EM came back within the hour. He found his Meg awake and calm. She had had some breakfast, and was now lying with her hand clasped in little Dickie's with a serene smile on her face.
As for the child, he lay on the soft white pillow with his eyes closed from the light, dozing occasionally and then rousing just enough to understand the tender care that surrounded him, and to realize that he need have no fear now.
"Cherry," he said, without moving, hearing Jem's entrance and believing it to be his sister, "is this what ye asked Jesus to send me?"
"Yes," answered Cherry, who was standing on the other side of the bed, "only I didn't know as the Lord Jesus would send anything so very nice as this."
Dickie assented, adding with a little sigh of satisfaction, "I never want to get up no more."
"You shall lie here as long as you like," said Meg assuringly. "Now, Dickie, open your eyes and look at Jem."
"I can't open my eyes," answered Dickie, "'cause they hurt so; but I'm glad fa'ver-Jem has come back."
"Am I to be 'father-Jem'?" asked the man, bending down to look closer into the little face.
"Yes," said Dickie; "if it's 'mo'ver-Meg,' it must be 'fa'ver-Jem.'"
Jem smiled and then sighed. He had hoped for something different from this; but what if His Father's will had arranged it so?
"You do not mind, Jem?" came in Meg's soft voice. "His feeling so has made me very happy."
"So it shall me, sweetheart," he answered, taking the child henceforward right into his big heart.
Then he turned to Cherry.
"Make haste and put on your hat, Cherry," he said to her; "for I want to get your poor father to give you to us to take care of. D'ye think he will?"
Cherry looked doubtful. It was on her lips to say, "Father would do anything for drink," but she felt it would be cruel to even think such a thing now, and she hastily dismissed the thought. And as it went another came—"I'll ask Jesus to help." So when she put on her shabby little hat, and turned down-stairs with Jem, the uppermost thought in her heart came to be, "Oh, if only poor father could love Jesus; I shouldn't mind about being happy myself."
Perhaps Jem's mind was running on the same subject, for he walked along very silently by her side. Once he turned to her to take her little thin hand, and to ask her if he were walking too fast, but after that he scarcely spoke till they stood inside the hospital.
He felt Cherry's hand trembling so much then, that he stooped to her, and spoke in a whisper.
"There's naught to be afraid of, dear," he said; "and if you're thinkin' of your poor father, the best plan as I know on is to tell God about that."
Cherry looked up. Did he guess from her eyes that she had already done so?
They soon found themselves in the accident ward, and in a moment were standing by a bed in which Cherry could recognize her father's form.
"I don't suppose it'ull be much use," said the nurse in a low tone; "he hasn't taken a bit of notice since he was brought in; the only word he says is 'Dickie,' and you don't either of you seem to be him."
Jem shook his head.
"May I speak to him?"
"Oh, yes; but you mustn't be disappointed if he don't notice."
She made a gesture which implied that he had not long to live, and then stood off at a little distance; while Cherry, at a sign from Jem, bent towards the bed and whispered, "Father!"
Page 176.Jem took the child out of the chair and wrapped his arms round him pacing up and down the room with him on his breast.—p. 176.
The suffering man moved uneasily and groaned.
"Father, I'm so sorry as you're hurt. Don't you know your little Cherry?"
"Dickie, Dickie!" said the man despairingly.
"Do you want Dickie?" asked Cherry, trembling.
"No, no, no; only I wish he hadn't been hurt. Dickie, Dickie!"
"Father," said Cherry, gathering courage from Jem's eyes, "father, you know as I and Dickie pray to the Lord Jesus?"
The miserable man seemed to be listening.
"Well, father, we asked Him to find some one to take care of Dickie, and—"
"They'll have him again," broke in the man. "I said as I'd give 'im over to 'em, and they'll hold to 'im. It ain't a bit o' use. Oh, I can't talk to yer. Oh, my dreadful pain! To think Dickie should ever suffer like this; and I took no heed of it when I might."
"But, father," said Cherry, restraining her tears by a violent effort, "there's stronger than them as has Dickie in hand. Don't ye see that Jesus is stronger than them?"
The man only groaned afresh.
"And Jesus has heard me and Dickie askin' Him, and He's found us such a nice home. Father, 'ull you be willin' to give us to those as is so good to us?"
"Who?" asked the man, for the first time opening his eyes.
"To me," said Jem, coming close. "I've taken 'em from old Sairy, and they shan't ever go back, if you'll say as you will let me and Meg be their guardians."
The poor dying eyes were eagerly scanning Jem's face; they returned to Cherry's as if satisfied.
"Their mother was a good woman," he said.
"So Cherry tells me. We'll do our best to teach them to be good too."
The man turned his head away as if he had done with the subject, and indeed with all earthly things. Then, just as Cherry and Jem were looking at each other in dismay, he roused himself once more.
"You may 'ave 'em," he said.
Jem signed to the nurse to draw near.
"Tom Seymour," he said solemnly, "do you make my wife and me guardians of your two children, Cherry and Dickie?"
"Yes," said the man distinctly; "and God grant as you may keep the charge better'n I've done."
"God will help us," said Jem, taking the hand which lay outside the counterpane; "and, my friend, God will helpyou. If you turn to him now He will receive you."
