CHAPTER VI.ON WATERLOO BRIDGE.
"I say, why don't yer come with me on Saturdays, Pollie?" asked Sally Grimes one Thursday evening as they wended their way homewards.
It was opera night, and the sale of their flowers had been very good, so that Sally, who had "cleared out," as she termed it, was elated with success. Even Pollie had only a small bunch left. Truth to tell, she always liked to keep a few buds to take home with her—just a few to brighten up their room, or those of their two dear friends.
She was tying up her blossoms, which had become unfastened, so that for the moment she did not reply to her companion's question, who asked again—
"Why don't yer come on Saturdays, eh? I allers does a good trade then."
"Mother likes to get ready for the Sabbath on that day. So we clean our room right out, so as to make it nice and tidy. Then I learn my hymns and texts for the Sunday-school, and then mother hears me say them over, so as to be sure I know them well; and oh, it's so happy!"
"Sunday-school!" repeated Sally; "is that where yer goes on Sundays? I see yer sometimes with books, eh? Lord do yer go there?"
"Yes; would you like to go with me?" Pollie suddenly asked, looking up at her friend with delight at the mere idea.
But Sally rubbed her nose thoughtfully with a corner of her apron, uncertain what to say on the subject.
"Don't they whop yer at school?" she asked, after deliberating.
To her astonishment, quiet little Pollie burst into such a merry laugh.
"No, indeed!" she exclaimed, when her mirth had subsided. "The teachers are far too kind for that. Oh, I know you would like it, so do come."
"Well, I'll see about it," was the rejoinder. "My gown ain't special, but I've got such a hat! I bought it in Clare Market, with red, blue, and yaller flowers in it—so smart!"
"Oh, never mind your clothes," said Pollie, somewhat doubtful as to the effect such a hat would have on the teachers and pupils; "come as you are, only clean and tidy—that is all they want."
For some time they walked on in silence, but their thoughts must have been on the same subject, for suddenly Sally asked—
"What do you do at Sunday-school?"
"We read the Bible, repeat our texts and hymns. Shall I say the one I am learning for next Sunday to you?"
"Well, I should like to hear it," was thereply. "Suppose we go and sit on Waterloo Bridge—it's nice and quiet there—I'll pay the toll."
Pollie, however, would not consent to her friend's extravagance on her behalf, so the two children paid each their halfpenny and passed on to the Bridge.
It was a lovely evening, and though April, yet it was not too cold, so they seated themselves in one of the recesses, and for a time were amused by watching the boats on the river, chatting merrily, as only children can.
"Now, then, tell me yer pretty hymn," said Sally, when at last they had exhausted their stock of fun, and putting her arm around her little friend's neck, they cuddled up lovingly together—the gentle little Pollie, and sturdy, rugged Sally. Then the child repeated to her listening companion—
"Abide with me! fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide," &c.
"Abide with me! fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide," &c.
She went on unto the end, the bigger girl listening the while with almost breathless eagerness, and when it was finished they both remained silent. Evidently those beautiful verses had struck a chord hitherto mute in the heart of the poor untaught London waif.
"Oh, but that's fine!" she murmured at last in hushed tones. "Tell me something else, Pollie."
However, just at that moment the attention of the children was arrested by a young woman who came and sat down in the recess opposite them. They had both noticed her pass and repass several times, but as they were almost hidden by the stone coping of the bridge, she had not observed them.
With wild gestures she threw herself upon the stone seat, and imagining she was alone, burst into piteous moans, alternately clasping her hands tightly together, as though in pain, then hiding her pale but lovely face, which showedtraces of agony; swaying backwards and forwards, but with ever the same ceaseless moaning cry.
"Oh, poor lady!" whispered Pollie to her friend.
"She ain't no lady, though she be so smart in a silk gown and rings on her fingers," replied her companion in the same low tone.
"What is she then?" asked the child.
Poor Sally Grimes! her education had hitherto been confined to the London streets, and that training had made her but too well acquainted with life in its worst phases; so she replied—
"She's only some poor creature—— I say!" was her exclamation, as suddenly she started up, "what be yer going to do?"
The latter part of this sentence was addressed to the stranger, who had sprung upon the stone parapet, and was about to throw herself into the deep waters beneath.
