OU didn't think as I was near you this afternoon, did you?" asked Jem, when he came in to his tea, a few days after their marriage.
"No, indeed," answered Meg, looking up; "were you?"
"Yes; you know the court what runs up under these houses, first turnin' on the right?"
"I think I do."
"Well, one of them houses. My master has the job to repair them a bit; they're goin' to change hands, I believe, and so I shall be about here a good while before they're done."
"I wish I'd known; then I'd have watched for you," said Meg.
"Would you? Well, my dear, I don't know as it will make much difference, only for knowing as we'renear each other, because I never do use myself to leave my work, for nothing."
"Ah! no," answered Meg.
He sat down to the table, and after he had asked a blessing they began their meal; but Jem was unusually preoccupied.
Meg was not an old enough wife to understand all her husband's moods, and supposed he was tired with his day's work.
"Meg," he said suddenly, "I suppose we haven't such a thing as an old blanket?"
Meg looked rather astonished.
"Why, you know, Jem, as everything nearly is new what you got ready for our home."
"Yes," said Jem, "yes, I know. I wonder how we could do?"
"What is it for?" asked Meg.
"Why, my girl, my heart's just achin' at a little feller I saw there in a attic. He's been lyin', his sister told me, ever since the first week in May, and he's like a skeleton. She don't seem to have much to give him, nor to live on herself neither, and he's got nothing on him but an old shawl, and the girl says as he's awful cold of nights. It's a frightful draughty place."
Meg's happy eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, Jem," she exclaimed, "can we give them one of ours?"
"Well, ye see, Meg, it won't do for us to be givingaway our things one by one; for if we began in this poor neighbourhood, we should not have a rag to our backs, as the sayin' is. But yet this little chap—"
"Oh, yes, Jem, we ought not to 'pass by on the other side,' as the Bible says. Do let us give one of ours."
"I was thinkin'," said Jem; "you know, Meg, you and me made up our minds when we was married to put by somethin' to give to our God out of every shillin' we earned—"
"Yes, we did," answered Meg eagerly.
"Now, though we haven't earned much yet," he went on, "yet we've had a deal give us; and 'sposin' I was to get a blanket for the poor little chap: how would that be?"
"Oh, Jem, do! Will you take me out with you to get it?"
Jem smiled; then turning grave again, he added:
"But, sweetheart, I'm loth to sadden you with such tales when your dear heart's a bit sore at leavin' home. Eh, Meg?"
Meg's tears were very near, but she answered as steadily as she could—
"It would be poor thanks to Him who's given me so much, Jem, to say as I was too happy to be made sorrowful by helping any one in need."
Jem said no more, but went into the other room and fetched Meg's hat and jacket; but when theygot outside in the brilliant light of the declining June sun, he said to himself, that he had never before seen his Meg look so beautiful.
The blanket was bought, a very ordinary one—"all wool" as Jem had said, remembering his mother's bringing-up, but not so good as to be immediately noticed and perhaps stolen in the large lodging-house in which the children lived.
Then they retraced their steps, and when they came to the court Jem stopped.
"I'll soon be home, my girl; you go on without me."
"Shan't I come too?" asked Meg.
"If you'd like to, my dear; but it ain't a nice place."
It was by this time getting dusk between the high houses, and Meg followed her husband in silence. It was the first time she had ever been into any crowded abode. A country cottage was the only experience she had had.
Jem led the way up the dark and rickety stairs to the very top, and then stooped his head under a low doorway.
The room was close under the roof, open to the tiles, and was very bare, but neat and orderly. On a mattress in the corner lay the little sufferer, while by him sat his crippled sister, nearly as pale and thin as he.
"My child," said Jem in a kind voice, addressingher, "do you think if I brought you a blanket you could keep it from being stolen?"
The child looked up suddenly. A face, with all its want and suffering, on which something indescribable was written. Jem did not analyze it, but he felt it.
"I think so," she answered. "I know a place outside up under the roof where I could hide it away if I go out. That's what I have to do with most things as it is."
Meg seated herself on the box by the child's side and looked down on his little face. She put his wavy hair back from his forehead and said tenderly—
"Poor little dear, you have a bad cough!"
"Yes," said the child; "me cough all de time."
