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"This is mother," said John Shafto.
John Shafto's crutches seemed to tap more loudly on these flat gravestones than on the common flags in the streets; and before he and Sandy reached the house, the shop door was opened from within. A rosy, cheerful, motherly-looking woman, with blue ribbons in her cap, stood in the doorway as they drew near to it. So strange and odd and out of place she seemed beside the broken window and gloomy hatchment, that even Sandy felt a strange sensation of surprise.
Her voice, too, when she said, "Johnny!" was cheerful, and as she kissed the lame boy fondly, Sandy stood by, staring at her with wide-open eyes.
"This is mother!" said John Shafto.
"And who have you brought home with you, Johnny?" she asked, holding out her hand to Sandy, as if she did not see his poor rags and dirty skin.
He did not know what to make of it; but she took his hand in hers, and gave it a warm, hearty clasp.
"He's lost his little sister in the streets last Tuesday," said John Shafto; "and I've brought him home to ask you what we must do, mother. You'll be sure to think of something. Now then, Sandy, you come in and sit down, and tell mother all about it."
He led the way into the house, and Mrs. Shafto gave Sandy a friendly push to follow him before her.
Inside the shop, on the counter, lay a little coffin, about the size that would fit Gip; and Sandy paused for an instant to look into it, as if, perhaps, he might see Gip's dear face and tiny limbs lying for ever at rest in it. But it was empty. And keeping down a sob which rose in his throat, he passed on into a small kitchen behind the undertaker's shop.
———◆———
MRS. SHAFTO.
IT was a very bright cosy little kitchen, with a clear fire burning in the grate, and not a single pinch of ashes on the hearth. The grate was an old-fashioned one, with well-brushed hobs, and two balls of steel on each side the fire, which glistened and sparkled like silver in the dancing flames. A polished brass warming pan hanging against the wall was bright enough to see one's face in. The floor was quarried with deep rich red tiles; and in a wide recess near the chimney stood a large cupboard, looking almost half the size of the room, and as if it promised plenty and to spare within it. In the warmest corner there was an easy-chair, with arms and back well padded, and covered with patchwork; and a pair of slippers lay on the warm hearth before it.
There was not much daylight; for the window opened upon a narrow passage between two of the high buildings which overshadowed the small grave-yard, and only a strip of sky could be seen beyond their tall roofs. But one did not miss the daylight whilst the fire burned so clearly, and Mrs. Shafto's beaming face smiled upon every one who came within sight of her. Her face was better than the sun, at least in John Shafto's eyes.
"Father's not come home?" he said, glancing at the empty easy-chair.
"No, Johnny, it's not time yet," she answered, placing a chair in the very front of the fire for Sandy, and bidding him put his cold bare feet on the shining fender. He dared not look her in the face yet; but he could not help watching her when she was not looking at him.
"First of all," she said, "we must have something to eat. Eating before talking is my rule, Johnny."
Sandy watched her with hungry eyes as she went to the cupboard, and cut two slices from a loaf, one large, thick, and substantial, the other thin and delicate, but both well spread with treacle. It took him quite by surprise to have the large slice given to himself, and the little one to John Shafto. This was treatment he could not understand, nor could he speak about it. All he could do was to sit still in blissful silence, feeling the glow of the pleasant fire through all his veins; and discovering how hungry he had been by the delight of devouring his substantial slice of bread.
"Now, then!" said Mrs. Shafto, when he had eaten the last crumb. She had seated herself in a low wooden rocking-chair, opposite to the easy-chair in the corner, and was looking at Sandy with kindly eyes, as if she had known him a long while, and was an old friend of his.
He felt as if he could tell her anything, and could never wish to hide a thing from her. With great eagerness, he told her all his story about little Gip. While John Shafto listened, nodding from time to time, as having heard most of it before.
Mrs. Shafto also shook her head now and then, and cried, "Well, well, poor fellow! poor little Gipsy!"
Until Sandy's heart grew warm, and almost happy, with her sympathy, before he ended all he had to say.
"Poor little Gip!" repeated Mrs. Shafto, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Have you looked for her in every place that she'd be likely to be, Sandy?"
"Ay!" said Johnny. "When Jesus was lost, you know, His mother began to think where He'd most likely go to, and she found Him in the Temple. Where do you think little Gip would go when she found herself lost?"
"She'd know of nowhere but the gin-shop," answered Sandy; "mother never took her nowhere else. There were two gin-shops where mother gets drunk, and I did go there."
Mrs. Shafto's face had a cloud upon it for a minute or two, and he heard her say as if to herself—"Poor little baby!"
"Mother's quite lost when she's in drink," continued Sandy, sadly; "it 'ud be no good to ask her if she rec'lects anythink. All she'd know is as she lost little Gip somewhere. I've not been nigh her again, for I can't bear to see her now she's been as bad as that. I didn't think as she could ever be as bad as that."
"But she's your own mother," said Mrs. Shafto, softly.
Sandy raised his eyes, which had been staring gloomily into the glowing embers, to look at her. Johnny had drawn his chair close up to hers, and laid his head down on her shoulder, and put his arm round her waist. What made him feel so, he could not tell, but all at once, he wished in the very bottom of his heart that he could love his mother like that; he wondered how she could be so very different from Mrs. Shafto.
"Perhaps," she went on, in the same soft, gentle tone, "little Gip found her way home the very next morning; I think it is very likely she did, and now she's watching for you, and fretting after you, and wondering where you are. What are you going to do, Sandy?"
He had started to his feet, and sprung to the door; but he stopped for a moment as she spoke to turn round, and answer, in breathless haste,—
"I'm goin' to run home," he said; "p'raps it's like what you say. Little Gip's there, p'raps. Oh! why didn't I think of that afore?"
"Stay one minute, Sandy," cried Mrs. Shafto, "while I put on my bonnet, and I'll go with you; and we'll bring Gip here, and all have tea together, if father isn't at home. Johnny 'ud love to see little Gip, wouldn't you Johnny?"
"I should love it dearly," he answered; "and I'll get tea ready whilst you're away. Be sure you come back, Sandy; I'm so sorry for you, I can't say how sorry. But perhaps some day your mother will become good, and be like my mother."
Across Sandy's mind there glanced a happy thought of his mother, with a bright, cheerful face, and wearing blue ribbons in her white cap, like Mrs. Shafto; and of a kitchen like this, with its clean floor, and comfortable chairs, and warm fire. But it all vanished away in an instant; and he fancied he could see her instead, with her red and swollen face, dressed in dirty rags, and lying in a drunken sleep upon the floor. That was his mother, and little Gip's!
It was not long before he was walking away at a brisk pace beside Mrs. Shafto, in the direction of the alley where little Gip had been born. Mrs. Shafto had a good deal to say to him as they paced along about himself and Gip. If they did not find her at home, she said, she would speak to her husband about it. He was a very learned man, and could give as good advice as anybody she knew; and perhaps, if he felt well enough, he would go with him to the police-stations, and make inquiries there about the missing child.