"Let me die! let me die!" she cried, wildlystruggling to free herself from sturdy Sally's strong grasp.
"No, I won't!" was the reply. "Here, Pollie, you hold hard too."
"Oh, in mercy, in pity, let me die!" sobbed the unhappy creature in her agony. "Oh, if you only knew how I want to be at rest for ever!" and again she struggled franticly to escape from the saving hands that held her.
"Now, if yer don't get down and sit quiet on this seat, I'll call that there peeler, and then he'll take yer to Bow Street," exclaimed the undaunted Sally. "Ain't yer 'shamed to talk like that? Now, come, I'll call him if yer don't do what I say."
Frightened by this threat, or perhaps seeing how fruitless were her feeble struggles against the strong grasp of her preserver, the unhappy girl—she was but a girl—shrank down submissively on to the seat, still trembling and moaning, whilst brave-hearted Sally stood over her toprevent any further attempt at self-destruction. Pollie looked on in bewildered surprise at this sad scene, not knowing what to make of it; but she still kept her hold on the woman's dress, as if her small strength could be of any service; but Sally had told her to "hold on," and so she obeyed.
The woman was now sobbing bitterly. It was more than the child could bear to see any one in tears, so laying her little hand tenderly upon the sorrow-bowed head, she said very gently—
"Please don't cry, ma'am; it makes Sally and me so sad."
At that soft touch and soothing voice the woman looked up, and then the two children saw that she was very beautiful even now,—mere wreck as she seemed to be of all that is pure and lovely.
"Child!" she cried, "do you know what you touch?—a wretch not fit to crawl the earthmuch less be touched by innocent hands like yours."
Pollie shrank back in terror at these words, and the tone in which they were uttered, but Sally was equal to any emergency.
"Come, come," she exclaimed, "don't yer talk like that, frightening this little gal in that way; you just quiet yourself, and then we'll see yer safe home."
"Home!" was the response. "I have none, only the streets or the river." "Stuff and nonsense!" cried practical Sally. "No home!" repeated little Pollie; "how sad!"
"Now what's to be done?" debated the elder girl, somewhat puzzled as to the course to be pursued; "here's night coming on, and we can't leave you here, yer know."
"Let us take her home to my mother," exclaimed the child; "mother will know what to do."
But Sally hesitated.
"Perhaps she might not like it," she observed.
"Oh, I am sure mother won't mind, she is so good and so kind."
All the time the children were discussing what was to be done, the unhappy creature sat there, never heeding what was said, but still sobbing and moaning, and apparently utterly exhausted.
"Well, then, there's nothing else to be done that I see, so come along, young woman;" and so saying, Sally Grimes grasped her firmly by the arm, thus forcing her to rise.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, gazing wildly around.
"To Pollie's mother," was the reply.
But the woman hung back and strove to free herself.
"I will not go!" she cried; "let me stay here, leave me to myself."
However, there is much to be said in favour of strength of will. Sally Grimes, young as shewas, possessed it in a wonderful degree; therefore, without wasting another word, she compelled the forlorn creature to go with her, little Pollie still keeping hold of the poor thing's dress.
CHAPTER VII.THE LOST ONE FOUND.
Mrs. Turner sat alone, busily sewing, but she heard her darling's well-known step come pattering up the stairs; so she put on the tea-kettle directly, for she knew the little one would be tired and hungry; and forthwith it began to sing cheerily, filling the room with its homely melody, as though it would say "Pollie is coming," "Pollie is coming;" and somehow the mother felt cheered. It may be the kettle's fancied greeting was but the echo of her own loving heart.
Time was too precious to be wasted, so the widow continued her work, and the light from the one candle being centred to the spot where shesat, the entry was consequently dark; but on looking up with a smile of greeting, expecting only to see Pollie, she was surprised to see her hesitate on the threshold, apparently clutching some one tightly by the dress: but directly she saw her mother, she seemed to feel she might let go her hold, her charge was safe; so running in, she threw her arms around her neck and whispered—
"O mother, darling, this poor lady has no home; let her stay here to-night."
The widow rose from her seat in some surprise, but before she could say a word, trusty Sally Grimes led in the woman, and then in a moment Mrs. Turner comprehended it all. She saw a poor lost girl, and she thought of her own innocent little one; then came into her heart those merciful words—
"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more."
