ND so time went on happily and swiftly. The summer days came and went, while Meg and her young husband worked cheerily at their allotted tasks.
Many a time did Meg visit the forlorn attic, carrying not only dainties for poor suffering Dickie, but cheer and sunshine for his devoted little sister. If Meg had discovered in Cherry traces of "a disciple," she did not fail to do her part in giving her many "a cup of cold water."
This she did in various ways, so tenderly and unobtrusively, as to be almost unnoticed by Cherry at the time. She brought her some soap and an old towel, and coaxed Dickie "to feel how nice the warm water was," and when his ablutions were done, to their joy he had a long sound sleep. Cherry made up her mind she would try it again another day.
Then Meg begged a bowl without a handle, whichher mother-in-law had done with as useless for washing; this she carried round to Cherry and taught her to wash over her floor, so that if the old boards might not look white, they would at least be fresh. And once Meg put on her oldest dress and scrubbed the room from end to end. She also took home the old shawl one hot August day and returned it in the evening clean and sweet.
She was rewarded, if reward she needed, by Cherry's brightened face, and by Dickie's creeping off his mattress and up into her arms, where he would lie peacefully while she told him story after story of the little lamb who was lost on the mountains, and was sought by the Good Shepherd, until He carried it home rejoicing.
By-and-by Dickie began to run about the bare room with fresh energy; but as he began to revive, so Cherry seemed to get despondent. There was a look of alarm on her face which puzzled Meg; but the child would never give any explanation. She resolutely kept Dickie up-stairs, hushing him from making any extra noise, and Meg heard her once whisper to him in a warning voice—
"Dickie, they'll know yer well again if yer don't mind; and then—I hope they've forgot you, Dickie, for a bit."
He seemed to comprehend, and turned to the bits of toys and broken crockery which he called tea-things as contentedly as before.
"Is he ever naughty?" asked Meg softly.
Cherry nodded.
"What do you do then?"
"I talk to 'im, and tell 'im how sorry mother'd ha' been, and how sorryHeis," reverently; "and then he soon gets right again, and says he's 'good now.'"
One day when Meg went she found Cherry with an old hat on, and Dickie also with some apology for walking things.
"Are you going out, dear?" she asked, surprised, for Cherry's aversion to leave her room had been so great.
"We're goin' hopping," answered the child. "Father's goin' to take us; and I think it 'ull be the best thing for Dickie. He'll be able to run out in the air, and so—"
She placed in Meg's hand a pawn-ticket, as if she would perfectly understand.
"What is this, dear?"
"That's the blanket. I don't know no one as would keep it for us, and so I put it there. Here's the money, and you can get it out for me, if you will, when we come back. I'd ha' come to you about it, only I didn't rightly know where you lived."
It did not occur to Meg to explain where her home was at the moment, though afterwards it cost her many a pang that she had not done so. She was busy thinking about the blanket; and just as she had promised to do as Cherry wished about the pawn-ticket, Cherry's father came up the stairs and entered the room.
It was the first time Meg had met him, and he stared in surprise at such a sweet vision in that desolate place.
"This is a friend what came to see Dickie when he was ill, father," said Cherry in a deprecating tone.
"Eh! Oh, well, Dickie's all right now; and the train 'ull be gone if you don't come at once. We shan't be back again for many a long day."
He looked askance at Meg, and evidently waited for her to go. She bade a hasty good-bye to the children, and went down-stairs with a sad heart.
So Meg lost sight of her little friends, and though in a month or two's time she went several times to their attic, she could hear nothing of them. The attic had other occupants, and the child and his crippled sister seemed forgotten.
Meanwhile, the winter came and was passing away, while Meg was busy from morning till night. If she were not rendering efficient help to her mother-in-law, she had some work of her own, over which she bent with a happy look in her face which made it like sunshine.
One morning as she was returning from fetching some yeast for her bread-making, for Meg had set up a regular practice of supplying her husband with her own baking, she entered the doorway just as thetoddling girl belonging to the woman on the ground floor did the same.
The little one was running at full speed, and before Meg could put out her hand to save her, she tripped over a bit of brick which was lying in her path, and down she came with her head against the stone doorstep.
Meg quickly picked her up, and recognizing her, knocked at the door just as the child's mother ran to see what the screams were about.
"I'm afraid she's hurt," she said, entering; "her head came right against the corner."
"Dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the mother, with an inward feeling that here was another misfortune; "I never didseesuch children! There, child, leave off screaming and I'll see to yer."