Sandy had never thought of going to the police, whom he looked upon as his and Gip's natural enemies, with no interest in them, except to cuff him and order him about his business when he was too pressing in trying to sell his fusees. He was very doubtful whether they would not cuff him if he went troubling them about little Gip; but Mrs. Shafto talked in so hopeful a strain that he felt his spirits rise as if he were sure of finding her when they reached the alley.
They did reach it at last: and Sandy rushed up the stairs, and tried to lift the latch of their old room. But the door was fast locked, and no shrill little voice answered him, when he called Gip through the keyhole, in the hope that her mother had left her there for safety. His spirits sank again. There was no key in the lock, so it must have been fastened from the outside. They descended the dirty, creaking staircase again, Mrs. Shafto keeping her skirts well from the wall; and Sandy knocked at the door of the neighbour who lived in the front room on the ground-floor.
The man who opened it greeted him with a low, jeering laugh.
"Come arskin' after your mother, eh?" he said. "Well! she's gone, and a good riddance, I say. She was always a tearin' and a stormin' up and down the alley, till there wasn't a moment's peace and quietness. All women is averse to peace and quiet; but I never see one like Nance Carroll for blusterousness. She were larfed at so about losin' her baby as she couldn't bear it, and she made off on Friday. The key's here, but there's nothink left in the room but the bed, and that goes to the landlord. Have I seen little Gip? No, no. She's at the bottom of the river long ago, I bet. Babies aren't lost like that, you know, if they haven't been made quiet. It were high time for your mother to make off, for the police were beginnin' to poke their noses up this alley; and arskin' some very ill-convenient questions."
"Do you think the poor little creature has been made away with?" enquired Mrs. Shafto, with a faltering voice.
The man winked, and nodded significantly; half smiling at her ignorance of human nature, as he closed the door in their faces.
Sandy sat down on the lowest step of the staircase, and hid his face in his hands, rocking, himself to and fro.
Mrs. Shafto stood by, in silence, for a minute or so; and then she laid her hand gently on his rough head.
"Come home, Sandy," she said; "come home with me, and have tea with my Johnny."
"She's my mother, you know," whispered Sandy, hoarsely, "just like you're Johnny's mother; and I rec'lect her kissin' of me once when I were a little chap. I don't want to think she could kill little Gip!"
"No, no," answered Mrs. Shafto; "she never could, I'm sure. It's not in a mother's nature; and who should know how a mother feels better than me, when I've had four, and lost them all, save Johnny? Come home with me, Sandy; and we'll talk it over with Johnny and Mr. Shafto."
———◆———
A SAD SIGHT.
MRS. SHAFTO and Sandy were leaving the alley, disappointed and cast down, when a policeman, who seemed to be lying in wait for them, crossed the street, and laid his hand firmly on the lad's shoulder. Sandy writhed and struggled, but he could not set himself free from the strong grip. A knot of people, principally the inhabitants of the alley, gathered round quickly, and Mrs. Shafto's rosy face grew pale and frightened.
"What has the boy been doing?" she ventured to ask the policeman; for she was hemmed in by the crowd, and could not escape and start away home, as in the first moment of terror she wished to do.
"He's been doing nothing that I know of just now," answered the policeman; "but we want him at the station for a few minutes; and I must take care he doesn't give me the slip. Slippery as eels all this sort are."
"Can I go with him?" she asked again. "I'm very sorry for the boy; and my son Johnny will never rest till he knows what's become of him."
"Are you any relation of his?" enquired the man, looking inquisitively at her decent dress and her face, so different from the women who were crowding about them.
"No," she said: "I never saw him till about an hour ago, when Johnny brought him home to our house. But I came here with him to look for his mother and his little sister, who has been lost all the week; and now his mother is gone away, and not left word where he could find her. Poor boy!"
"Don't you know anything about your mother?" asked the policeman, tightening his hold upon Sandy's arm.
"I've never set eyes on her since last Tuesday night," answered Sandy, earnestly. "She'd been and lost my little Gip, and I swore I'd never go nigh her again till I'd found out Where Gip was. It's my little Gip I wants, not her."
"Should you know Gip if you saw her again?" asked the man.
"Know Gip!" repeated Sandy; but his voice failed him before he could say any more. Know Gip! Why! he knew every little black tangled curl on her head; every funny little look upon her face; every tone of her voice, whether laughing or crying. Know Gip! There was not anything else in the world he knew so well, not even hunger and cold; his own little Gip, whom he had nursed and tended from the very hour she was born!
"Come along with me, then," said the policeman, in a gruff, but not unkindly tone: "it's not far to the station, and maybe I can show you Gip."
There was no need to grasp Sandy firmly now; he would have followed the policeman faithfully to any spot in London. Mrs. Shafto could scarcely keep pace with them, so rapidly did they walk. She could not spare breath to utter a single word; and neither of the other two spoke. Sandy's heart was too full for speech; and the policeman closed his lips tightly, as if no power on earth, except his superintendent, could open them.
Mrs. Shafto was not quite sure she was doing what her husband would like; but she could not bear the idea of Johnny's deep disappointment if she lost sight of Sandy, and they never knew any more about him and lost Gip. Breathless and panting, she reached the entrance of the police station, just as Sandy was vanishing through an inner door.
"You can't go in there, ma'am," said a man, just within the entrance.
"It's a friend of the lad's," called back the policeman; "let her come on."
She found Sandy already standing in front of a high desk, over which appeared the head of an inspector, who was rapidly asking him questions, as if eager to get through the business, about his mother: where she lived, how she got her living, how often she was drunk, how many children she had had, and what they had died from.
"Was she kind to you and Gip?" he enquired, with his sharp eyes fastened on the boy.
"Not partic'ler," answered Sandy; "she'd knuckle me in the streets, and search me for coppers if she thought I'd got any. She weren't partic'ler kind, you know."
"Did you ever hear her threaten to get rid of her baby?"
"She'd swear at me and Gip when she were in drink," said Sandy, "and wish we was all dead and buried, but she weren't a partic'ler bad mother. I know them as has worse. If she hadn't lost little Gip, I'd not say a word again' her, sir. It was all drink as did it. Nobody couldn't be cruel to little Gip, such a good little thing she were, and so pretty."
"Tell me what Gip was like," said the inspector.
Sandy hesitated and stammered. He could see Gip before his eyes now; but how could he tell what she was like? He had not any words in which he could describe her; and he had never thought of her in that way.
"She were pretty," he answered, pausing between each word, "very pretty and good; and she'd such funny ways. She were like nobody but Gip, sir."
"Not like yourself, I suppose," said his examiner.
"I don't know what I are like," replied Sandy, looking down at his rough big hands and feet; "I don't think Gip were a bit like me."
"How old was she?"
"She were three year old last summer," he said; "mother were sellin' ripe cherries the day afore Gip were born; that I'm sure of, sir."
"Davis," said the inspector, "take the boy to see the body."