With womanly tenderness she took the poorshivering creature by the hand, seated her close to the fire, saying gently—
"God help you, my poor child, you are welcome here."
Then the flood-gates of the unhappy girl's heart were opened, and leaning her head on the widow's shoulder she sobbed aloud.
Meanwhile Pollie, assisted by her faithful friend, was busy getting the tea ready, thinking it would refresh their strange visitor; and whilst Sally cut some bread-and-butter the child arranged her violets in a cup, to make, as she said, "the table look pretty." But the stranger was unable to partake of the simple meal; she seemed utterly worn and weary, for, leaning her head upon the arm of the chair, she lapsed into an apathetic sleep, as though completely exhausted.
Whilst she thus slept, Sally Grimes (who had been invited to remain) told Mrs. Turner in a whisper all that had taken place that evening.
"May God bless you, my dear," said the widow fervently; "you are indeed a good girl."
"But Pollie helped me," exclaimed the warm-hearted girl.
The mother looked at her delicate little child, and smiled to think of those tiny hands doing their part in saving this woman.
Then she turned for counsel to Sally.
"I have but this one bed," she said hesitatingly, "and—and—I should not like her to sleep with Pollie; what shall I do?"
"Let us make her a nice bed on the floor," suggested the child.
"That's the thing!" assented Sally, and the widow agreeing to the plan, they soon had a comfortable bed ready for the stranger. The poor creature suffered them to remove her hat and dress, then they laid her down, and she rested, thankful for the shelter so cheerfully given, humble though it was.
She was still very beautiful. Her golden brownhair, released from its massive braids, fell in rippling waves around her; the long black lashes, now that the eyes were closed, lay like a silken fringe upon the pale and wasted cheeks. Yes, she was very beautiful; and as the good Samaritans stood looking at her (the children with wondering pity), the widow thought of the time when this lost girl was tenderly loved by parents, who perhaps were even now sorrowing for their erring child.
It was getting late, and as it was Pollie's bedtime the mother and child prepared to read their evening chapter. Sally, too, sat down by the fire to listen, wondering in her own mind what they were about. It was all so strange to this poor London waif, this cleanly, peaceful home, this simple worship.
The appointed chapter for this evening was the parable of the Good Shepherd, and the girl's attention was riveted by those words of Divine love and mercy.
"And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear My voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd."
Wouldshebe gathered into that fold also? could there be room forher?Yes; the seed was sown on that hitherto rugged soil; it would take root and bring forth fruit for the Lord of the harvest.
Just as Sally had put on her time-worn shawl, and was bidding her kind friends "good-night" before going home, heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and soon the portly form of Mrs. Flanagan entered the room.
"Well, here I am again," she exclaimed, "and right-down tired, I can tell you; why don't cooks know what they want, and order things in the morning? Dear, dear! what a walk I've had, to be sure—all the way to Grosvenor Square, and with such a load too!"
"Hush, please," whispered Mrs. Turner, pointing to the sleeper.
"Who have you got there?" she asked in surprise.
In a few words, spoken in a subdued voice, the widow told the sad tale, and also of the two children's brave conduct.
"What be she like?" was the natural question; "is it right to have her here, think ye?" she added.
Then, as if to satisfy herself on the first point, she stole softly to where the poor wanderer lay sleeping. The light on the table was but dim, not sufficient to enable her to see distinctly, so that she was compelled to kneel down to scan the face of the sleeping girl.
At that moment a bright flame shot up from the flickering fire, and lighted the corner where the bed had been made for the stranger.
There was a quick convulsive gasp.
"My God! oh, can it be?" the old woman criedin a hushed voice. "No, no, I've been deceived too often. Quick! quick! a light!"
Mrs. Turner hurried with it to her side. She almost snatched it from her in her eagerness; she gazed long and earnestly upon those wasted features, her breath coming thick and fast, almost as though her very heart was bursting. In silence she gave the light back into the hands of her wondering friend, then laying her head down on the pillow beside the fallen girl, and folding her arms around her, she sobbed out—
"My darling, my Nora! you've come back at last to your poor old mother! Nothing but death shall part us now!"