"Yes," pursued his sister. "Dickie's been bad this five weeks, and if it hadn't been for father having a bit of work, and bringin' home a little for once, he'd ha' died."
Dickie did not seem to mind being thus spoken of, but he turned his head wearily away, as if it were too much trouble to think.
"I like bein' ill," he whispered, as Meg bent over him.
"Like it, dear?" she questioned, thinking she had not heard aright.
He nodded ever so slightly, and then added in a little determined voice—
"'Cause then they don'thurtme no more."
Meg would have asked for an explanation, butJem was unfolding the blanket, and the girl was absorbed in wonder at its comfort and whiteness.
"Dickie, look!" she exclaimed in a low joyful tone.
But the child was too ill to be interested. He did not turn his head again, and Cherry said, with all the life gone out of her eyes, which had so quickly lighted up at sight of the blanket—
"That's how he is most times. Sometimes I wish he was safely in heaven with mother."
Jem put his hand gently on the girl's arm.
"Ah, my dear, that's how we feel when we're sad; but if we understand that God loves us, we'll be willing to wait, so as we may do His will."
Her wide-open, sad blue eyes filled slowly, and she turned in silence to cover over her little brother. She took up the old shawl and spread the blanket next him, then unfolding the shawl, which had been doubled for warmth, she carefully covered every bit of the blanket with it, even seeking a bit of rag from somewhere to stop up a hole through which the whiteness peeped.
"He might guess it else," she explained, and her hearers had to draw their own conclusions.
"Wouldn't he like him to have it?" questioned Jem.
"He'd like drink better," answered Cherry, in a matter-of-fact tone. "Since poor father's taken to that so much, he don't have the heart he used to have,He wouldn't have took this attic for us, so comfortable, only the landlady let us have it cheap 'cause the other folks wouldn't have Dickie no longer."
"Why, dear?" asked Meg pitifully.
"'Cause he cried and coughed so. The attic was empty, and I told father I didn't mind the holes in the roof so long as they wouldn't worry Dickie. So he was in a good humour, and let us come, and we've been here a month."
Cherry spoke in a congratulating tone, but soon grew sober again when she looked towards the little brown head that moved so restlessly.
"Jem," whispered Meg, "might I make him some bread and milk, and bring it round to him at once?"
Jem willingly agreed, and Meg hurried away. While she was gone, he sat down and drew from his pocket a little Testament, and with Cherry's eyes curiously watching him, he turned over the leaves till he came to the tenth chapter of John. Then in a clear, low tone, that soothed while it wooed them to listen, he read about the Good Shepherd giving His life for the sheep.
Cherry sat down on the bottom of the mattress and listened, evidently not as if it were a new tale, but yet as a thirsty man will stretch out his hand for water which he has not tasted for so long.
"Dickie," she whispered, as Jem paused, "don't yer like to hear about Jesus? That's the GoodShepherd what I've told you about, as loves the little lambs."
Dickie opened his eyes just enough to give her the shadow of a smile of assent; but he was too weak to care to speak.
"Here, dear," said Meg, coming in and leaning over him; "do you like a little nice hot bread and milk?"
The child could not remember the time when such a name had been mentioned to him; but when Meg put a spoonful to his lips the smell of it brought back vividly the remembrance of his mother.
"Yes," he said, answering Meg's question now; "I 'ike it very much."
When he had eaten about half he put his little hand out, and gently pushed the basin away. "No more," he whispered, and sank into sleep such as he had not had since that terrible May day, when he had been brought home nearly dying.
Then Meg turned to Cherry.
"Eat the rest of it, dear," she said.
"Oh, no," answered the child, drawing back; "it 'ull do him such a deal o' good. He never gets nothing nice."
"Jem will let me bring him some more another day," answered Meg; "but if you would rather keep this till he wakes, see, I have brought something for you."
She unfolded a piece of paper with two thick slicesof bread-and-butter, which Cherry took in her hands with a look of gratitude which went to Meg's heart.
"Oh, youaregood!" the girl exclaimed, throwing her arms round Meg; "nobody was ever so good to us before—since mother went. He's always callin' for mother."
Meg gazed in the upturned face, and then after an instant's hesitation she stooped and kissed it—the soiled little face, upon which Meg was certain was written the name of the King of kings.