But Sandy did not move when the policeman came forward. He caught hold of the edge of the desk, to save himself from falling, and looked round the room with wild, terrified eyes; eyes that saw nothing which was before them. Everything had faded from his sight, and he saw only little Gip's pretty face mocking at him on every side. What was it the inspector had said? Take him to see the body. He knew well enough what that meant. He was not so ignorant as not to know that all the young children who perished in the streets and alleys about his house did not die simply from illness and bad air and unwholesome food. Often he had heard whispers going about from mouth to mouth that such and such a child had been made away with. But now those words seemed to burn in his brain as if he had never known of such things. He had put away angrily such a thought about his mother and little Gip, when the neighbours had hinted at it. And now she was lying, somewhere close at hand, dead! Not only dead, but murdered! No one touched him, no one spoke to him. His terror-stricken face kept all around him silent for a minute or two.
"Sandy! Sandy!" cried Mrs. Shafto, being the first to speak, and putting her arm round him as she might have done to her own lame son, "my poor dear boy! Perhaps it isn't Gip, after all. Nobody knows that it's Gip. Come with me to look at her. And if it should be Gip, I'll tell you where her soul is gone. It 'ill be nothing but her poor little body here; but Gip 'ill be gone to heaven, where Jesus is. You know nothing about it yet; but I can tell you. Come and see, and then I'll tell you all about it."
"Ay! I'll go," said Sandy, catching her by the arm, and walking with unsteady steps, for he felt sick and giddy. "Take us to see if it's my little Gip."
They passed on without another word, following the policeman down a long narrow passage, to a room, the door of which was locked. Sandy heard the grating of the key as it turned in the wards, and the opening of the door; but he did not dare to lift up his eyes. He held back for a moment, turning away his head, and shrinking as if he could not cross the door-sill. At last he looked in. The policeman had lit one jet of gas just above a long, narrow table; and underneath the bright light lay a small still figure, about the size of Gip, with a covering thrown over it. The man quietly turned down the covering, and in a gentle tone called Sandy to come in, and look at the dead little face.
Mrs. Shafto led him across the floor, whispering that she could tell him where Gip was really gone to, and that she was happier than he could think. Sandy's eyes had grown so dim again that he could see nothing clearly. There was such a haze before them, that the tiny face and little quiet form all seemed in a mist. Mrs. Shafto could see it plainly,—the pinched, worn features, a child's face, with the suffering look of a woman's; but it was at rest now, and at peace, with all the trouble ended, and all the suffering ceased. Her tears fell fast; and she bent over the dead child, and kissed it tenderly.
That awoke Sandy, who stood beside her and it as if in some dreadful dream. He rubbed his bedimmed eyes, and looked closely, though shudderingly, at the little child.
"Why, it's not my Gip at all!" he cried. "She'd black hair, and she were like a gipsy, not a bit like this little gel. No; that isn't Gip!"
He could hardly keep himself from breaking out into laughter, and dancing about the bare, empty room in this sudden deliverance from his agony of dread. But a second glance at the dead face sobered him. What this child was, his little Gip might be somewhere—a terrible thought, which would haunt him all his life long, if he could not find her.
They returned to the inspector's office, for Sandy to declare that the child found was not his lost sister; and after being warned that the police would have an eye upon him, he was allowed to go away in the care of Mrs. Shafto, who had voluntarily given her address, and promised that she also would keep her eye upon the homeless lad.
———◆———
MR. SHAFTO.
SANDY had no desire to slip away from the friendly guardianship of Mrs. Shafto. Her words had strengthened the new hope in his heart, that the grave was not the end of those children he had seen buried in it, and he wished to learn more about this strange and good news. He kept close beside her, though she seemed less inclined to talk to him than when they were going to look for his mother. She could not trust herself to speak, for her heart was full of the sad and terrible sight she had just left.
Mrs. Shafto was also a little anxious about Sandy, who followed her so closely, as closely as a stray and homeless dog might have done, and for whom she had undertaken a kind of responsibility. Though they were not as miserable and degraded as the people she had been seeing, they were very poor, she and her husband; so poor that, but for her own hard and incessant work as a needlewoman, they would often have to go without sufficient bread to eat.
What was she to do with this great, growing lad out of the streets, as wild and ignorant as a young savage; a thief very probably; with no spark of good in him, except his love for his little sister? She knew very well that her husband would grudge any help given to Sandy if it deprived him of the least comfort, or demanded of him any self-denial. But she could not endure the thought of thrusting him away, uncomforted and unhelped, into the open street, with no sort of home to find refuge in. She could not treat a dog so; and of how much more worth was this boy than a dog! Besides, it was Johnny who had found him first, and brought him home—her lame lad, who seemed to know so well what Christ would have him do, and how to tread gladly in his Lord's steps. She could not go back to the house, and tell him she had cast off Sandy, and left him in the great wilderness of London.
On went Mrs. Shafto, still sadly and in silence, across the square grave-yard, and through the gloomy shop, with its small coffin open on the counter—a coffin that would have just fitted the dead baby she had kissed. Sandy followed her, his bare feet making no sound upon the floor; but he stopped at the door of the kitchen, for there was a strange person there—not his new friend, Johnny Shafto.
This person was a tall lanky man, about forty-five years old, whose thin long legs were stretched quite across the hearth, as though no one else needed to sit by the fire. He was lolling in the comfortable padded chair in the best corner, his hands hanging idly from his wrists, and his arms from his shoulders, as if he never had done and never could do one hearty task of work. His face was narrow and gloomy, with straight hair falling over it; and his head drooped as if he found it too much trouble to hold it upright. He looked up lazily as Mrs. Shafto went in, and spoke to her with a fretful voice.
"What a time you've been," he said, "gadding about on a Sunday evening on other people's business, and I've been wanting my tea this half-hour. Nobody asked me to stay at the school; I suppose they think nothing of me for being an undertaker, without any business either. If I had a thriving trade, and kept a mourning coach or two, it would be a different thing. They never seem to remember that I'm a Shafto, and my grandfather was their minister in his time. If my father had done his duty by me, they would have been ready enough, every one of them, to invite me to tea. Where have you been to, Mary?"
She was hastily taking off her bonnet and shawl before getting the tea ready, and now both her face and voice quivered as she answered.
"I've been seeing a sad sight," she said; "Johnny will have told you about the poor boy that has lost his sister? Well, him and me have been to a police station—a place I was never in before, and we've seen a poor dear dead little creature, no bigger than my Mary when she was taken from me; a poor murdered baby, and I cannot get the sight out of my head."
"You've got such a poor head," said Mr. Shafto, "always running on other folks. I dare say you never thought of mentioning that your husband was an undertaker, and had a coffin he could sell cheaply, and would bury it as reasonably as anybody in London; now did you?"
"I never thought of it," she answered.
"That's just what I say," he continued, triumphantly; "you never do remember things useful, when we've a child's coffin in stock. Why don't you shut that door?"
Mrs. Shafto stepped back to the doorway, and whispered to Sandy to sit down in the dark shop for a few minutes, till tea was ready. Then she shut him out of the bright little kitchen, and went softly up to her husband, speaking in a voice lower and unsteadier than usual.