CHAPTER VIII.SALLY'S FIRST SUNDAY AT CHURCH.
A feeling of Sabbath peace stole over little Pollie as she issued forth from her humble home on her way to Sunday-school. All was still, so quiet; the very court, usually noisy, seemed hushed. None of its uproarious inhabitants were about, only poor crippled Jimmy was sitting on the door-step warming himself in the feeble sunlight that flickered down from among the crowded chimneys.
The little girl paused to speak a few kind words to him.
"I wish you could come with me," she said; "it is so nice."
"What! be school nice?" repeated the boy,who seemed to have the same horror of learning as the more enlightened Sally Grimes.
"Yes," she replied; "indeed it is. They are all so kind to us there, and teach us such beautiful verses and texts about God and our Saviour."
"Be that Him you told me on?" he asked. "I ain't forgot what you told me afore—'Consider, and hear me, O Lord my God! lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death.'"
"Oh, you are a good boy!" exclaimed the child encouragingly. "Now I will tell you my text for to-day, and when I come back you shall hear what my teacher says about 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.'"
"'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,'" repeated the crippled boy with reverence. "I'll not forget it, Pollie," he added, as the little girl prepared to start again, fearing to be late for school.
As she turned into Drury Lane, to her great surprise there stood Sally Grimes, looking strangelyshy, but tidily and, above all, neatly dressed. The well-worn cotton gown was perfectly clean; indeed, for the last two days Sally had been wearing a jacket over a petticoat whilst the dress was being washed and dried. Her hair, usually rough, was now smoothly brushed behind her ears, and her face and hands were as clean as soap-and-water could make them. Evidently she had given up the idea of the gaudy hat, for a neat bonnet covered her head. Altogether she looked quite neat and respectable.
"Good morning," cried Pollie, joyously glad to see her kind friend. "Where are you going?"
Sally hesitated
"May I come with you?" she stammered bashfully.
For the moment little Pollie could not reply; she felt too happy to speak.
"Oh, I'm so glad!" she said at last, and taking her friend's hand in hers, she proceeded onwards, the happiest little girl in the world.
What a contrast they were!—the sturdy, self-reliant London arab, willing, ay, and able, to battle through the world unaided; the timid, fragile Pollie, strong only in her efforts after good, firm only in her love of truth.
You may imagine with what delight and pride she introduced Sally to her kind teacher; what happiness it was to have her sitting by her side, to see her rapt attention as the text was explained in simple words suitable to the comprehension of the listening children; and when was read the parable of the Good Shepherd, which had been the lesson on that memorable evening when Sally first felt the eager longing to be gathered into the Saviour's fold, Pollie instinctively grasped her friend's hand, as once again the blessed message was repeated.
Happy indeed are they who gather His children in, shielding His little ones from future harm, feeding His lambs with the bread of life.
For Sally Grimes this was all so new: the quietSabbath school, those happy children; a light was dawming upon her hitherto clouded mind as she heard of Jesus, who came on earth as a little child, endured a life of poverty and sorrow, then died a cruel death to save us from eternal misery. Never before had she heard the glad tidings of great joy, and her heart was filled with unexpressed thankfulness and peace.
When class was over, the little scholars went their way to church, happy Pollie with her friend's hand still clasped in hers; and the bells rang out their peaceful chime, "It is the Sabbath! it is the Sabbath!" Even the usual noisy bustle of the Strand was hushed in deference to God's holy day. The busy world was calmed to celebrate the day of rest; the peace of God seemed resting upon the earth.
How beautiful the church appeared to Sally, who had never until this day entered a house of prayer (dear old St. Clement's Danes, hallowed to us by many memories), and when the organ pealedforth, and the voices sang "I will arise," she thought, "This must be God's house, and those the angels singing."
There was some one else in the church that Sabbath-day who also thought it must be heaven of which little Pollie had-spoken, and that was poor crippled Jimmy.
Mrs. Turner on coming downstairs to go to church had found the neglected boy as usual lonely and desolate. His drunken mother had gone in a pleasure-van with a party of friends like herself to Hampton Court, leaving her child to amuse himself as he could; and kindly Mrs. Turner had carried him up to her own room, washed and dressed him in one of Pollie's clean frocks, given him some wholesome bread-and-butter, then brought him with her to church.