Though the words were rough, the face of the woman was not unkindly. Somehow Meg had never come across her before, and had been too shy to make any advances without being asked, though she had often pitied the poor woman as she passed and heard the crying babies and general hubbub.
"Thank you, Mrs. Seymour," said the woman, taking the child from Meg's arms. "My! ain't it bleeding! Whatever shall I do?"
"I should lay a wet rag on it," said Meg; "and then we can see how big the place is. Perhaps it isn't so much as it looks."
"Dear, dear, dear!" said the mother again; "Ihaven't one bit of rag handy; I have had to use all mine up for my boy's leg what was bad so long."
Meg ran up-stairs, and soon returned with a nice clean piece from a store of old linen which had been given her at the Hall. She looked round for a basin, and soon had a little lukewarm water in it, and the rag put on the child's forehead. She sat holding it, the mother looking on at Meg's swift gentle ways with evident surprise and pleasure.
When the crying grew less, and the little thing, pale and miserable, was laid on the little bed in the corner, Meg bethought herself of her bread, and took up her basket to go.
"Thank youkindly," said the woman gratefully; "you've quite cheered me up a bit. This is a hard life for us poor mothers."
Her eyes, which had once perhaps been as bright as Meg's, were sunken and tired. She glanced at the deserted breakfast-table, and said wearily—
"Work as me and him do, you may say, night and day, we can't satisfy their mouths. I can't tell you how I long for somethin' different from bread, Mrs. Seymour!"
Meg's eyes had followed hers, and she could see that there had been nothing on that table that morning but milkless tea and dry bread. Nothing remained but a few small crumbs.
"My 'usband says as it's hard to work and bring 'ome all he've earned, and then not to have enoughafter all. But what can I do? They've eaten a loaf and a half this mornin', and not one of 'em but could ha' eaten double!"
"You have six children, haven't you?" said Meg, sympathizing truly, but feeling powerless to help.
"Eight," answered the woman, "and all under twelve year old. Here's the baby."
She led the way into the back room, where in a good-sized bed a baby still slept soundly.
"You must have your hands full," said Meg kindly; "I wish I could think of anything to help you. Where are they all?"
"Gone to school. They take even my biggest girl away from me, her as might be some 'elp, and I'm sure she don't want schooling as bad as she wants food."
"It comes very hard on you. And so you have to stay at home with the babies?"
"That's just it. I might put 'em out to be 'minded,' but I'm not going to have 'em starved under my eyes, and burnt and neglected and slapped! Not but what I slap 'em myself sometimes," she added with compunction, "when I'm that tired—but not so often considering; and I'm not going to put 'em out for nobody."
She seemed glad to have some one to pour out her griefs to, and Meg hardly liked to hurry away.
"I thought when I see you first as you'd soon getuntidy like the rest of the girls, but you ain't yet!" remarked the woman, as they went back to the other room.
Meg smiled.
"I hope not," she said gently; "but you know I have not got a lot of children to feed and see to. I should have no excuse now."
Just as she was turning to the door she thought of something.
"I wonder if you ever make oatmeal porridge for your children?" she asked.
The woman made a wry face.
"Law, my dear, they wouldn't touch it!"
"I think they would if it were made nicely."
"I'm sure you've been so kind and clever, that I ought to think of what you say," apologized the woman; "but I'm afraid—"
"What have you for dinner to-day, if I may ask?" said Meg, hesitating, in her shy way.
"Bread," answered the mother emphatically; "and I meant to pour some boiling water on it, and put some salt, and make believe it was soup. It's so bitter cold to-day."
"I wonder if you'd be offended if I offered to make some porridge for you?"
"I shan't beoffended; but I know they won't touch it!"
Meg laughed.
"You see!" she said brightly. "Tell them afriend brought them some, and you give them their choice of that or bread, and I expect—"
"I haven't any oatmeal," said the woman.
"But I have; I'll go and fetch some. My husband has it every day for breakfast."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed the woman.
"But I must make my bread first, for if I don't it will not have time to rise. When I have done that I'll bring the oatmeal down with me, and make it for them. Will you let me?"
The woman thanked her; but before Meg went up to her bread she requested that a saucepan of water might be put over the fire instead of the kettle, which the woman had already put on for the early dinner.
"Will you mind measuring the water into it?" asked Meg; "eight half-pints is what I want, and a good teaspoonful of salt."
Mrs. Blunt said she would, and Meg went away to her bread.
That did not take her half-an-hour, but when she came down the woman had done her best to smarten up her room. The little hurt child had had its hands washed, and was now fast asleep, and the woman herself looked three degrees fresher than when Meg left her.