OU look tired, mother," said Meg, drawing forward the arm-chair the first time her mother-in-law came to see her after her wedding-day.
"I am," answered Mrs. Seymour, sinking into the seat with a weary sigh.
"I was going to set out to call on you this morning, but, stupid-like, I never asked Jem where you lived before he went to his work. So I couldn't come."
"And Jem never told you where I lived?" asked Mrs. Seymour, astonished.
"I asked him," answered Meg, "and he smiled at me, and said he should tell me nothing about it, but take me to see."
"Why, I live in the very same house, my dear."
Meg looked too surprised to speak. When at last she could find any words, she said anxiously—
"How very unkind you must have thought me, mother, in not coming to see after you. Times I have meant to ask Jem, but then he was out; and these few days have passed so quickly, I have been so busy getting out all my little treasures."
Mrs. Seymour looked round.
"Your things have made a lot o' difference, my dear. You have smartened it up a deal."
"Oh, it did not want smartening up," said Meg; "but the young ladies at the Hall did give me such pretty things. Look at this workbox, and this tea-caddy, and that pretty vase. Those were the young ladies' gifts, and those glass dishes from the other servants."
Mrs. Seymour said they were very kind, and then sat looking somewhat abstractedly into the little fire.
"And he never told you what a job he had to get these rooms for you?" she asked at last.
"No," said Meg; "did he have a job?"
"Oh, that he had. For the party that was in them didn't want to move out. You must know, Meg, that I and Jem lived in two rooms in this house ever since I buried his poor father. But when he got to earn enough, he took the front room on this floor for himself, and used to come and have his meals with me. I've lived in this house twenty yearscome Michaelmas. I'm a laundress, you know, and wash for poor folks."
"A laundress!" exclaimed Meg, looking at her pale, thin face; "then that's what makes you so tired?"
"No, my dear," briefly answered her mother, "not if I had got my usual help. But she's took a day's holiday, as she does whenever it suits her, and I and my work may go then, for aught she cares."
The old woman's face had begun to assume a hard look, but it was only for a moment.
"Well, well," she said hastily, "it's not for me to be coming down hard on others; I'm not so good myself to my Master. But there was a day, Meg, when I couldn't have felt like that; and it ain't so long ago, neither. It was my Jem as brought me the good news, and since I've been forgiven myself, I'm learnin' to forgive. It makes all the difference."
"It does indeed," answered Meg gently, seating herself in a low chair close to the old woman, and putting her hand in hers.
The caress was unexpected, and her mother looked down upon her with quick watering eyes.
"I might help you to-day," said Meg, hesitating a little.
Not that she grudged offering her help, but she knew so little of her mother-in-law's life. Shouldshe have to go and wash and iron among a lot of other women?
Mrs. Seymour paused a moment before answering, and then said cheerfully—
"Well, my dear, if you would help me for an hour or so, till Jem comes home to dinner, I should be very much obliged, and then we can ask him. What worries me is, that I promised a man who is going away to get his shirts done by one o'clock; but I was that beat, that I could not stand another moment."
"I wish you had asked me," said Meg, looking grieved. "You must try to think of me as a real daughter."
Mrs. Seymour was much touched, but it was not her way to show feeling, and she only answered—
"Thank you, my dear. I shall take your kindness as it was meant; but if you help me at any little pinch like this, you must not be hurt at my giving you what I should have given Jenny."
Meg looked mystified, and then coloured painfully.
"Oh, I don't think I could," she began; but her mother-in-law stopped her.
"Talk it over with Jem, my dear; this is a hard world, and if you could put by a little for a rainy day you would not be sorry. I must pay some one; why not you?"
"We will talk to Jem," said Meg, recovering herself, and speaking with cheerful alacrity. "Iam quite ready, mother; so if you are, we will come and begin, because one o'clock will be soon here."
"They're all starched and damped down," said Mrs. Seymour, "and the irons is heating beautiful."
They turned from the door, and Meg prepared to run down-stairs.
"Not there!" exclaimed Mrs. Seymour. "Why, Meg, I live at the top."
"Oh," said Meg, laughing, "you must scold Jem for not telling me."
"Yes, I live at the top," Mrs. Seymour went on as they reached the landing, "because, you see, no one don't interfere with me up here. I hang my things across here, or I hoist them along this pole out o' window, and I can manage finely."