He sat so still and quiet by the widow's side, his eyes intently fixed upon the clergyman, listening eagerly to every word that was spoken,every hymn that was sung, realising in his untutored mind a foretaste of that heaven of which his earliest friend had told, where hunger was unknown, and where sorrow and sighing should flee away.
Once only, when the rector gave forth his text, "Consider the lilies of the field," the boy grasped the widow's hand, and whispered—
"Be they the flowers Pollie give me?"
Heaven and Pollie's violets filled his heart.
Many were the happy children who issued forth from St. Clement's on that Sabbath noon; some hand-in-hand with loving parents, wending their way to homes of plenty, where kindly faces would be waiting to greet them; but of the many, none were or could be happier than those three little ones who gathered round Mrs. Turner when service was over, and, walking side by side, went home to squalid Drury Lane. No well-filled table awaitedtheircoming, only the plain and scantyfare the poor widow could offer to her child's young friends; but One hath said—
"Whosoever giveth a cup of water to one of these little ones in My name, verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward."
And this was Sally's first Sunday at church.
CHAPTER IX.CRIPPLED JIMMY.
Many days and weeks had passed away, much as life does with us all. We heed not its passing, and forget in the turmoil of worldly cares to scatter seed for the great Husbandman, to reap when He cometh.
And little Pollie?
She had been busy as usual selling her flowers, and as usual scattering, in her simple way, the golden grain. Gently had she led Sally Grimes to seek for higher things, and every Sabbath they were now to be seen sitting side by side, learning of the life that is to come.
And at home? Affairs there had become much brighter, for Mrs. Turner's work had greatlyincreased, her quiet, unpretending manner having won for her many kind friends, who kept her fully employed—indeed so much that Lizzie Stevens had given up her hard labour of working for the slopshops, and now helped the widow in her lighter and more remunerative toil. It is true they had to work early and late to keep the house (such as it was) above them—the wolf from the door; but they were not so lonely as heretofore. The widow found comfort in the companionship of the hitherto friendless girl, and it was such a happiness for Lizzie to have one so motherly in whom to confide, and of whom she could ask counsel and advice.
Then when Pollie came in from her daily toil, cheering them both like a very sunbeam, how they would pause in their work to watch her as she merrily counted over her money, and brushed out her empty basket in readiness for the morrow, chatting gaily the while.
And then to see that active little figure so noiselessly busy getting the tea-dinner, whichshe always insisted on doing to save "mother" the trouble; indeed, I think the tea would have lost its flavour for that dear mother had Pollie's hands not prepared it.
Sometimes, during the hot July days, the child would persuade them to take a rest; and when it became too dark to see their work without the help of a candle, they would walk out of Drury Lane for a while, and go down one of the streets leading to the Thames, where the air felt purer and fresher, and sitting down would watch the boats on the river. Sally usually joined them, and these little rests from toil constituted their simple pleasures. How deliciously cool the breezes felt, so different to the heated atmosphere of their own neighbourhood! Both Mrs. Turner and Lizzie used to feel revived by the change. No wonder then that the two children should decide on living near the river when they grew rich, for with the hopefulness of youth they planned great things for the future.
So the summer passed by, and autumn came, and now, instead of roses or pinks, Pollie's basket was filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias. She often wondered what she should do when winter came and there were no sweet flowers to sell. It grieved her to think she should not then be able to help her dear mother, and as usual she opened her heart to that loving parent.
"Ah, my Pollie!" said the mother, as she smoothed back the curls from the anxious little face, "have you forgotten? 'The Lord will provide.'"
Then the child was comforted, for she remembered that "There is no want to them that fear Him."
One October evening she turned up Russell Court, tired and anxious to get home, for it had been a dull, dark day in the City, and she had not succeeded in disposing of her flowers there. The old bankers and merchants seemed not disposed for purchasing bouquets that day. Even Sally'sbasket still remained filled, and she was always a more successful seller than timid little Pollie; so the elder girl had proposed trying westward for better luck. Better luck they certainly had, for their baskets became empty at last, but they walked many a mile during the day, and Pollie's tiny feet were very, very weary, as bidding her friend a loving "good-night" she turned her steps towards home, eagerly longing for its rest and shelter.