"I have brought half-a-pound of oatmeal if you will accept it," she said, entering, with her clean cooking apron still on, and her neat hair uncovered by her hat.
"It's very kind, I'm sure," said the woman. "Nowyou must show me the right way, and then I shall know."
"Is the water boiling yet?" asked Meg, seating herself near the fire and peeping into the steaming saucepan.
"That it is! Don't it look like it?"
"Because it must boil," explained Meg, "or the oatmeal would sink to the bottom and burn."
"Oh, that's the reason?"
"Yes; and I've brought down my wooden spoon in case you had not got one. The iron ones get so hot."
"Must it be stirred all the time?"
"Oh no, every now and then. See, I'm going to sprinkle in the oatmeal with my hand. If I put it in all at once it would fall into lumps, and children hate lumps! At leastIdid when I was a child."
Mrs. Blunt stood by watching.
"And how much do ye pay a pound for it, Mrs. Seymour?"
"Twopence-halfpenny where Jem gets it."
"What do ye eat it with? I've heard tell of treacle, but I'm no hand at sweet things myself."
"No, more am I," said Meg. "Of course the best thing is a little milk; I dare say half a pint would do; but you might give them their choice of sugar."
Mrs. Blunt sighed. She had spent nearly all she had left on the baker's loaves which went so fast, and she hardly knew where the milk and sugar were to come from.
Meg guessed that, from the change in the woman's face from bright interest to despondency.
She thought for a moment, and then she said with some little hesitation—
"I wonder if the children would think me interfering if I were to bring them a little milk and sugar as a present?"
The woman turned away to the other room, nominally to fetch the baby, who was stirring, but really to get rid of a few tears. It was the way it was done, she told herself, that was so nice. She couldn't have let every one do her such a kindness.
"Mind you stir it while I am gone," said Meg, "because they won't take toburntporridge, for certain! You see it doesn't need much fire after once the saucepan boils."
When she came back with the pound of sugar and a pint of milk, the porridge had had its full half-hour, and was done.
"Now stand it on the hob, and if it simmers a little it will not hurt at all. Pour it out the last thing, and see if they do not like it better than bread, and feel more satisfied too. I've heard that it is the best thing you can have to make children grow."
"May I bring back your spoon and tell you how I got on with it?" asked Mrs. Blunt, already longing to taste what looked and smelt so good.
"Do; I shall be glad to see you," answered Meg. Then pausing with a sudden remembrance, she said,blushing, "Do you remember those loving words of our Saviour to all who are weary and troubled, 'Cast thy burden upon theLord, and He shall sustain thee'?"
"I've heard 'em before," answered the woman, "but I don't know much about it."
"We all can, just by taking Him at His word," said Meg gently, "and I don't know a burden that any one can have that will be too hard for Him to help in."
The woman looked in Meg's face to see if she really meant it, and the clear eyes she met were too earnest to be mistaken.
The woman wrung her hand and went back to the porridge without speaking.
When Meg had finished dinner, and was sitting down to her needle, there was a tap at the door, and on saying "Come in," Mrs. Blunt with her two babies appeared in the doorway.
"Well?" asked Meg, smiling.
"Well," said the woman, sinking into the seat Meg pushed forward, "when they came in they sniffed and looked about, and asked where the loaf was, and peeped into the milk-jug, and then they spied the saucepan, and came over as curious as anything to see what it was. I told 'em as it was a present to 'em, but they had no call to eat it unless they liked; and with that I poured out a little into the basins. Some of 'em was that hungry that they didn't think twice about it, and after a mouthful ortwo that they wasn't sure about, they finished what I gave 'em, and asked for more! That they did—all but one of 'em, and she turned up her nose at it and stuck to the bread."
"Did they finish it?" asked Meg.
"All but a bit I put by for their father. And they told me to say as they was much obliged, and hadn't had such a nice hot dinner I don't know when."
Meg was delighted. She got up to look into her little bread-pan, and the woman's eyes followed her curiously.
"I wish I could see ye do it," she said, "'cause I've heard as it's a deal cheaper."
"Of course it is," said Meg; "and if you have to stay at home to mind your babies, you could not use some of your time better. Mother used to say it went quite twice as far as baker's bread. I'll show you how to do it next time I bake. I don't do it every day, because we don't need it."
"Will you?" asked Mrs. Blunt earnestly.
"That I will. I'll let you know when to come."
The woman rose, and called her little girl from the window, where she had been absorbed in looking out from such an unusual height.
"She's better then?" asked Meg.
"Yes," answered her mother, undoing the bandage; "see, it ain't such a great place. How it did bleed to be sure!"