"Dear John," she said, coaxingly, "it was our Johnny that brought yonder poor lad to our house. He's taken such a fancy to him, it would grieve him sorely if we turned our backs upon him. Maybe Johnny won't be spared to us much longer; and I could never forgive myself if I'd hurt him about anything. Besides, don't you remember, John—you that are such a scholar yourself, and your grandfather minister at the chapel—how the King says, when the Last Day is come, that He counts all we do for these poor creatures of His as if it were done to Him? It looks as if God had brought this boy and Johnny together, and we must not set ourselves against anything He does."
"Where is the boy?" enquired Mr. Shafto.
"He's in the shop, in the dark. I'd light the gas, and give him something to eat there, if you think he's not fit company for us. But it's not pleasant to eat among coffins and plumes. And, dear! dear! how ever shall we be fit company for angels? Though my Johnny 'ill be fit for them, I know; only I'm afraid I shall never be."
"I suppose you'll have your own way," grumbled Mr. Shafto.
"But I want it to be your way too, my dear, fully and freely," she continued, patiently. "I want you to feel, when Sandy's eating our morsel of bread, that he's here in the place of the Lord Jesus. I'm sorry I never thought to say my husband was an undertaker, and would bury the baby reasonably. I know I'd have made it a pretty shroud, poor thing! But that's past and gone; and you must forgive me, John. Why, that's rhyme I've made, you hear. Ah! you're a great scholar, and I don't mind your laughing at me. I may call Sandy in, and put him in a corner where you needn't see him, if you like, for Johnny's sake, you know?"
"Well, he may come in," said Mr. Shafto, dropping his head down again, and stretching out his legs still farther across the warm hearth.
Mrs. Shafto opened the door quietly, and called Sandy in a whisper, placing a chair for him in a corner, as much as possible out of sight of her husband, who did not appear to take any notice of the boy. But he groaned aloud several times, causing Sandy to start nervously, for his mind had been over-strained, and his body was faint with excitement and fatigue. Mr. Shafto's groans seemed to betoken some new and dreadful calamity, and Sandy could scarcely keep himself from bursting into a vehement fit of crying.
But it was not long before tea was ready, and Mrs. Shafto went to the foot of a staircase, which wound like a corkscrew up to the two low rooms in the roof. She called "Johnny!"
And the next moment the tap, tap of a pair of crutches sounded on the floor; and John Shafto came down the crooked staircase slowly and laboriously, till he reached the last step, and his pale face and dazzling eyes peered in at them from the darkness. It was a radiant face, unlike any that Sandy had ever seen, with a happy smile upon it, as though he had learned some great secret, and could never more be overwhelmed by sorrow.
"Where is Sandy?" he asked, for his eyes could not see him in the sudden light. "Have you found little Gip, mother?"
"Not yet, Johnny," she answered, cheerfully; "there's Sandy. Go and sit by him, dear heart; and he'll tell you about what we've been doing."
John Shafto sat down by Sandy, with his hand through his arm, ready to listen eagerly to all he could tell him, asking him questions, and talking about little Gip in his low pleasant voice. Until Sandy felt that, even if little Gip were lost, he would have another friend who would love him, and whom he could love. They whispered together till bed-time, forming plans for seeking and finding poor lost Gip.
That night, after Mr. Shafto had gone to bed, Mrs. Shafto made up a place for Sandy to sleep on the kitchen hearth, with an old mattress and a brown moth-eaten velvet pall out of the shop, which had not been in use for years. It made so grand and magnificent a bed, that Sandy was almost afraid to lie down upon it, and could scarcely believe it was not all a dream.
Once when he awoke, before the fire had quite burned out, and saw the polished warming pan twinkling, and the steel balls glittering in the dim light, he sat up to rouse himself, and think where he could be. Then the remembrance of the lame boy's tender face and pleasant voice came back to him, and he went to sleep again with a strange sense of peace at the thought of the new friend he had found.
———◆———
SEEKING THE LOST.
But when the morning came, and Mrs. Shafto went to rouse Sandy, and kindle the kitchen fire, what was her surprise and disappointment to find that he was gone! The mattress had been dragged into a corner, and the pall roughly folded up, and laid upon it, but there was no other trace of the guest who had been made so comfortable by her last night.
John looked exceedingly grave and troubled, though he did not put his anxiety into words. Only Mr. Shafto, when he came down to a late breakfast after the fire had burned up well, and the room was warm, displayed some triumph; and declared, with more energy than was usual to him, that the lad was a rogue and a thief, no doubt, and they would find he had not gone off without carrying some plunder with him. Nothing, however, was missing from the kitchen; and there was no plunder in the shop, except a few rusty plumes, and the hatchment, with its faded painting, in the window.
Yet it was a sad day for John Shafto and his mother, though Sandy was not proved to be a thief. Their hearts had warmed so to the desolate boy, and they had felt so keen a sympathy with him about little Gip that this desertion pained them to the quick. John Shafto, as he lay awake all the early part of the night, had pondered over every possible means of tracing the lost child; and had prayed to God, with intense earnestness, that she might be found. He had felt so comforted by these prayers and ponderings, that he had made haste to get up in the morning to talk to Sandy; and not only to talk, but to set off in search himself upon his crutches, as soon as he could learn anything by which he might know little Gip if he saw her. Now all this was over. Sandy was gone, without a word to his new friend. A great blank fell upon John Shafto, as though all his love had been thrown back upon him carelessly and ungratefully.
Very slowly the hours of that autumn day passed by. John Shafto limped along some of the back slums near his own home, gazing with fresh interest and attention at the starved and puny children playing about the doors and in the gutters. There had never seemed such swarms of them before, nor so much sadness in their lives. He saw them fighting with one another for a crust of mouldy bread or the rind of an orange: the strongest always gaining the victory over those younger or weaker. He heard little children, who could hardly speak, stammering out bad words, which had no meaning for them, but which showed what the sin was of those about them. Now and then a baby looked at him over the shoulder of a drunken mother, who was entering or leaving a gin-palace.
Because his heart was full of little Gip, he saw all these things as he had never seen them before. Two or three times he had called to a child moping alone, as if it were an entire stranger to the other children about it, but none of them had answered to the name of Gip. At length he went home, heartsick and very sorrowful.
Mrs. Shafto had been sewing away busily whilst Johnny was absent, fretted by her husband's persistent fears that Sandy had carried something off with him, and by his slow, lazy search through all the shelves and drawers which the boy might have rifled. Several times he fancied something was missing, and would not let her rest until she put down her work, and found what he was moaning over as gone. She was in very low spirits herself. It was so odd of the boy, she thought; he had seemed to cling so much to her last night. Could it be that he was afraid of her promise at the police station, that she would keep her eye upon him? Did he suppose she meant to make a sort of prisoner of him? If Sandy tried to keep out of their way, there was very little chance that either she or Johnny would come across him again. London was too wide a place for that.