The gas was flaring in Drury Lane, so that Russell Court looked dark by comparison; but as she approached the house in which they lived, she was surprised to see a dense crowd gathered around the door. Men were there speaking in hoarse whispers, women talking with bated breath as though afraid to speak aloud, and the bewildered child could hardly fancy it was the same place, there was such a hushed commotion as it were; the crowd swaying to and fro, to give place to others who came to swell the excited throng.
Little Pollie stood amidst the people who were hustling each other to get as near the door as possible. What was to be done? how was she to get into the house? and oh, how anxious her mother would be at her long absence! The poor child became frightened, almost to tears, totally unable to force her way through the mob, which was increasing every moment, when looking round for some friendly aid, she saw to her delight Mrs. Smith, the greengrocer's wife, standing close by, with a shawl thrown over her head, talking to a policeman, and pointing excitedly towards the house.
Pollie went up to her and ventured timidly to touch her arm.
"Please, Mrs. Smith," she began.
"Lor' bless me, child, what are you doing out so late, and in this crowd too?" was her exclamation.
"I can't get in," Pollie sobbed; "oh, what is the matter?"
"What! don't you know? Lor', it's awful," she replied; "here, policeman, do get this poorchild through that there mob; I guess her mother is in a way about her."
"All right, Mrs. S——," said the man, and to Pollie's astonishment he took her up in his arms, to carry her through the crowd, who made way for him to pass with his light burden.
Tallow candles were flaring in the narrow passage, people with pallid, haggard faces looked out from open room doors; yet with all this unwonted stir, there seemed to be a strange hushed awe upon them, as though they were calmed by the mysterious presence of a great calamity.
When the man put Pollie down she glanced from one to another in trembling alarm, still clinging to her protector's hand.
"Here she is at last," cried a voice; and turning to the speaker she recognised a woman who lived in the house, and whom she had often met on the stairs.
"Is it my mother?" asked the child, with undefined dread at her poor little heart.
"No, no, come with me; he keeps calling for you."
Then, still holding the policeman's hand closely clasped in hers, she followed the woman down the dirty dark stairs which led to the cellar where Jimmy lived.
The door of the squalid room stood wide open; two tallow candles stuck in empty bottles flared on the broken mantel-shelf above the rusty fireless grate; a battered old chair and a rickety table constituted the entire furniture of the room (if such it could be called), for on a heap of dirty rags lay little Jimmy. By his side, holding him in her arms, knelt Mrs. Turner, whilst a gentleman, evidently the parish doctor, was bathing his head, from which the blood was flowing. Lizzie Stevens was there, steeping linen in a basin for the doctor, and another policeman, no one else. I forgot. Crouching in the farthest corner, and glaring in drunken stupor around her, was the poor dying child's wretched mother. A brokenbottle tightly grasped in her hands, fragments of which lay about the dirt-encrusted floor, told the tale, alas! too plainly. In her drunken fury she had slain her child!
Pollie felt safe directly she saw her own loved mother.
"O mother, what is it?" she whispered.
The dying boy heard her, softly as she had spoken.
"Little Pollie," he feebly murmured, and turned his dim eyes up to her.
"Dear Jimmy," she said, kneeling down beside him. He smiled as though at peace, and yet the life-blood was ebbing slowly away.
"Pollie," he said, "shall I go to the kingdom of heaven? Will Jesus put His hands on me, and bless me also?"
The little girl could not speak for sobbing, but she laid her soft cheek upon his clay-cold hand.
"You've been very good to me," he rambled on,"you told me of the Good Shepherd"—— There was silence, broken only by the choking sobs of the listeners; even the policemen, used as they were to similar scenes, were deeply moved at the dying boy's love for his little friend. His eyes were closed, but his disengaged hand wandered feebly over the horse-rug that covered him, until at last he laid it on Pollie's bowed head. There it rested; his eyes unclosed, and he gazed wildly round, saying excitedly—
"Pollie, Pollie, it's so dark. Is it night coming on? Don't go, little Pollie. Let me say the prayer you taught me." He tried to fold his hands asshehad always done. In vain—they fell upon the coverlet, weak and nerveless.
"Lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death," he murmured falteringly. The voice ceased!