"I should keep it wet for the present," said Meg; "water softens things so."
"That's true," said the woman. Then hesitating, she added, "Mrs. Seymour, you and your mother-in-law has been the only creatures since I came to London who has ever done me a kindness—I don't forgit it. The neighbours come in at times, and they mean to be kind; but one and another 'ull say a little word as 'ull make ye discontented with yer lot; and it ain't a bit of good. We've got to bear it, and makin' the worst of it don't mend it."
"No," answered Meg softly, "that's why——"
"Yes," interrupted the woman. "Yousay I've got a burden, but you say there's the Lord as can lighten it, and I shan't forgit. For one thing, I can see as you let Him carryyours."
She turned abruptly and left the room, and Meg's eyes filled with tears to think how little, after all, she loved and trusted that dear Lord who loved her and gave Himself for her.
HE next time Meg set about making some bread, she told Jem to stop at their neighbour's door, and tell her to come up as soon as she could.
Accordingly Mrs. Blunt soon appeared, carrying her baby in her arms, a roll of mending in one hand and her toddling child in the other.
Meg greeted her with a bright smile.
"Here you are!" she said. "I am so glad you came early, because the earlier I get to it the better. I often make it before breakfast."
"And can you bake it in your oven?"
"Yes, it is such a good little stove. I'm so glad it is not a kitchener, because they burn so much, whether you want it or not."
"I could never bake enough in my oven to make it worth while," said Mrs. Blunt.
"I've been thinking of that," answered Meg, "andmy husband says that the baker would bake it for you, he thinks, for nothing, if you made the arrangement to buy your flour there. You could make inquiries. Jem says he knew one woman who did regularly."
"I should want some large tins," said Mrs. Blunt.
"I dare say you could pick some up cheap somewhere," said Meg; "but anyway in a week you would save the price of a large tin."
"Should I?" asked Mrs. Blunt.
"Yes; Jem has been reckoning it up, and he says you would save eighteenpence or two shillings a week."
"I should like to save that," exclaimed Mrs. Blunt; "it would buy us a deal of things we have to do without now."
"That it would," said Meg, busily pouring her flour into the pan, and measuring some crushed salt into it. "See, Mrs. Blunt, to my five pounds of flour I put five half teaspoonfuls of salt and five half-pints of lukewarm water. It is very simple."
"But you haven't put the water in yet," said Mrs. Blunt.
"No, because part of that has to melt my yeast. Here it is, feel it—just as warm as new milk. There! now I pour this on the yeast and mix it well; now I make a hole in my flour and pour in my yeast and the rest of my water, and stir it round—so—round and round till it is as thick as a batter and as smooth."
Mrs. Blunt was watching intently. It looked veryinteresting to see Meg's clean hand going round and round, each time drawing a little flour into the yellow cream in the middle.
"It takes a long time," she remarked.
"Not a bit too long. If you are patient over this part the next will take less time, and your bread will not be lumpy."
While she spoke she plunged her two hands into the middle of the batter and began to knead in the rest of the flour, which stood up round the sides as a sort of wall; and as she kneaded she pushed the middle out and drew the sides in, to Mrs. Blunt's great astonishment.
"You see, I want to work it all smooth, and when it is in a round cushion it is done."
"Does it go into the oven at once?" asked Mrs. Blunt.
Meg laughed merrily. "No; I set it near the fire to rise, and it has to get to more than twice as high as it is now before it is ready. You will have to come up again to see it 'made up' if you want to learn the whole process."
"I'm afraid I should be a long time getting it right," said Mrs. Blunt, sighing.
"It wants experience," answered Meg; "but you would soon know; and if you like to try it, I will look in on you and give you some hints."
"Then I may come up again?" asked Mrs. Blunt, as she saw Meg turn her dough over as a final act,and cover the pan with a clean cloth. "I 'spose it's done for the present?"
"Yes," said Meg, going to the bowl to wash off the flour which clung to her hands, "and when you come up again Pattie shall have a bit of dough all to herself to make into a little loaf."
Pattie, who had stood all the while with her chin over the edge of the pan, absorbed in watching, now clapped her hands gleefully.
"You areverykind, I'm sure," said Mrs. Blunt heartily. "Then you will let me know?"
"I shall not forget, and if it is good bread you shall have a loaf for the children."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Blunt, in a very gratified tone.
"Look here," said Meg, considering for a minute or two. "It is half-past ten now, and if I do not put it quite so near the fire it will not be ready till my husband has gone back to work this afternoon. I can keep it back a little. Will you come up directly your children are gone to school, and sit with me for an hour or so while I bake it? That is the best way to learn."