It was growing quite dusk in the quiet grave-yard, and the tall head-stones looked taller and blacker than in the day-time; the gas was lit, though it was turned very low, in the gloomy shop, not for the chance of any customers coming to Mr. Shafto, but for the sake of the persons who employed his wife to sew for them. John was lingering about the grave-yard, hardly caring to carry his sad face into his mother's presence, and feeling that his father's fretful speeches would be too hard for him to bear, when a shrill, low whistle just behind him made him start as if he were frightened. It was still light enough for him to see Sandy, whose bare feet had made no sound at all upon the flagged pathway.
"Oh! Sandy! Sandy!" he cried. "How could you run away from us? I'm so glad you're come back."
"Why, I didn't run away," answered Sandy. "I crept away early this mornin', because I don't want nothink of you, but to come and see you at odd times. The master, he don't like me bein' here, he don't. So I crept away quiet; and one of my pals lent me arf-a-dozen of fusees, and I were in luck to-day, and sold 'em sharp, and bought some more; and now I've got fourpence halfpenny, besides a meat pie I've bought. Oh! I wish little Gip were here!"
He could not bear to think of little Gip's delight, if she could only see the meat pie, and go with him to spend the money, which was safely tied in a corner of his ragged pocket with a bit of string.
"Sandy," said John, "I've been searching for little Gip all day."
"Ah!" sighed Sandy. "But you'd never know her if you see her. I'd know her miles and miles away. I s'pose Jesus 'ud know her, wouldn't He? Or it's no use me arskin' Him to look out for her."
"To be sure He knows her," answered John, earnestly. "He knows us all by our names, and He's sure to know all the little children when He's so fond of them; every one of them, every one of them. Don't doubt that, Sandy. He's sure to take care of Gip. Don't you know that once He lived in heaven with His Father, but when He saw how lost and miserable we were, and how we should never, never find the way to heaven ourselves, He came down into the world, and lived like we do, and was always seeking those that were lost?"
"It were very good of Him," said Sandy; "but I never heard tell of it afore."
"Sandy," continued John Shafto, his voice growing more and more earnest, "I don't think I could bear to live if I didn't know all that. Sometimes when I'm in great pain at nights till I can hardly keep from crying out—and I don't like to wake mother, she has to work so hard—I feel as if I heard Him speak to me. Sometimes He says, 'John, lovest thou me?' And I say, half aloud, 'Lord, Thou knowest all things, Thou knowest that I love Thee.' Then He says, 'Bear this a little while, for my sake.' And I remember what pain He bore for me; and all my pain seems as nothing. Sandy, if you could hear Him say, 'I'm taking care of little Gip and if you love me, some day you shall have her again,' that would help you to bear it, wouldn't it?"
"Ay!" answered Sandy, with a deep sigh; "but how am I to know it?"
"I will tell you the very words Jesus said Himself," replied John; "listen:
"'For the Son of man,' that's Himself, you know; 'the Son of man is come to save that which is lost. How think ye? if a man have a hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine, and go into the mountains, and seek that which is gone astray? And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoices more over that sheep than over the ninety and nine that went not astray. Even so it is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should perish.'
"Not one of them, Sandy; not one of the hundreds and thousands of little children in London. He is looking after them all, every one; and He knows little Gip as well as you do. I thought of that when I saw such lots and lots of them, and I was afraid one might be little Gip, and me not know her.
"'Lord,' I said, 'Thou knowest her quite well. Take care of her for Sandy, and bring her back some day.'
"I think He will, perhaps before I die.'"
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"I will tell you the very words Jesus said Himself,"replied John. "Listen!"
"Mr. Johnny," said Sandy, in a frightened voice, "you're not goin' to die, are you?"
"By-and-by, Sandy," he answered quietly; "the doctor says there's no hope for me, and mother and me have talked about it; and we are going to be as happy as we can till the time comes, and she's to wear her blue ribbons in her cap, because I like it so. It's harder for poor mother than me, because she'll have to wait, and now she has nobody but me."
"But you'll be put into a coffin," said Sandy, "and buried deep down in the ground."
"That's not much," replied John Shafto, "that's only my body; but I shall go to the other children. Mother says all this world is like one large room to God; and He is among us, like a mother is with her children when she sits at work in the same room with them, seeing all they do, and hearing all they say, but perhaps not seeming to take much notice of them. And to die is only like going into the next room, where we shall see Him and hear His voice, and be no longer like little children at play, but be more like His grown-up sons and daughters; and He will talk to us more, and teach us harder things than whilst we are so little. I shall be glad to be called into the next room for everything, save leaving mother."
"I don't know nothink about it," answered Sandy; "only we'd two babies as died, and were nailed up in coffins, and buried. Are they gone into that next room?"
"To be sure they are," said John Shafto.
"And if mother's killed little Gip—" began Sandy, but he could not finish the sentence.
"She's there, too," said John, "safe and happy; God's little girl, you know. Where else could little children go to, save to Him, straight to Him? But, Sandy, you don't think she's been killed?"
"Not quite," whispered Sandy; "but ever since I see that dead baby I've been scared."
There was no time to say any more, for Mrs. Shafto had opened the shop door, and was looking out anxiously across the dark grave-yard.
"Sandy's come back, mother!" shouted John joyously. "Make him come in. I want to talk to him about hundreds and hundreds of things he doesn't know. Make him stay all night again, mother. I'll go in and coax father to let him."
John disappeared; but he was not away long, and he returned to Sandy to urge him to go in. Mr. Shafto looked at him through the corners of his eyes, and muttered some words. But the other two made up for his grudging reception, and Sandy was not in a mood to take offence readily. It was too good fortune for him to sit in the clean cosy room, with John Shafto to talk to him, that he should throw it away for a trifle. He kept as far back as he could, and did not lift his voice above a whisper; but he felt happier than he had ever done in his life, except at a few rare times with little Gip.
———◆———
IS IT TRUE?
SANDY was off again by daybreak, before Mrs. Shafto could get down. But he had promised John the night before to return every evening until Gip was found. He had done his utmost to describe her to him, though he had not been very successful; except in giving him to understand that she had black eyes and black hair, curling all over her head. But the vague idea he had gained of another Person, who knew Gip as well as he did, and who was looking for her, had lifted the heaviest part of the burden from him. He had listened eagerly to all John Shafto and his mother had been able to tell him about the Lord Jesus Christ, who had lived a sorrowful life, and died a painful death for the sake of a lost world; and though there was very much that he could not understand, he began to feel that he was not left alone. The true and tender Friend, whom John Shafto knew to be always near to him, would surely take a little notice of the poor boy John Shafto was befriending!
It was rather earlier than it had been the night before when Sandy turned out of the street into the quiet grave-yard that evening. It was quite light enough for him to see at the first glance the tall lanky figure of Mr. Shafto, loitering along the smooth path of gravestones, in slipshod shoes trodden down at the heels. He called to Sandy, and pointed out to him an old smoke-stained tablet fixed against the wall of the chapel.
"Can you read, boy?" he enquired.
"No, sir, never a word," replied Sandy, putting his head on one side, and staring at the blackened stone, as if he could by staring make out the inscription upon it.