"Capital," said Meg heartily. "And have you both these rooms?"
"Yes, I rent both; but I have a lodger in one."
Meg made no answer, but followed Mrs. Seymour into the front room, where hung numerous lines close to the ceiling, with clean clothes airing away as fast as they could.
The fire was bright, and so were the irons; so were the tins on the shelf, and one or two covers on the wall. In the middle of the room stood a spotlessly white deal table, and across the window an ironing-board covered with a blanket and cloth, all ready for use.
"What a nice room!" said Meg. "Shall I begin now, mother?"
Mrs. Seymour assented, standing by and watching critically, while Meg looked round for the iron-holder, saw that the stand was ready, and bent over the fire to lift off the iron. Her mother had placed a collar in readiness for her to begin on, and waited while she dusted her iron and put her first pressure upon it, after which she turned back to the arm-chair and sat down with a satisfied sigh.
Meg's cheeks were hot under the gaze of those observant eyes, but she went on without looking up till the collar was done and another spread out. Then she said—
"What will be the next thing, mother?"
"You've learnt from a good ironer, my dear."
"Yes, that was mother," answered Meg brightly; "they used to say so at the Hall."
"I don't doubt it. There are the shirts rolled up in that cloth. When you've done one hang it here to air; I always air everything. Poor people haven't fires, you know, and there's plenty of rheumatics caught by damp clothes."
Meg ironed away, and the weary old woman caught herself dropping into a doze. It was all very well being up early and late, and washing and drying and folding, but worry quite knocked her up; and to know that she had a certain time in which those shirts must be done, and being deprived of her stronghelper, she had felt as if her usual energy had failed her.
A gentle voice roused her.
"They are finished, mother. Have you anything else you want done, or may I go down and see if it is time for Jem?"
"To be sure," answered Mrs. Seymour, opening her eyes. "Have you done a'ready? Thank you kindly, my dear."
Her quick glance scanned the shirts hanging neatly folded on the large horse in front of the fire.
"Are they right?" asked Meg. "I had to guess a little, because I have not ironed any of these sort of shirts ever."
"They will do quite well, thank you, my dear. I don't fold 'em just so, but I don't see that it matters much for once. He won't know no difference."
Just then a step was heard on the wooden stairs, and Meg started and turned round.
"Is my little woman here?" asked a voice that made her heart bound.
"Just ain't she?" answered her mother-in-law with animation. "Here have I been sleepin' like any top, and Meg's come and done my work for me."
Jem looked well pleased. He knew his upright old mother far too well to fear that Meg would be called on too often to help.
"Oh, it's nothing," said Meg; "but now, Jem, youmust come to dinner, or you'll not be back in your hour."
They left the old woman, and as they went down, up came the man to fetch his shirts.
"All right," said Mrs. Seymour, handing them to him; "and I've put on the buttons. No thanks to Jenny, though, I can tell you. It's my new daughter as has helped me."
HAT do you think I'm going to try my hand at to-day?" said Meg the next morning at breakfast.
"I'm sure I can't tell, dear."
"I'm going to make some bread!"
"Oh, that's it, is it?" asked Jem; "if I didn't guess as much when I saw you carryin' home that little red pan."
"But if it's heavy," said Meg dubiously, not referring to the pan, but to the bread, "shall you ever trust me with your flour again?"
He only smiled at that, and said,
"But you used to make it at home, for I'm sure as you told me so once."
"So I used, but not for a long time now; and you know there are a great many things that have to be right, or your bread won't be right."
"Well," said Jem, "let's get 'em all right, and then we shan't have no mishaps."
Meg laughed merrily.
"Jem, I must have some German yeast, and some nice good flour."
"I'll buy those for you as I pass along to my work, and tell them to send 'em in."
"But they'll have to come early," said Meg, "or it will not be a bit of use."
Jem promised to see to that; and then Meg propounded the question which had been burning on her lips all yesterday, only she could not get courage to bring it out.
"Jem," she began.
"Well, little woman?"
"Jem—should you very much mind if I were to earn something?"
Jem looked astonished, and then a cloud came over the brightness of his face. Did his little woman already begin to miss some of the things she had been accustomed to at the Hall?
"Why, dear?" he asked soberly.
