, Mrs. Metherell? I gave Clara my parcel of toys as I came in."
"Why, I shall begin as soon as I have taken off my bonnet and cloak. Would you care to come down to my sitting-room presently? I should be really glad if you would help me hang up the things, for I'm afraid I shall not have much taste in arranging them. Of course, sir, if you're going to work—"
"But I'm not. I don't feel a bit workish. There is nothing I should like better than to help you decorate the tree."
In another half hour the important business of the evening was in full swing. The tree, in its pot, was set in the middle of the floor in Mrs. Metherell's sitting-room, and the presents carefully secured thereto. It was an undoubtedly fortunate thing that the medical student was there, for neither the landlady nor Clara had the least idea how to display the different articles to the best advantage. It was on Jim that the work fell, and he was quite satisfied that it should be so. The presents were useful as well as ornamental, for Mrs. Metherell had knitted several warm comforters, and Clara had crocheted some pairs of cuffs in brilliantly coloured wools.
"There!" cried the young man at length, withdrawing to a little distance, to view his work the better. "I don't believe there'll be a prettier Christmas tree in all London. When the Chinese lanterns are lit up, it will look splendid!"
Mrs. Metherell and Clara eagerly agreed, the latter uttering exclamations of admiration and delight.
The girl was a regular Londoner, like her mistress, and had been brought up in a poor home in a wretched slum. Clara had seen nothing of the better side of life until she had come to live with Mrs. Metherell, who had taught her the meaning of that love which is the light of the world. She had been as ignorant of God as any heathen in a foreign land, and it had been given to her mistress to plant those seeds in the girl's heart which were, by God's grace, to take deep root and beautify her whole life. The Gospel Story poured into her ears by one who humbly tried to walk in the way that leads to eternal life had made so great an impression upon her that it had lightened each hard day's work and sweetened every breath she drew. She was growing in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, learning to trust in Him as her unfailing friend, and casting all her weakness upon Him.
The night out-doors was bright and frosty. The pale moon and twinkling stars looked down upon the great city with its riches and poverty, its goodness and sin, upon luxurious homes whose inmates had little thought for those to whom Christmas meant nothing, and—thank God—upon those too who busied themselves preparing for the happiness of others; upon reckless waste and terrible want, and deeds of self-sacrifice and deeds of love. And to all, gentle and simple, rich and poor, was coming the angels' message that for nineteen hundred years has resounded through all Christian lands, scoffed at by some, passed by unheeded by others, but here and there treasured up in some faithful hearts, bearing its tidings of joy and good will towards all mankind.
To the three in Mrs. Metherell's sitting-room—three so wide apart in every way but one, and that their love for Him they were looking forward to worship as the Babe of Bethlehem on Christmas Day—it seemed as though an atmosphere of pleasant expectancy surrounded all the world.
"The tree looks lovely," Mrs. Metherell said, when after a few finishing touches Jim declared his work was done, "and it's due to you, sir, entirely! We could never have arranged the things so tastefully, or made them look half so well."
"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed the lad. "I've had some experience, you know, for we used to have a tree every year at home."
Then he went upstairs, and wrote a long letter to his dear ones in Cornwall, regaling them with an account of the preparations for Mrs. Metherell's party, concluding with a glowing account of the Christmas tree for Nellie's benefit, and confessing he had shared the contents of his hamper with his landlady, for the children's benefit. He knew well that his sister-in-law would enter into his feelings, and be perfectly satisfied that some of her good cheer should go to the little ones.
IF Mrs. Metherell's party had been anticipated with feelings of pleasure and delight, the realisation quite came up to every one's expectations. To many children it would doubtless have appeared a tame affair, but to those who partook of its joys, it left nothing to be desired.
First came the substantial high tea in the roomy underground kitchen, which had been decorated with holly and evergreens for the occasion, the tins on the mantel-shelf shining like silver, and the plated dish-covers on the walls looking like mirrors for brightness. Around the large, square kitchen table sat the children—about a dozen little girls and boys who were at first too busily occupied with the good food, that was such a rare treat to them, to have much to say.
But when the appetites of all were satisfied, the children commenced to chatter, and one small boy whispered audibly to his neighbour: "I never tasted turkey before, an' ain't it just prime!"
Maggie Blundell, her usually pale cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes shining brightly, was one of the quietest of the lot, though she was thoroughly enjoying herself, and making mental notes of everything she saw and every word that was said, with which to entertain Annie for days to come.
Tea over, Mrs. Metherell offered up a short prayer of thanksgiving to God, during which some of the children bowed their heads reverently, whilst the others appeared astonished, never having been taught that all good things come from our Heavenly Father. The kind hostess looked around on the young faces about her table, and in a few earnest words reminded them Whose birthday eve it was, and for Whose sake they were making glad.
Afterwards, the whole party arose, and was ushered by Clara into the sitting-room. Exclamations of amazement and admiration broke from the children as they saw the Christmas tree. The Chinese lanterns had been carefully lighted by Jim Blewett, who stood in the background, watching the eager faces and listening to the delighted remarks:
"A Christmas tree!" cried one. "Oh, how lovely!"