"That," said Mr. Shafto, "is my grandfather's tombstone, John Shafto, minister of this chapel. He was a very learned man; and large numbers of people flocked to hear him preach—rich people and grand people. He ought to have been rich himself; but he left nothing more to his children than yonder poor tumble-down hovel. He never thought that his great-grandson would make a friend of a boy out of the streets."
"I'm very sorry, sir," remarked Sandy, as Mr. Shafto paused in his speech. "I s'pose, sir, you took to buryin' folks because it were so handy bein' near the buryin' ground?"
"There was nothing else to take to," said Mr. Shafto, in a slow, dreamy manner, as if he forgot he was speaking to Sandy; "I had the hatchment on hand, and every one told me I had such a solemn manner at a funeral. But the city grave-yards were closed immediately after, and now the family vaults even are not opened. Nothing has come of it. But boy," he continued, in a voice less languid, "I don't consider you a fit companion for my son; and I can't allow it. You must not get into the habit of coming here every night, as if it was your home."
Mr. Shafto had come to this conclusion during the day, and had resolved to put a stop to the thing. A boy picked up out of the scum of the street to be the chosen friend of Johnny Shafto! That could not be. Sandy listened in dismay, but he had no idea of rebelling against Mr. Shafto's orders. He knew himself to be quite unfit for such a place, and such friends; and he was not in the least surprised to hear that he must not think of it as his home. There were disappointment and regret in his heart, but no bitterness, as he heard Mr. Shafto's speech. But here was a chance of asking a question or two that had puzzled him during the day, whenever he thought of what John and his mother had tried to teach him. He drew a little nearer to Mr. Shafto, and spoke in a low, mysterious voice.
"You don't b'lieve the same as them others?" he said, pointing over his shoulder to the house.
"Believe what?" asked Mr. Shafto.
"As He's everywhere, hearkenin' to us, and watchin' of us," whispered Sandy: "God, you know? I didn't think as it were true, only Mr. Johnny were so sure of it."
"Of course it's true," answered Mr. Shafto; "I believe it as surely as my son does."
"I didn't think as you did," pursued Sandy. "If I b'lieved of it, it 'ud make a difference to me, it would. I couldn't go on doin' as I'm used to do. I don't see how folks can b'lieve in it; they goes on doin' jest the same as if it weren't true. Does God know as you don't like me to have a bite of bread, and sleepin' on your floor?"
Mr. Shafto was not ready with an answer. He looked at his grandfather's tablet, and from that to Sandy's brown, weather-beaten face, alive with earnest feeling; but neither of them helped him to any words.
"You don't think, do you," went on Sandy, "as Lord Jesus Christ 'ud do all they say He'll do for a poor boy in the streets, without shoes to his feet or a cap to his head? Or as He'll look for a ragged little gel like Gip, and take care on her for me? Oh! no. You don't b'lieve that; and maybe it's not true. You know lots more than they do; I heard Mr. Johnny's mother say so."
Still Mr. Shafto was tongue-tied.
Sandy spoke earnestly and sadly, with no look or tone as if he intended to give him any offence; he was only putting into words the difficulties that had come to his mind during the day.
A strange, new sense of shame smote the conscience of Mr. Shafto. All his life long he had professed to believe that God was everywhere, taking note of all that was said and done by every human being. He had professed also to believe that the Lord Jesus Christ had died for all, making no difference between rich and poor, learned and ignorant. Yet now, when this poor, untaught boy stood before his face, demanding of him if he really believed these things, he dared not say that he did.
"If it ain't true," continued Sandy, very sorrowfully, "there's nobody taking care of little Gip. I could get along somehow for myself, but I don't see what's to become of her. I were beginnin' to be glad again, I were; but now, if it's not true, Gip's lost, and mother's lost, and there's nobody to care a straw about it. I wish I'd never heard tell of such a thing!"
No answer yet from Mr. Shafto. If it was true that God was beside him, what a miserable fool he had been all his life! If God had been hearing, day after day, his fretful murmurings and his conceited boasting about his grandfather; if He had been watching all his idleness and selfishness, what a wretched, sinful man he had been! If Jesus Christ, the Saviour, who had laid down His life for him, knew how he had spent his own life, wasting it, and casting away all the golden opportunities of being good and doing good, why, then he was as much lost as poor little Gip or Sandy's drunken mother. There was as much need for the Lord to come seeking him, in long-suffering patience, as ever there had been for Him of old to seek and save the publican and sinner.
As for Sandy, his heart was very heavy again. The strange good news told to him by John and Mrs. Shafto had all turned out untrue. Nobody else believed these things. Even Mr. Shafto, living in the same house, and hearing all about it, did not believe it; that was very plain. Yet to turn away from this new hope and this new love, just dawning before him, would make the old life he must go back to a hundred-fold darker and sadder than it had seemed before. There was no unseen Friend seeking him and little Gip; no home for them to go to after death. The grave was the end of all; and even those who were rich or learned had nothing left to them when they died, but gravestones, growing black with time and the smoke of the busy city.
Sandy stole away silently, and without speaking again to Mr. Shafto, whose head had dropped down, and whose eyes had closed, not now in sheer laziness, but in something like shame and repentance.
The boy was at no loss for a shelter to-night; for one of his comrades had urged him to share an empty sugar-cask he knew of, where, lying close together, they might keep one another tolerably warm. It was not that he cared about; but it was the thought of little Gip, with no one now to care for her, except himself, and the loss of his new friend, John Shafto.
When Mr. Shafto roused himself from his reverie, and found that Sandy had disappeared, his first feeling was one of relief. The boy's questions had stung him too keenly for him not to be almost glad to be rid of him. But as the evening passed away, and he did not return to the house, and John Shafto wondered what had prevented his keeping his promise, Mr. Shafto began to listen eagerly for a low tap at the door, and was ready to fetch the boy in and make him welcome to his fireside. But no Sandy came; and at a late hour the shop door was locked, and John went upstairs to his little room, with a sad face and a sadder heart.
———◆———
AN AWAKENED CONSCIENCE.
MR. SHAFTO could not sleep that night. Generally his sleep was sound and long, lasting far into the morning, after his wife had been up for an hour or two, and was busy with her sewing. But to-night he heard the clock strike again and again; yet his brain would not rest. Neither would his conscience, for it kept filling his brain with accusing and tormenting thoughts. He saw himself as he had never done before, worthless, indolent, and selfish; depending for the very bread that kept him alive upon the woman whom he had once professed to love.
The memory of his children came back to him; how unloving he had been to them; how peevish when they were noisy; how indifferent when they were ill; and how he had been almost glad to know they would need no more provision made for them, save a coffin and a grave. All Johnny's life seemed to pass before him, so full of pain, and empty of all boyish pleasures; but full also of love, and patience, and quiet trust in God, and empty of selfishness and repining, as if he had been sent into the world to be a complete contrast to his father.
Then the thought of Sandy came to reproach him; a lad picked out of the gutter, who knew not a word about God and the love of Christ; yet this boy had a love in him deeper than all his ignorance and wretchedness, which proved him to be a truer child of the Heavenly Father than he was with all his learning. How could he sleep When he did not know where Sandy was sheltering; when a small still voice was saying to him, "Inasmuch as ye did it not to him, ye did it not to Me"?