"Because—at least—Jem—your mother said—if I helped her she should pay me!"
"And you did not like that?" asked Jem, looking relieved, but puzzled.
"I suppose I did not. I think I should like to help her for nothing—out of love to you, Jem, and by-and-by out of love to her."
"Yes, dear, so should I; but I see what mother feels. If she has more work than she can do alone, she would have to pay some one else, and would a deal rather the money went into your pocket. She would not be right to earn money at your expense."
"Not if we gave my time willingly?"
"No; but, Meg, you needn't do it unless you like it, my dear."
"I thought you would be sure to tell me to help your mother all I can," said Meg, almost ready to cry.
"An' so I should, sweetheart, while we had breath in our bodies, if she were ill or needed it. But it's different as it is. Jenny don't serve her well, that she don't."
"Who is 'Jenny'?" asked Meg.
"Jenny lives on our first floor. She has an old blind father, but she's out a deal. I fancy they have some sort of little income, for she don't work steady enough to keep him, and pay rent for those two rooms."
"And does she iron for mother?"
"Yes; and wash too sometimes. But mother has a knack or two with the washing, and likes to do most of that herself; she says folks don't get the things clean."
"Then you would like me to earn something if I could, Jem?" she asked.
"Well, dear," he answered very kindly, "if you was to ask me what I'd like, I'd say as I shouldlikeyou never to have a need to work all your life! But, Meg, I've looked at things a long time, and I've laid awake at night too thinkin' of them, and I've come to learn this. That our God don't mean us to be idle—none of us—and that it'swhatsoeverour hands find to do, that we are to do with our might."
Meg's eyes lost their troubled look, and brightened up into their own serene sweetness under his earnest gaze.
"And so," he pursued, "the matter seems to me to stand like this: 'Is this what your dear little hand finds to do, or ain't it?'"
Meg sat thoughtfully silent for a few moments, and Jem got his hat. Then he came over to bid her good-bye.
"I won't forget the flour, little woman."
"And I won't forget what you've said, Jem. I think my hand does find it to do."
He kissed her tenderly.
"If we bring everythin' as we're doubtful of to whether He would like it——"
Meg nodded; and then he was gone, and she stood alone.
But in a moment his step was heard coming up, and his bright face peeped in.
"How much yeast did you say?"
"Oh, a halfpenny worth—if they would sell it—half an ounce, Jem; that will make up five pounds of flour well."
"All right."
This time she heard his step go to the bottom, and then she turned round and began to think of her day's work.
"I'll run up and ask mother first," she said; and locking her door, which they were obliged to do in a house with so many lodgers, she ran up-stairs.
In answer to her knock a rather far-off voice called "Come in."
She pushed open the door and entered, but Mrs. Seymour was nowhere to be seen. The bed-room door adjoining was ajar, but Meg hesitated to knock there, as she was sure her mother had said she had a lodger.
But in another moment a voice from within said, "Come in here, please; I can't bear to speak loud."
To Meg's great surprise the speaker's voice came from the further of two beds, and a wan pale face, belonging to an elderly woman, raised itself a little from the pillow.
"Did you want me to come in?" asked Meg, hesitating with a fluttering heart.
"Yes. Mrs. Seymour's run down to find Jenny; she promised to be up early, and she ain't come. You're young Mrs. Seymour, I suppose?"
Meg blushed as she answered, "Yes." She had hardly ever heard herself called by her new name.
"She won't be but a minute. Sit down, will yer.You didn't 'spect to find some one here, by your looks?"
"No," answered Meg.
The invalid shook her head.
"Ah, to think now I should see you before I've been made straight for the day, after all!"
Meg did not reply; but thinking it might be unkind to go back, she sat down on the edge of a chair, and tried to think of something to say.
"I've heard of you before to-day," said her mother-in-law's lodger, with an attempt at a smile.
"Have you?" asked Meg.
"And what's more, I've done for you what I wouldn't ha' believed any one would ha' persuaded me to do. But it was all along of Jem's kindness, and Mrs. Seymour's kindness."
"For me?" echoed Meg.
"For you. When Jem told me he wanted me to move up here, out of my back room—yours, as is now—I flatly refused, that I did."
"Oh," said Meg, "was it you who did that for me?"