Crippled Jimmy had passed away safely into the fold of the Good Shepherd!
Ah! who would wish him back again? Miseryexchanged for perfect bliss—sorrow and sighing for eternal joy.
They all gazed upon the sharp pinched features, now gradually settling into the calm repose of death. What in life was almost painful to look upon, with the touch of immortality became lovely; for the dead child's face bore the impress of an angel's smile, as though he had caught a glimpse of heaven's happiness whilst passing through the dark valley of the shadow of death.
Little Pollie clung to her mother, sobbing convulsively and hiding her face in her dress.
"Hush, my darling," soothed the widow; "poor Jimmy is now with God, free from all sorrow or pain. Think what his joy must be!"
They were startled by a harsh voice screeching out—
"That ain't my Jimmy! Let me get at him! I say, what be you folks doing here?"
It was the drunken creature, who, unnoticed by any of them, had approached the spot wherethe dead child lay. She darted forward, crying out, whilst she brandished the bottle—
"I'll wake him, never fear; like I've done many a time before, I warrant ye!"
Fortunately the policeman saw her in time to prevent her doing further mischief, or even touching the boy, for, laying his firm grasp upon her arm, he exclaimed authoritatively—
"Come, none of this, my good woman. I must take you to Bow Street, to answer the charge of killing that poor little chap."
Then ensued a scene too terrible to describe. The wretched woman was taken away from the place, shrieking and swearing, leaving her dead child to be tended by strangers, kinder far than she had ever been.
CHAPTER X.NORA.
A drizzling rain kept falling the day on which little Jimmy was to be laid in his narrow home. They had found beneath his ragged jacket a little packet, carefully tied with a piece of thread, and on opening it, something dried and shrivelled fell to the ground. It was the bunch of violets, now withered, Pollie's first gift to him—the only gift he had ever received, and which came fraught with such peace to him. With tender pity Mrs. Turner refolded the tiny packet, and placed the faded flowers again where they had been so carefully treasured.
His unhappy mother was in prison, which place she only quitted to be confined for life in a criminallunatic asylum, driven mad by that fearful curse of England—drink! drink! so that there would have been no one to follow him to his last resting-place had not good Mrs. Turner offered to go. She could not bear to think of the poor child being laid to rest so friendlessly, and little Pollie pleaded to be taken. Then Lizzie Stevens begged to be allowed to accompany the widow in her pious task, and just as the humble parish funeral was leaving the house, which had been but a miserable home for the dead child, Sally Grimes came up, and, taking Lizzie's hand silently, joined the three mourners. A large black cloak covered her patched but clean frock, and she wore an old black bonnet of her mother's, which had outlived many fashions. It was the only outward semblance of mourning she could get, but her heart sorrowed sincerely for the crippled boy whom she had seen for many years, desolate and uncared for, crouching in the dingy doorway—desolate until little Pollie found himthere, and shed some brightness around his hitherto lonely life; and another thing, he was a sort of link between her and Pollie.
The London streets looked dismal and dirty on this autumn afternoon with the pitiless rain and murky sky; but when the little party reached the quiet suburban cemetery, the clouds had somewhat dispersed, though the late flowers which yet remained to gladden the earth drooped with the heavy moisture; and when the last words were spoken, and all that remained of Crippled Jimmy had been laid in his narrow bed, the four kindly mourners turned tearfully from the spot, leaving him alone in his poor humble grave.
At that moment a robin perched himself on a bush close by, and warbled forth such a hymn, so full of gladness, it seemed as though the bird sang the echo of those joyful words—
"I am the Resurrection and the Life."
And so they left little Jimmy. Nothing couldharm him now. Twas but his frail mortality they mourned; his blest spirit, freed from earthly stains, was now with his Saviour and God.
On their return home they found that Mrs. Flanagan had prepared a comfortable tea for them all in Mrs. Turner's room; and it looked so cosy and home-like, humble though it was, with Mrs. Flanagan's kindly face to greet them.
Poor Mrs. Flanagan—she was greatly changed; no longer the same cheerful person, but calm and subdued, as if she dwelt beneath some dark shadow that clouded her existence.