He could scarcely wait for the fire to be kindled the next morning, but was downstairs before John and Mrs. Shafto had begun their breakfast. He felt awkward, and his face grew red, as John made haste to quit his easy-chair, in the warmest corner; the chair that had been kept for him ever since John could remember.
"Sit still, Johnny, sit still," he said; "another chair will do for me."
He took a seat by the table, on a hard, straight-backed chair, such as his wife was used to sit upon. There was an embarrassing silence among them, which was broken by Mrs. Shafto, who spoke in a forced tone.
"Is there anything the matter with you, Mr. Shafto?" she enquired.
He liked her to call him Mr. Shafto; it sounded more respectful; but he wished she had said John to him just then.
"No, my dear, no," he answered, "nothing that you can set right."
"Are you ready for your breakfast?" she asked. "Shall I do a little rasher of bacon for you?"
"I'll have what you are having," he said.
He saw the next moment that it was dry bread she was eating, though Johnny had a little butter upon his. He took a crust of bread, and ate it; every morsel threatening to choke him. He had never troubled himself to ask what sort of a meal his wife and boy had, an hour or two before he took his own comfortable and tasty breakfast, at which he had so often grumbled. He could not look much about him, for he was afraid of meeting the eyes of either of them; and all the three were very quiet, scarcely speaking a word to one another.
"Mary," he said, as soon as breakfast was over, "I think, as there is nothing for me to do, I'll go and see if I can find Sandy, and look about a bit for little Gip."
Mrs. Shafto could not believe she had heard him aright. It was so long since he had cared to go out into the streets, except on a Sunday, when he had his black suit on, and went to chapel, that she felt sure she was mistaking what he said. She stood at the table, with his empty cup in her hand, gazing at him in bewilderment; and as he happened to look up, once more his face grew red.
"I have been thinking of Sandy all night," he said; "and as there's nothing for me to do at home, I'll go and see if I can meet with the boy about the Mansion House or one of the stations. Don't soil your hands with my boots, Mary; I'll brush them myself."
Again Mrs. Shafto could not trust her own ears. She had cleaned her husband's boots for him every day ever since they were married, even when her work was very pressing; and he had never offered to brush them before. Now she saw him carry them away into the little scullery behind the kitchen, and presently he returned with them on his feet. He held himself more upright than usual, and there was a light in his eyes, as if they really saw what was lying before them.
"You're sure there's nothing amiss with you, Mr. Shafto?" she said again, with more anxiety than before.
"Nothing that you can set right," he answered; "but, please God, it will come right by-and-by. Good morning, my dear; don't expect me to dinner. Good-bye, Johnny."
They followed him to the shop door, and watched him crossing the grave-yard with a firmer and brisker step than John Shafto could ever remember in his father. But Mr. Shafto felt almost dazed when he turned into the bustling, working-day streets. He had remained so long indolently at home, except on a Sunday, that it was altogether a new thing to be pushed and jostled about as he threaded his way slowly along the crowded pavement. More than once he felt that he must give up his purpose, and go back to his quiet corner and his easy arm-chair, where he could stretch his tired legs across the hearth, and be warm and comfortable. The noise and hurry wearied him; and his head ached with the constant rattle and roll of wheels along the streets. What he was doing would be of no benefit to himself, or to any one belonging to him. A strong temptation came over him to return. What was Sandy, or what was little GIP to him, after all?
"What were you to Christ?" asked the still small voice that haunted him. "What were you to Him, that He should seek after you? Was it any benefit to Him that you should be found and brought back to God? Did He leave nothing, give up nothing, to save you? Was all the world pleasant and smooth to Him whilst He sought you? Go home to your own ease and comfort, if you will; but do not think He will own you as one of His. Remember what He said, 'Not every one that saith unto Me, Lord! Lord! shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.'"
Mr. Shafto plodded on through the noisy and dirty streets, in spite of his weary limbs and aching head. He pursued his way resolutely amid the throngs of people and conveyances, looking carefully through his short-sighted, dim eyes at every boy who was selling fusees, and asking one now and then if he knew anything of Sandy Carroll. None of them knew Sandy Carroll, though, if he had enquired for "Carrots," many could have given him the information he wanted. There seemed to him a vast army of fusee boys and newspaper boys, who quickly caught his eye turned upon them, and pursued him instantly as a possible customer. He felt badgered and worried, but he would not give up his search.
He turned at last towards the neighbourhood where Sandy had lived, and wound his way in and out among the back slums and alleys, asking many a question of the terrible-looking women dawdling about them. There was something in his solemn face and voice which impressed them, as if they thought him some important personage going about in disguise, and they were mostly eager to tell him all they knew and suspected of Nancy Carroll. There was not very much doubt among them that she had made away with Gipsy, perhaps in a drunken fit, scarcely knowing what she was about. But she had quite disappeared from her old haunts, and Sandy had not been seen since Sunday evening.
The policeman on that beat knew nothing more than the neighbours; for since Sandy had positively sworn that the murdered child was not his sister, the enquiry after his mother had ceased. "There was no chance," he said, "of finding the missing child now that more than a week had passed by with no news of her. She was dead, without doubt, by this time, whether she was murdered or no."
It was quite late in the afternoon when Mr. Shafto reached home again, so worn-out with his unusual exertions that he could scarcely drag one foot after the other. Heart sore, as well as foot sore, he was. He had seen strange sights that day—women lying drunk upon the pavement, unable to reach their own miserable homes, and hide there; children shivering with cold, and starved almost to skeletons. Once when he had sat down on a doorstep, too weary to go farther without resting a few minutes, a child had called to him through a broken cellar window, begging for a morsel of bread. He had made a pilgrimage through some of the dreariest places in the great city; and he went home forgetting himself in the thought of the sin and misery seething about him.
He was very quiet as he sat in his arm-chair, watching Mrs. Shafto get ready the tea. Both she and John guessed he had no good news about Sandy; and they did not venture to ask him where he had been looking for him, lest he should answer in a vexed and angry manner. But he did not stretch out his tired legs so as to take up all the hearth; and he smiled faintly, as if it were a difficult thing to smile, at his wife's attention to him.
"Johnny," he said, "don't you hear a little noise in the chapel yard?"
John Shafto had heard a slight, very slight sound about the shop window, as if a dog were prowling round it. But, until his father spoke, he had not liked to move, lest it should disturb him. Now he drew his crutches to him with readiness, and started off to see what this unusual noise might mean.
He returned in a few minutes, his face glowing with pleasure, but with a little hesitation in his manner. Mr. Shafto had just begun his tea; but he put down his knife and fork, as though he would not listen to John's intelligence whilst he was eating. His wife could not understand what this change might mean.
"It's Sandy, father," said John; "he won't come in."
"But he must come in!" exclaimed Mr. Shafto, eagerly. "Mary, my love, do you go and make him come in. Perhaps he would give me the slip if I went, and I could never catch him if he took to running. We must have him in."