"Yes, I did, and I don't repent it. In fact, I'm mighty glad I did, for I'm a deal more comfortable up here than I was down there. Of course there's the smell of the washing, but if it's bad I holler out to them to shut the door; and most times I don't mind it, and where I lie I can see 'em in there, going about and ironing, and fussing; and it ain't half soquiet and dull as it was. And then of nights, when I want anything, I can just give a call, and Mrs. Seymour's up in a minute! Jem said as it would be so, but I wouldn't credit it before."
"And what made you decide?" asked Meg, wondering in this mixture of self-interest and helplessness what had been the reason that influenced her at the bottom.
"It was one night," said the invalid with a softened look, "I was took awful bad. I don't know what it was made me so bad; but I had told Jem that evening, flat, that nothing on earth should move me out of the room where I'd lain for ten years, and it was no use his asking me.
"Well, as I said, I was took awful bad in my chest, and I laid there groaning for a long time. At last I managed to knock the wall, and got Jem to come to the door.
"'Oh, I'm dying,' says I; 'come in and see what you can do for me, Jem.'
"He'd put on his things when he heard me first; and in he came and raised me up, and then he goes up-stairs and calls his mother. But as luck would have it, the neighbour on the ground floor was ill too, and Mrs. Seymour couldn't leave her for a moment just then.
"When Jem come up and told me that, I thought I should ha' died straight away. But he comes over to me as quiet and kind as any woman, and he says,'Miss Hobson, don't you take on; I'll do all as I can for you, if you'll tell me what to do.'
"So I told him to prop me up, for I couldn't fetch my breath, you see; and he goes and gets some hot water from his mother's boiler, and puts a shawl over my head, and makes me breathe the steam; and when I was a little easier he gets me a cup of tea, as did me a world of good.
"Once or twice while he was bending over me when I was so very bad, he says to me sort of soft-like, 'Look to Jesus, Miss Hobson—there's nought but Jesus can save a dying soul.'
"But I heard him without taking much notice.
"When I was a bit better, and had done gasping so bad, he sits down by my side as kind as any nurse, and he says to me, 'Miss Hobson, I'm a deal more anxious for you to get the Breath of Life than ever I am for you to be able to breathe easy. I wish you would think of that!' he says.
"And I says to him, 'What do you mean by the Breath of Life?'
"And he says, 'It's coming to Jesus, and getting forgiveness of all our sins from Him. That's the Breath of Life!'
"'I don't know how to come,' says I.
"'Ask Him to draw you!' says he. 'He tells you, "Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out." If you'll come to Jesus, you'll have new life.'
"Well, I don't know how it was, but I thought as it 'ud be a fine thing to get new life. So I laid myself back on my pillow and thought it over. But before long I says to him, 'Jem, do you ever pray?'
"'Ever?' says he; 'you know I do.'
"'Then pray for me,' says I, closing my eyes.
"When the grey dawn of morning crept into my room there he was, sitting by me and watching me still.
"'Jem,' says I, 'I've come to Jesus. I'm awful bad, but He's said as He'll not cast me out. I've come.'
"At that he looked as glad as if I'd left him a fortune. And then he gets up and lights my fire, and warms some gruel his mother had brought for me, and while I was eating it, I says to him, 'Jem,' says I, 'you may have it!'
"'Have what?' says he.
"'My room,' says I. And that's how it was as I moved up here to make room for you!"
Meg had sat spell-bound, listening to the woman's words, her interest in her Jem swallowed up in her greater interest in this soul's struggle from death to life.
"Oh, thank you for telling me," she exclaimed at last.
But the invalid spoke again.
"I've been a selfish woman all my life, and nowI've come near the end of it, I'm a selfish old woman still; but my Jesus is going to cure me of that. I tell Him about it every day, and He helps me every day to get the better of it, a little bit."
"Oh, Miss Hobson," said Meg, coming close to her, "I do want to get like Jesus too. Will you help me?"
"Me, my dear?"
"Yes; I'm sure if you want to so much, you can show me how."
"Heteaches," she answered, "teaches every day."
Just as she said these words Mrs. Seymour pushed open the door, and not seeing Meg, said anxiously,
"There! Jenny's been and played truant again. Her old father says as her uncle has come and fetched her to spend the day over at Brixton."