"Oh, thank you!" said Mrs. Blunt; "then I will."
"As I do not want my bread to be late, perhaps you would not mind coming up before you wash up your dinner-plates, then you can run down for that when the bread goes into the oven, and I'll mind the babies."
The mother was only too pleased. Somehow Meg's society was so restful; she chatted about such pleasant things; above all, she seemed to be able to look at everything as coming from a Father's hand above, who allowed even the disagreeable things to happen in truest love.
So Mrs. Blunt went down with fresh heart, and tried her hand at a saucepan of porridge herself, and succeeded as well as Meg had done, to her own great delight.
At two o'clock she once more set out to see the bread made up.
Meg had already cleared away all traces of her dinner; the kettle was on the hob, the fire had been made up, and on the table stood a clean pastry-board, a basin of flour, and a knife.
"The first thing I do when I have got out my things and washed my hands, is to butter my tins—dripping will do. See, here are two that exactly fit into my oven. I take a clean bit of paper and put a little knob of dripping or butter on it, and rub them all over, not missing any place, or the bread will stick. Now I put the tins on the fender to warm; next I cut my dough in half,—look how full of little holes it is! that's what mother at home calls her 'lace,'—and I lift it out on to my board. Here, Pattie, this is a little bit for you. How nice and clean mother has made your hands! Now you'll be able to eat it when it's baked. Now I work and roll this witha little flour which I have sprinkled on the board first, till it feels quite dry again and has left off sticking; this will make the bread white and keep the holes small. Hark how the bubbles break as I pinch it and roll it! There, that will do. Now I must make it into the right shape and put it into the tin."
Page 105."Here 'tis," she said, in a satisfied tone. "I knew as 'twas somewheres. Supposin' you and me was to read a bit every night?" p. 105.
She did the same with the other half of the dough, then plunged the knife several times to the bottom of the tin, cut it across the top, and put it back on the fender.
"Now, Mrs. Blunt," said Meg, "I judge by my oven whether to leave it there for a quarter of an hour, or whether to put it into thebottomshelf of the oven. If the bottom is not too hot, that's the best place. Yes, mine is just right; feel what a different heat it is from the top."
"Why do you do that?" asked Mrs. Blunt.
"Because if I put it into the hot part at once it would set the crust of the loaf before it had time to rise, and then the rest would be heavy. I leave it in the bottom just so long as will allow it to begin to rise, about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and then put it into the top, and my baking begins. You had better wait to see that before you go down again."
"I made some porridge, Mrs. Seymour; and what's more they've eat it, and said it's as good as yours."
"Oh, Iamglad!" said Meg, heartily. "Whenthey get used to it, you see if they don't say it'sbetterthan mine."
Mrs. Blunt laughed at that, but she knew enough of children by this time to guess that Meg was right.
When she was gone down to wash her dishes, Meg sat down on her low chair with the baby, and drew little Pattie to her knee to hear a story. She told them about the Good Shepherd who loves little lambs, and how He gave His life to save the little lambs from being lost.
Pattie's eyes were very wide open, and she listened as long as there was any "story" in Meg's words. Then when she began to grow fidgety Meg got her to learn the one word "Jesus," and after that she sang to them till their mother came back.
"Now I'm going to fetch my mother-in-law," said Meg; "she's coming to have a cup of early tea with us, while the bread is baking. I do not look at it yet, because I want the oven to keep hot, and I know it will not burn yet."
"If the baker bakes my bread for me, I shall be saved all that," said Mrs. Blunt.
"Yes, so you will; and as your loaves will be large it would be a great help, because a baker's oven is such a nice even heat. Still it is nice to know how to do it."
"Oh yes," said Mrs. Blunt. "I did not mean that."
Meg went upstairs.
"Come, mother," she said, "Mrs. Blunt's there, and I'm going to make the tea. It's early to be sure, but you won't mind."
"I must finish these couple of shirts, my dear."
"Then I'll do that," said Meg, "while you make up your fire. I couldn't venture to dothatfor you, mother; I shouldn't do it right."
Meg laughed as she said that, and Mrs. Seymour laughed too.
Miss Hobson from the inner room called out cheerily: "Well, it's the only thing as she thinks you can't do to her mind anyway."
"Young folks can't have the experience of us old ones," said Mrs. Seymour. "We can't expect it."
Meg finished the shirts, and then went into the back room to say, "How d'ye do" to her mother-in-law's lodger, while Mrs. Seymour took off her ironing apron, settled her cap aright, and went downstairs.