Mrs. Shafto had not waited to hear all he said, but was already at the shop door, with her hand on Sandy's arm, urging him to come inside, and not listening to any objection from the boy. Not that he wished to make any objection, for he had been longing to have a look at John Shafto and a word with him all day. He followed her with timid steps and hanging head into the kitchen, where Mr. Shafto was sitting.
"Come up to the fire, my boy," said Mr. Shafto, cordially; "there's plenty of room for us all. And, Mary, pour him out a cup of hot tea to warm him. He's welcome to it. Johnny, sit down to the table, and let us all be comfortable together."
Sandy hardly knew what to do; but at a quiet sign from Mrs. Shafto, he sat down on a stool near the fire, and took a large cupful of tea from her, without a word. All this was quite different from what he had expected when he had stolen across the grave-yard, and scratched against the window, and whined like a dog, in the hope that John Shafto would come out; ready, if Mr. Shafto appeared, to hide behind one of the tall head-stones. It was so different, too, from hanging about the bakers' shop windows till they were closed, and then going to sleep in a cask. So different! He wished it could only last.
"Sandy," said Mr. Shafto, when tea was over, "I've been searching for you all day to tell you that it is all true what my Mary and Johnny believe. It is true that God sees and hears all, and that He loves you as much as He loves the Queen upon her throne. It is true that the Lord Jesus Christ is seeking to save you, and your mother, and little Gip, as much as if you were as rich and learned as anybody in London. He's been seeking me many and many a long year, but I've been keeping back from Him; I did not want Him to find me out in my selfishness and idleness. But He has found me to-day, and shown me what I am; and I believe He sent you here to help me to find myself out. It is not much that we can do for you, at any rate, till I can get some work; but what we have, we will give to you; and please God, Sandy, we'll help you to find both Christ and little Gip."
Mrs. Shafto was wiping away her tears quietly; and John pressed close to his father's side, and slipped his thin hand into his. It was one of the happiest evenings they had ever known, whilst they discussed ways and means of how Sandy could be clothed, and taught, and put into some way of getting his living, less uncertain than selling fusees.
"Mary, my love," said Mr. Shafto, as bed-time drew near, "would it do for Sandy's mattress to go into Johnny's room, beside his bed? For we are not going to let him live in the streets again. I'll come upstairs with you, and see what can be done."
That night Sandy slept in a corner between John's bed and the wall, where the low roof slanted over him. If John lay awake in the night, he would never again feel lonely; and if Sandy roused up out of his sound slumbers, he would know that John was close beside him. Both the boys were filled with delight at this arrangement; but it was John who, during the sleepless and painful hours of the night, thanked God again and again for having given him Sandy for a companion and friend.
———◆———
TWO MOTHERS.
BUT Mr. Shafto found it no easy task to shake off the chains of idleness and selfishness which he had allowed himself to be bound by so many years. One effort and one day's labour did not set him free; the habits of his life were too strong for that. Besides, he had no real business to turn to. He had taken up with the undertaker's trade out of sheer idleness; and since the grave-yard had been closed, and no funerals permitted in it, all his chance of employment in that way had gone. This he had not cared about, so long as his wife's industry had supplied him with his own comforts. The little house they lived in belonged to turn having come to him from his grandfather, the minister, whose smoky tablet still remained on the chapel wall. It was not much, he had often said in his heart, for his wife to earn the mere food and clothing.
So now there was positively no work he could do. He sauntered about looking for Gip a little; but there was no hope of success to encourage him. After he had been to a few police-stations and workhouses with Sandy, it seemed nothing but a waste of time to go on strolling about the streets enquiring after a child who had been lost so long. Even Sandy began to feel this, though he could not bring himself to give up the hope of finding her somewhere and somehow. Whenever he caught sight of a tiny ragged girl, or heard the voice of a little child, he could not help looking and listening if it were not his little Gip. But he had not much more time for the search; for Mr. Shafto found regular work for Sandy, though he could find none for himself.
This was in a wood-yard, where a number of poor friendless boys were employed in chopping wood, and tying them into bundles of chips for lighting fires. It belonged to Mr. Mason, the young gentleman whom Sandy had heard preaching that Sunday he first met with John Shafto. Fortunately for him, there was a vacant place which Mr. Mason could put him into at once. So there he was, in regular work, with small but regular wages; a night-school which he was expected to attend; and the prospect of soon gaining enough to live upon in more comfort than he had ever known.
"If it weren't for little Gip," said Sandy to John Shafto, "I'd be as happy as a king. I can't b'lieve it's me at times. But there's little Gip; she's never out of my head. I'm afeard she'll grow out of my knowledge if I don't come across her soon. It come over me sometimes, s'pose I never see her again for years and years, till she's growed up, and then I don't know as it is Gip? That scares me so I'm ready to run away from the wood-yard, and never leave off going about the streets till I find her. She can't grow out of His knowledge, though, can she?"
"Whose?" asked John Shafto.
"Him! Lord Jesus, as is lookin' for her as well as we. He'll be sure to know her, won't He? I only wish I could see Him just for once, to tell Him all about her. I'd like so to see how He looks, when He hears me tell of her. It's so drefful hard to shut my eyes, and speak to nothink like, when I talk of little Gip. If I could only look in His face, and hear Him say, 'Never you fear, Sandy, I'll find her, and keep her safe for you,' just for once, you know, I'd be content."
"But He is doing that," answered John Shafto; "wherever little Gip is, He's taking care of her for you, and will let you have her again some day. We can never, never see His face here; but I shall see it by-and-by, and perhaps tell Him about Gip myself."
"You'll have to die to do that," said Sandy, very gravely. To think that John would tell the Lord Jesus Christ about little Gip was a great comfort to him; but he could not bear to think he must lose him himself.
"Yes," said John; "but if it wasn't for mother, I shouldn't mind that. I've always been used to think of it, ever since we used to play about the graves, and learn our letters on the tombstones, me and the other children who are dead. At nights when I sit up in bed, I can see the graves through my window. I'm not afraid at all of those things, Sandy; and now you're come, you must take my place, and grow up and be a good son to poor mother."
"And when I find little Gip, she'll be her little gel," answered Sandy, eagerly. "I don't believe as mother 'ill ever turn up again now, do you? I couldn't be the son of two mothers."
That was Sandy's secret dread, which haunted him day by day as he went to and fro about his work. He was always fearing lest his mother's hand should seize him by the collar, and hold him fast whilst she searched his pocket for halfpence; or that she would strip him of his decent working jacket, and pawn it at the nearest shop. He was sure she would dog him to his new home, and molest his friends there, till they would be compelled to give him up to her, and he would be driven back into the old wretchedness and degradation. It was a great terror, constantly besetting him; and whenever he had to pass the swinging doors of the gin-palace, which were not far between in the streets he had to walk along, he would dart by quickly, as if it were the den of some ravenous beast of prey, lying in wait to devour him.
"Lord," he said often in his prayers, "let mother be lost always, and never be found again; but please find little Gip for me soon."
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