She did not now, when her day's work was ended, come into Mrs. Turner's room to have a friendly chat, or interest herself in Pollie's fortune-making, as she used to do. It is true, she still brought the flowers for the child, but her whole mind seemed too absorbed to dwell on these trivial matters which formerly possessed such an interest for her. Her entire thoughts were centred on Nora.
No one, save good Mrs. Turner, had seen the poor girl since the evening Pollie had brought the lost one home. The poor mother hid, as it were, her recovered treasure, fearful that even the mere passing glance of scorn should for a moment rest on her blighted child. So up in that little room, away from prying eyes, lived the mother and daughter. Nora was not idle. Not for worlds would she have rested dependent on that dear forgiving mother's hard earnings for her daily food; therefore, whilst Mrs. Flanagan toiled in Covent Garden Market, her daughter's slender fingers diligently laboured at bookbinding, the trade she had pursued years ago, in the time when her heart was innocent and happy.
On the evening of which we write, when Sally Grimes and Lizzie Stevens had gone to their own homes after the peaceful hours spent with Mrs. Turner, the old woman sat for some time silent and sad, with elbows resting on the table, and her face buried in her hands.
At length she looked up.
"My Nora's very sadly," she observed.
The widow paused in her needlework, and gazed at the troubled countenance of her old friend.
"She is not ill, is she?" was the question: "I saw her this morning, and then she seemed pretty much the same."
"No, not ill in body, at least not much," replied the poor mother; "but oh! Mrs. Turner, my Nora is not like my Nora of days gone by."
And the grey head bent low upon the table, and the worn wrinkled face was hidden, to hide the bitter tears which fell.
Her sympathising listener put down her work, and rising softly, laid her hand gently upon her neighbour's sorrow-bent head.
"Take heart, Mrs. Flanagan," she soothed; "it will all come right at last, in God's own time. Just think how once you feared you should never see your daughter again, and then"——
"Oh, but she's not the same; no longer gay, or even cheerful, as she used to be," was sobbed forth; "sits for hours looking far-away like, as if she saw me not; yet once I was all to her. Ah, woe is me that I should be sorry she was not laid to rest years ago, when a sinless child, like little Jimmy was to-day!"
Whilst the unhappy mother was thus pouring out her heart sorrow, Pollie had crept up, and in loving pity had slidden her small hand into her aged friend's in token of sympathy with her grief. For some time Mrs. Flanagan was too absorbed with her great woe to heed that gentle caress, but when alluding to the dead boy she raised her head, and saw the little girl's tearful eyes lifted to hers.
"Please, don't cry, dear Mrs. Flanagan," she said timidly. "Nora will soon be like she once was; won't she, mother?"
"Bless you, my precious," cried the poor old woman, laying her hand lovingly on the child's curly head, "you're a real comfort to me."
"O mother," murmured a soft voice, "have patience with me, dearest; I am still your own Nora; only—oh, so worn and sin-stained!"
They started in surprise. Unseen she had entered the room, and had overheard her poor mother mourning for her child.
Meekly she knelt at her parent's feet, with tearless eyes upraised, but clasping the hard rough hand that had so toiled for her in the years gone by, and was willing still to toil, could it but bring back some few gleams of former brightness to her child.
"I am not changed in heart to you, dear mother," she continued, "but when I sit and think, my sad thoughts fly back over the dreary desert of the past; and I know what I am, and what I might have been."
All trembling with emotion, the poor old woman held out her arms to clasp her penitent child; then laying her head upon her bosom, she smoothed the beautiful hair caressingly, as in the days when as an infant she nestled there.
"Yes, yes, dear mother," pursued the poor girl; "let me lay my weary head where I can hear the beating of your heart, whose every throb, I know, is full of love for me. I will pray to forget the sad, sad past, and be to you once more your Nora of the long ago. We were so happy then!"
"Yes, we were happy in those days," murmured the mother, to herself as it were; "though often hungry, and often cold; but the wide world was our garden, and we had to pluck what flowers we could from it. You, my poor child, passed by the blossoms, and gathered only weeds; but take heart, my darling, there are yet some bonnie buds to cull, and life after all will not be quite a barren wilderness to you and your poor old mother."
Then Mrs. Flanagan fairly broke down. But the icy barrier which had divided the mother and daughter was fallen, and they now knew what they were—all in all—to each other once again.