"I shall bring you a cup of our tea presently," said Meg, "and a bit of bread and butter, so don't settle to sleep yet, Miss Hobson."
"Very well, my dear, I'm glad you told me. Are you going to have a party?"
Meg smiled. "Miss Hobson, I've got a pot of sunshine that won't hold it all, so I'm going to give a little away."
Miss Hobson looked at her curiously, but Meg only nodded and ran off.
Presently Meg allowed Mrs. Blunt to look for amoment with her into the little oven. There were the two loaves brown and crusty, with beautiful white ridges peeping out where the crust had broken, looking the picture of what home-made loaves should be.
"Are they done?" asked Mrs. Blunt.
"Not quite. They are not 'soaked,' as mother would say. If we took them out now they would be wet in the middle."
She quickly shut the oven, looked at her fire, but did not touch it, as she had made it up before the bread went in; and then she turned to her kettle.
"Now boil as soon as you like," she said to it. She spread a cloth, set some teacups, cut some bread and butter, and took out of her cupboard a tin of sardines. "Jem heard what I was going to do, and he brought these home of his own idea; don't you think that was kind of him?" asked Meg.
"That it was," said Mrs. Blunt. "Why, I haven't been out to tea since—not for years."
"Here is the kettle boiling, and here is Pattie's little loaf, just cool enough for her to touch. Come, Pattie, sit on this hassock on the chair by mother, you'll be high enough then."
They gathered round the table while Meg invited her mother to ask the blessing; then they all began. But before Meg tasted hers she took up a couple of thin slices of bread and butter and a sardine on a little tray, with a nice hot cup of tea.
"Brought up some of the sunshine to me?" said Miss Hobson, smiling.
"Oh, I didn't mean that! But if you saw how thin and, careworn and poor she is——"
"I know it—I've seen her often enough. Meg, wasn't it Jem as said that you did with your might 'whatsoever your hand found to do'?"
"No, he said we ought to."
"It's the same thing with you, I'm thinking."
Meg went back to her tea-party, and by-and-by the bread was done, and came out of the oven looking a picture.
"How do you judge?" asked Mrs. Blunt.
But she need not have spoken, for Meg was tapping it with her knuckles, and when she heard it sound clear and bright on every side, she knew it was baked through.
"There, Mrs. Blunt, one of those is for you; see I will stand it on its top on this shelf to let the steam off, and when you go you shall take it with you. Whenever you like, I'll come down and watch you make one or two batches; that is, if mother does not want me."
So the tea-party ended. Mrs. Blunt had not had such a quiet meal for years. Her face looked brighter and happier as she prepared to go back again. Mrs. Seymour had already returned to her ironing, and Meg was putting the loaf on a plate.
"Would you mind saying that text over again?" asked Mrs. Blunt wistfully.
"That about our burdens?" said Meg.
"She's teached me one," said Pattie. "I 'tan say it—'Jesus,'—that's what she teached me."
"So I did," said Meg, kissing her, "and mother's text means just the same, only longer, because she's big. 'Cast thy burden on theLord, and He shall sustain thee.'"
ND so Mrs. Blunt began a new life.
That afternoon when she went down with softened heart to her crowded and somewhat dirty rooms, she looked round upon them with new eyes—eyes that had been lightened by a ray from above. She scarcely knew it, and yet, instead of gloomy half-patient, half-hopeless despondency, she began to think even her poor little things might be able to be made better.
The rest of her children were all at school, but they would soon be home now. They must not find home more desolate than usual because mother had had a rare treat.
She put the new loaf carefully away, it must not be touched till to-morrow, and then she set on her kettle for tea and swept up the room. How different it looked even with that little bit of care! Next,deciding that she should just have time to clean the hearth, she set about it with all speed, and was just putting away her pail when there came a rush in the passage, and four or five children burst into the room.
It was on her lips to say, "What a row you do make!" but another word was already hovering there—Pattie's new word, "Jesus,"—and somehow that word would not let the others pass it.
"Ain't tea ready? we're awful hungry, mother."
"Very soon, Jim. Just take Pattie and baby outside, will yer, while I turn round a bit. It 'ull come all the sooner for letting me get it without them hangin' on my skirts."
Jim saw the force of this argument, and with pretty good grace took the little ones under his charge on the doorstep, while the mother turned to the eldest girl with an unusually kind welcome.
"Come, Kittie," she said, "and help tidy up for father. I've been out to tea, Kittie, and I've heard words as has made me wish to have a happier home, and I want you to 'elp me do it."