Then she caught sight of Meg, who hastened to explain why she was there, and her mother-in-law said,
"Why, my dear, you've come in my time of need. Do you mean you will work for me as I proposed?"
"Yes," answered Meg, "if it would be a comfort to you."
Mrs. Seymour looked exceedingly relieved.
"Can you come at once?" she asked.
"When I have made some bread," answered Meg, "and tidied up a bit."
"Bread?" said Mrs. Seymour.
Meg smiled.
"I'm going to try; and if I succeed I'll bring you a loaf, mother! Please don't think I'm a new broom!"
"You're anicebroom!" said her mother-in-law, with rare enthusiasm, "and I'll come down to see you make it one of these days. Dear, dear, can you make bread, to be sure? I've often wished to see it done!"
T was Saturday, and Meg had plenty to do, so that her mother-in-law's wish to have her at once was a little confusing.
When she got down to her own room again her fire was low, her breakfast table untidy, and things less bright and orderly than they had been once since her marriage.
She felt inclined to go up to her mother-in-law and excuse herself for to-day; but the remembrance of Jenny's breach of faith made her pause.
"No," she said to herself, "even if my bread has to be given up for to-day I must not disappoint mother."
She ran up again and tapped at Mrs. Seymour's door.
"Mother, I want to arrange my work; how long will your ironing take me?"
"Why," answered Mrs. Seymour, "I've got behind this week, else I do say if they won't bring it to mebefore Friday, I can't do it! But you see, my dear, I've to take it pretty much as I find it. Poor folks haven't many clothes, and when they spare them, they want them done up quick. These came in yesterday, and if Jenny had come to her time, they'd have been half done by now."
Page 75.She sat holding it, the mother looking on at Meg's swift gentle ways.—p. 75.
"And they will take——?" began Meg.
"Three hours at least," answered Mrs. Seymour.
"All right," answered Meg, "I'll be up in about an hour. I must set Jem's dinner on."
She hastened away, and Mrs. Seymour turned into the bed-room to see after her invalid lodger.
"I like her," said Miss Hobson. "Jem's got a good 'un."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Seymour, a little shortly.
The invalid noticed the tone, and answered,
"Now don't you 'spose I've known Jem long enough to be free to pass a remark on his wife?"
"As you like," answered Mrs. Seymour.
"Butyoudon't like, I can see that," answered Miss Hobson.
Mrs. Seymour did not reply, for she and her charge were apt to get into a little wrangle unless she could be very forbearing. The thought of how hard it must be to be in bed for years generally came to her aid, added to another thought, deeper and sweeter: "I forgavetheeall that debt."
Miss Hobson was reminded by her silence that she too had some one else to please, and she proceededwith her morning toilet with a softer feeling in her heart.
Meanwhile Meg quickly washed up her breakfast cups, and spread the things ready for making a meat pie. There were the remains of the chickens, and a little fresh meat which she and Jem had gone out last night to buy. It was the middle of June, and very warm, and Meg had fried it that it should keep the night.
So she made her pie and set it ready to bake at the right time; she peeled her potatoes, and left them in a basin of clear water; she made up her fire so that it should burn as little coal as possible till she needed it for cooking, and then, after a glance to see if all were right, she went to the door.
Here she nearly stumbled over the boy with her flour and yeast. She took it from his hand, and putting it in her cupboard, once more set out for her mother-in-law's room.
"You've come within the hour!" remarked Mrs. Seymour contentedly. "Now, my dear, while I starch these few things, will you iron those pinafores? They belong to the family on the ground floor, where there's such a lot of 'em."
"Are there?"
"Such mites; there's six of them, I think, and one above another like so many steps. Poor thing, you've seen her, haven't you, standing at the door with her young baby? It ain't two months old yet."
"I've seen her," answered Meg, leaning on heriron and pressing very hard. She remembered the glimpse she had had of the full room—the fretting babies, the general air of untidiness which only a half-open door had revealed.
"She's no hand at washing,—leastways not to make anything respectable,—so I take a few of her things cheap. She was a tidy enough woman when she came; but poor living and many cares have beaten the life out of her."
Meg sighed, and wondered if there might be anythingshemight do to lighten the burden; perhaps some day she might hold the baby or something.