"I never saw a Christmas tree before!" from another.
"Nor I!"
"Nor I!"
"Doesn't it do one's heart good to see their pleasure?" Mrs. Metherell whispered to Jim.
He nodded silently, his observant eyes wandering from one child's face to another, till they rested on Maggie Blundell's animated countenance, with recognition.
"There is one I know," he said, indicating the little girl. "How strange she should be here to-night!"
"Do you mean Maggie Blundell, sir?"
"Is that her name? I mean that tidy little figure in black. There, she is looking at us now, and I believe she recognises me too."
Maggie's eyes had indeed espied her unknown friend, and, darting across the room towards him, she cried: "Oh, sir!" then paused too agitated to utter another word.
"How do you do? I hope you are having a good time?" Jim said, genially.
"Oh, yes, sir, thank you! Oh, Mrs. Metherell, ma'am, this is the gentleman we told you about who gave me the doll!"
Mrs. Metherell comprehended the situation at once, and she laid a kindly hand on the child's shoulder, smiling down into the excited face, as she replied:
"This gentleman is Mr. Blewett, one of my lodgers, my dear. What a strange coincidence! Now you can tell him what has become of his present, for I am sure he will like to know how much it is appreciated!"
In a few eager words, Maggie explained that she had given the doll to her sister, because she was always ill, and often lonely; how they had named the doll "Rose"; and how they loved her dearly. Encouraged by his evident interest, she proceeded to tell him all about her home, till Jim knew how hard her mother worked, and what trying times they had sometimes, to all of which he listened with deep attention. Their conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Metherell, who thought it was time to begin distributing the presents to the children.
The little ones were ranged around the tree in a circle, and when they received their gifts it was quite touching to notice the pleasure on their faces. Of course, the tree was the most wonderful object of the evening, but it was dismantled at length, and pushed back into a corner of the room, shorn of its glory.
Games followed—"blind man's buff," puss in the corner, and a variety of others, and the medical student proved himself an adept in all. At first the children were inclined to be shy with him, but when they played "family coach," and Jim took upon himself to tell the history of that famous vehicle, and gave a humorous account of all the mishaps that attended its career, the young people forgot their reserve, and fairly shouted with laughter.
It was all over at last; the children returned to their different homes with happy hearts; whilst Mrs. Metherell and Clara began to tidy up after their little visitors, and the party was an event of the past.
"It has been a complete success," Jim Blewett remarked ere he went upstairs, "and I, for one, have certainly enjoyed it. You've caused some happiness any way, Mrs. Metherell!"
"I'm truly glad to think so, sir," the landlady answered, "and I'm sure I'm most grateful to you for your assistance."
Meanwhile, Maggie Blundell had hastened home, and having exhibited her presents from the Christmas tree, which were greatly admired, was giving her mother and sister a graphic description of the party, and telling of her delight and astonishment at the sight of the "kind gentleman," as she had grown accustomed to call the young medical student.
"I was so amazed I could hardly speak at first," she explained, "but afterwards I told him all about you, mother, and all about you too, Annie. He asked me lots of questions—had we always lived in London; and when he heard you were brought up in the country, mother, he said he thought as much, because I spoke differently from the other children, and he guessed that was the reason. I suppose he meant I spoke like you, mother?"
"I dare say, my dear."
"Oh, he did say such a funny thing about himself! He said he was half a doctor! What could he have meant, mother?"
"I'm sure I can't think. Half a doctor! Are you sure that was what he said? Oh! Perhaps he is a medical student. He may be learning to be a doctor. We will ask Mrs. Metherell. By the way, Maggie, you have not told us his name."
"He is called Mr. Blewett."
"Blewett!" Mrs. Blundell echoed. "I wonder where he comes from! Can it be? But no, it is not likely!"
"Do you know any one called Blewett, mother?"
"I used to know a family of that name years ago."
"He said he would come to see us one day; and he asked me if Annie had had a good doctor."
"What did you say, dear?"
"I said, no, not since I could remember."
"Oh, Maggie, do you really think he will come here?" asked Annie, casting a comprehensive glance around their poor home.
"I should not be surprised. I think he does mean to come. Do have another chocolate, Annie!"
The little invalid was posted up in bed, regaling herself on chocolates from a box that her sister had received from the Christmas tree.
"We will keep some for to-morrow," the mother said, smiling, "and I think we will put off hearing anything more about the party till to-morrow too. You must be very tired, Maggie: and Annie there ought to have been asleep long ago."
"I don't feel a bit sleepy, mother," Maggie said.
"I dare say not, but it's time you were in bed, all the same. Put away your sweets and presents till to-morrow, like a good girl."
The child obeyed obediently; and then Mrs. Blundell brought forward her Bible, and read slowly and reverently the account St. Luke gives of the birth of Christ. When she had finished, they all joined in singing that grand old Christmas hymn, "While shepherds watched their flocks by night."
The mother's voice was tired, and much of its beauty had passed, but the children's notes were pure and sweet, and resounded through the house, thrilling many a weary heart with the triumphant words of joy:
"All glory be to God on high,And on the earth be peace;Good will henceforth from heaven to menBegin and never cease."