Kittie, a well-grown but backward girl of twelve, rather stared at her mother, but she recognized that the tone was different, and concluding that her mother was in a good humour, as she called it, she hastened to do as she was bid.
Tea was a favourite meal. Sometimes a little treacle or dripping was added to the bread, andthough the tea was nearly as colourless as it was tasteless, still it was hot and occasionally sweet, and that was something.
To-night a large stale loaf and some treacle was the fare, and as Kittie bustled about to spread the cloth, Mrs. Blunt said again—
"Kittie, I've often grumbled at things bein' so terrible hard for us, and about bein' so short of food and all, but instead o' that I'm goin' to turn over a new leaf."
"A new leaf?" questioned the girl, pausing on her way to the cupboard. "What do yer mean, mother?"
"I don't rightly know yet—if I did I'd tell yer. But one thing I do know, Kittie. Young Mrs. Seymour, what's been so kind to me, says the Saviour don't mean us to go worritin' all our days, but likes us best to ask Him to 'elp us bear our troubles; and she says as He lightens hers and He will mine. Well, if that's true, I'd like to try it, and somehow, Kittie—I don't hardly like to so much as say it—but I feel a deal happier and better, and as if I'd got some one to love as will never fail me."
Mrs. Blunt's eyes were tearful by the time she had said all this, and Kittie's watered in sympathy, though she did not fully understand her mother.
"There's the kettle boilin'! Make the tea and call the little 'uns in. What a mercy as we've gotsome treacle! That's 'cause the porridge cost less nor the bread would ha' done. We saved a penny or more for dinner, and every one had enough; and that's more'n we can say every day, ain't it, Kittie?"
Kittie nodded. She was intent on filling the tea-pot. Then she went to the door and began to call; but there was no need. Jim caught up the baby, and there was a general rush to the table.
The father did not come home till six, so some bread was set aside for him first of all, and then the mother divided what there was as equally as she could, giving larger shares to the bigger children. Soon there was nothing but empty plates, and then the elder children went into different corners, or wherever they could be quietest, to learn their home-lessons. Then mother quickly cleared away, and set the table straight for the father. A meagre meal for a working man. She felt it bitterly as she spread the few slices of bread on a plate, and put a small bit of dripping in front of them. But as she looked she remembered that there was the Lord who was to carry her burdens, and not herself, and so she took courage again, though she could not at the moment see any way out of the difficulty.
"It 'ull be better when I can make 'em the bread," she thought. "Fancy saving two shillings a week!"
At this moment a knock came at the door, andon going to open it, she found old Mrs. Seymour standing there with something in her hand.
"Mrs. Blunt," she said, "I guess you're wishin' as your husband had been with us this afternoon to have such a nice tea, now weren't you?"
Mrs. Blunt's colour rose, and she could have cried, she thought. At last she said, "Why, how could you know that, Mrs. Seymour?"
"I've had a husband myself, my dear, and a steady one too, like yours, and so I've brought this bloater if you'll excuse it, just to make a little relish for his tea. He isn't in, is he?"
"No," said Mrs. Blunt, "but——"
"No 'buts,' my dear. Just you cook it for him and tell him to ask no questions about it, but enjoy it as much as we did our tea up yonder."
She was gone before Mr. Blunt could say another word, and when she turned to the fire with her treasure, she thought she had never been so happy.
But were these tears that were coursing each other down her cheeks? How was that?
When her husband opened the door, expecting an untidy home and some dry bread, what was his astonishment to be greeted by an unusually cheerful-looking room, and a fragrant smell of frying fish.
His wife turned round with a smile.
"Here's a treat!" she said, "and you're to ask noquestions, but enjoy it. It ain't come out of our to-morrer's breakfast neither, so don't you think it; and I didn't buy it neither; so here it is smoking hot, and mind ye don't burn yerself."
The man sat down in great wonder, first at the nice supper provided for him, and secondly at his wife's tone.
She, however, took no more notice, but shut herself in the next room with the little ones, where she quickly undressed them and put them to bed. When she returned again, the other children had gone out to play in the street, and Kittie was clearing away her father's tea.
The father sat by the fire smoking, and turned round on his wife's entrance to look in her face, as if to see if there were a change there. But he saw nothing particular that he could fix upon, and he resumed his pipe in silence.
"Come, Kit," said Mrs. Blunt, "you and me 'ull get to that mending. Jim's wearin' his best trousers 'cause we ain't done it."
"But I don't know how," said Kittie, none too willingly.
"Then I'll show yer. Come, Kit, be a good girl and do yer best. You've been taught yer needle, that's one good thing."