Mrs. Seymour did not sit down to doze in her chair this morning. She kept Meg well supplied with things to iron, and Meg satisfied her as much as on the previous day.
"You do it just right," she said, approvingly. "You don't fiddle over it, and you don't hurry over it. Now, Jenny slights some of it, and puts so much work into the rest, that I tell her it's a wonder if there's a bit of profit left."
"I'm glad I do it right," said Meg, smiling. And then she thought of Jem's dinner, and ran down-stairs to put her pie in the little oven.
"How's your bread getting on?" asked Mrs. Seymour, when she came back.
"Oh, I left it for to-day. It does not matter," said Meg, rather hurriedly, for she did not want her mother to know what a disappointment it had beento have to give it up after all Jem's care and trouble.
Mrs. Seymour made no remark, but she drew her own conclusions; and when Meg had finished the ironing and had gone down-stairs, she went into the back room, and said to Miss Hobson—
"Did you hear that about the bread?"
"Yes, I did. I don't know as I could 'a done it; only married hardly a week. That's what I call thinking of others afore yerself."
Mrs. Seymour nodded and went back to clear her table for dinner, Miss Hobson's eyes watching her with interest meanwhile. On the whole, she did not feel sorry that she had given up her room to Meg.
When Jem came in at dinner-time and went to peep into the red pan, clean emptiness reigned there, and Meg sat quietly working by the window. As he understood nothing about bread-making, he concluded it must be in the oven. But when Meg went to that to lift out the pie, and he saw no bread there, he was fairly puzzled.
"Where's the baker's shop?" he asked playfully.
"Oh, Jem, I'm so sorry; but Jenny went out, and mother wanted the ironing done. I could not manage the bread too—so it's not done."
Meg looked so concerned that Jem had to get up and kiss her.
"Never mind," he said, "We must try again on Monday."
"Yes; but I'm afraid the yeast may not be good this hot weather. Still, we can see. Jem, I did think it was what my hand found to do—"
"I haven't a bit of doubt about that, little woman," he answered. "How did you find time to make this nice pie, or did a fairy come in?"
Meg shook her head, while she was delighted with his praise.
"This is for to-morrow as well," she said, "because you know we agreed we'd only cook potatoes on Sunday."
"So we did; it could not be a better dinner."
"How nicely this oven will bake our potatoes while we are at service, Jem!"
"Everything's nice," answered Jem, smiling. "Meg, I shall not be home till four o'clock this afternoon; but if you'll be ready we'll take a penny boat, and have a turn up the river. This is our honeymoon, you know."
Meg blushed and smiled.
"Oh, Jem," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, "I hope I shall be all you wish!"
He looked down at her with eyes that said a great deal, but he only answered—
"Mind you're ready, little woman.
So Meg set to and made her rooms as clean and beautiful for Sunday as she could devise. It was true, they were already nearly as clean as they could be; but London smoke penetrateseverywhere, and Meg knew that a little sweeping and scrubbing would do no harm. When it was nearly four, she went up to ask a favour of her mother-in-law.
"Jem's going to take me up the river," she said, smilingly; "but I'm afraid the fire will go out, and there'll be no hot water for tea. Would you think it a trouble to look to it for me, mother?"
"Not a bit, my dear. But if Jem and you are going out, let out your fire this hot day, and come up and have tea with me when you come in. I was thinking I'd come and ask you."
Meg promised to do so if Jem were agreeable, and hastened away to take off what little fire she had, and to lay it again to be ready whenever it might be needed. And then she stood looking out of the window watching for Jem.
The look-out was not as cheering as the look-in. Tall sombre houses across the narrow street, with dirty tattered blinds, bedsteads half across windows, dirty children leaning out and risking their necks, here and there a few sickly plants. Such was her outlook in front. Behind it was still worse. A double row of forlorn little courts, where stunted fowls were kept, where badly-washed clothes were hung from Saturday to Saturday all the week round, where rubbish was thrown, where children made mud-pies, where old boxes and firewood were heaped, and every imaginable untidiness congregated to depress thespirits and health of the crowded houses abutting on it.
Meg never looked out if she could help it. People must live in London, she supposed, and Jem had asked her to come and make London bright for him, and she meant to do it if she could. And then her eyes went up above the narrow street, and looked into the clear June sky, and she whispered: "They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."