"I wish I could leave school," grumbled Kit, as she fumbled in her pocket for her thimble; "there's lots o' girls as young as me has left."
"Of course they 'ave! Them as is quick at their learning can leave sooner. I've telled you that a hundred times, but ye see ye haven't taken what I said."
"I can't do no better," answered Kittie, "the lessons is so terrible hard."
"Well, well," answered the mother, more patiently than usual, "perhaps the Lord can help you in your troubles as well as me. We'll see about it. You and me has a deal to learn, Kittie."
Kittie knew that. She was always being told "she had a deal to learn." The daily pressure on her mother, that would have been so lightened could she have left school, made the subject return again and again to worry her. Inattentive and careless, she thought she could do no better, and hopelessly gave the whole matter up as a bad job.
But when the mending was done, and she laid herself down in her little bed in the corner of her mother's room, behind the screen of a large towel-horse, which served as her bedroom, she began to think the matter over in rather a new light.
What had her mother meant when she said, "perhaps the Lord would help her to do better in her lessons"?
Was there any help in such a thing as that? And who was this "Lord" of whom her mother spoke?
Kittie had perceived that things had been brighterfor the last day or two, and if this had anything to do with this "Lord," of whom her mother seemed to expect something, she too would like to understand the whole matter.
Long she lay awake, thinking. Sleep seemed to have left her eyelids. Her brothers came in from the street, and she watched through the open door her mother helping them to their rough little beds in the front room. By-and-by the hubbub was over, and quiet sank down upon the whole of them.
Her father must be dozing, she supposed, as he said not a word, and her mother was unusually silent too. The click of her needle and the sharp rap of her scissors on the bare table were the only sounds inside the room. Outside the noisy roar went on as usual: the crying children, the scolding mothers, the cries of the fish and fruit sellers, the organ-grinders—everything just as usual.
Presently her mother spoke. "Husband, I've been a thinkin' there must be something in them Seymours as is different from most folks."
"Like enough," he answered.
"There's a big print Bible or somethin' stuck up over old Mrs. Seymour's ironing-board. What should ye think that might be for, now?"
"I don't know, I'm sure; you'd a deal better ask her if y'er so curious."
Mrs. Blunt was busy on her own thoughts, andpursued, without noticing her husband's implied rebuke—
"'Cause if that's what makes 'em different, I'd like to be different too."
"Bide as ye are. Don't you be taking up fine notions. Ye've enough to do to mind us all, without doin' as other folks does."
"I wonder where our Bible's been put to," his wife went on, without regarding him.
Her husband did not answer. He was half inclined to be vexed at his wife's persistency, but he remembered the brightened room this evening, the absence of scolding, and the nicely-cooked fish, so he took refuge in silence.
Mrs. Blunt got up, put away her work, and began searching on the top shelf of a cupboard which filled one corner.
At last she got down from the chair on which she had been standing, and Kittie could hear her blowing the dust from something.
"Here 'tis," she said, in a satisfied tone. "I knew as 'twas somewheres. Supposin' you and me was to read a bit every night?"
"Not I," said the man. "If you've took up with new notions, keep 'em to yerself. I'm goin' to step out a bit. This 'ere room's stiflin'."
His wife's countenance fell, and when the door banged behind him, she opened the book with a sigh.
Kittie from her corner could just see her mother's face—such a weary, thin face. She was thinking so, when, after turning over a good many pages, her mother began to read out in a subdued voice. Kittie was so surprised that she listened, and these were the words she heard—
"Behold, there came a leper and worshipped Him, saying, Lord, if Thou wilt Thou canst make me clean. And Jesus put forth His hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed."
Kittie lost the next few sentences while she said to herself, "Then the 'Lord' as mother spoke on means Jesus! I didn't know that. And people is asking Him to do something for 'em, and He seems quite willin'. I wonder if He'd be willin' to help poor little Kittie a bit? Well, what comes next?"
"Lord, my servant lieth at home sick of the palsy, grievously tormented. And Jesus saith unto him, I will come and heal him."
Her mother ceased reading, and leant her head on her hand, while Kittie, strange thoughts running in her mind, began to wish she could go to this Lord to obtain help as these people had. She must get that book and see what more it said. At any rate of this she was certain, that the Lord Jesus answered to both those applicants, "I will." He did not say "no" to either, and if she could only find out how to speak to Him, she too might get what she needed.With this comforting thought, and with the light of a new hope dawning in her heart, little Kittie fell asleep.
She did not yet know that He was close to her all the time, and that His ear was ever ready to hear if she spoke to Him.