The man drew away his hand with impatient pain.
"That's past for me," he said between his teeth.
"No, it isn't, father," exclaimed Cherry. "If Jesus 'as been so good to you as to take Dickie away fromold Sairy, don't ye think as He can be kind enough as to take you from Satan?"
"I'm too bad, Cherry; it ain't no use talkin'. You've tried, my girl, a score o' times. And so did yer mother; it ain't a bit o' good. Leave me to die now. If Dickie's all right, I can't 'elp the rest."
Cherry's eyes looked despairingly at Jem, but he encouraged her to try again, himself only praying silently that some word, winged by the power of the Mighty Spirit, might enter that hard heart.
"Ain't you goin' tothankJesus, then?" asked poor little Cherry. "He's been awful kind to Dickie, father."
The man was silent; but Cherry thought he heard her nevertheless.
"You did love Dickie, father?"
"And Ido," flashed the man angrily; "howsoever cruel I've been, I do love the little 'un."
"And Dickie loves Jesus," pursued Cherry, soothingly; "and if you was to ask Dickie which he'd rather you'd love, he'd say as he'd like you to loveJesus. I know he would."
"It ain't no good now," said her father hopelessly.
"Why ain't it, dear father?"
"'Cause I've sinned till—it ain't no good now."
"But Jesus is sorry, and He'll forgive if you'll ask Him. Father—IknowHe will. He says somethin' about 'Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.'"
"Ah! that's them as can be washed."
And then Jem said earnestly—
"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'"
"It's because Jesus died instead of us, father," added Cherry, weeping. "Oh, father, why don't ye come to Him?"
The man did not answer her. Wearied out with pain and emotion, he lay exhausted; nor would the nurse allow any more talking.
"You can come again this evening," she said, looking into Cherry's woe-begone face. "He may live till then."
With this they were forced to be satisfied, and Cherry turned away with a sad heart.
Slowly they made their way home again, while Cherry's halting steps seemed to drag more wearily than they had done while hope beat in her bosom. Tear after tear coursed down her cheeks, and it was with difficulty that she could guide herself in the crowded thoroughfare.
At last Jem, seeing this, took her hand again, and sought for words of comfort.
"You mustn't doubt God, child," he said kindly; "we're all apt to think as He can't do nothin' without us. But 'tis oftentimes when we have done all as is in our power, and yet have failed, that He can work best. Me and Meg was readin' yesterday—why, it was only yesterday!" he exclaimed, stoppingto interrupt himself,—"we was readin' afore I went to my work some such words as these: 'Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit, saith the Lord.' And, Cherry, it seems to me as it ain't when we can do most, but when we'll letHimdo most, as He can work best."
Cherry listened and took courage, and though she did not say a word, she thanked Jem from the bottom of her little heart.
When they presented themselves at the hospital again that evening, and asked to be allowed to see Tom Seymour, the answer came like a knell to them both:
"He died at three o'clock."
"Dead?" asked Cherry; and no one knew the depths of that crippled orphan's heart at that moment. No one but God; but He knew, and pitied.
Dead! and no messages of God's love, no assurances of forgiveness, no pardoning grace could reach him now. He had sunk into the grave, in spite of all her efforts, all her prayers, unsaved!
A hand touched her arm. It was the nurse's who had stood by them that morning.
"Come in here," she said, leading the way to a little comfortless room where people waited. It was empty now, and the nurse closed the door. She held out to Jem the piece of paper he had left with her that morning, containing his address in case of his being wanted.
Under his name was written, in the doctor's hand,"I, Tom Seymour, leave my children to his care," and then there was a weak straggling cross, and the doctor's signature as witness.
"When you were gone," explained the nurse, "he never spoke for an hour or so, and we didn't disturb him, because we knew he couldn't recover. You see the accident went hard with him, because he drank so. Well, after an hour or two he woke up, and he called as before, 'Dickie!'
"I went to him to quiet him, and he asked 'if the carpenter (meaning you, I suppose, Mr. Seymour) was there, and Cherry?'
"I told him that you were coming again, and asked if he wanted you to be fetched.
"'I don't know where he lives,' he said; 'but it don't matter. Ask the doctor to write it down.'
"The doctor was going his rounds, and when he had done with his patient I asked him to come, and he wrote at the poor fellow's request those words on that paper, to which he managed to put his cross. After that he was terribly bad for ever so long; it had hurt him so to move. I knew he wouldn't last long, and I offered to send for the little girl, but he only shook his head.
"'She wouldn't be here in time,' he said; 'but when she comes, tell her as the last word as her poor father said was, 'Wash me, and I shall be——'
"He couldn't finish it; so I said the end of it to him, 'whiter than snow.'
"'Yes, "whiter than snow," sins like crimson, "wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."'
"He didn't speak again, but after a bit I looked at him, and he tried to reach my hand. Though I don't understand that sort of talk myself, thinking to please him, I took his in mine, and said again, 'Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow,' and he gave one look at me, and then one long look up, and so passed away."
Cherry took the nurse's kind hand and covered it with kisses and tears; she tried to utter her thanks, but was choked.
And when she and Jem turned homewards once more, though her tears were pouring, they were far more grateful than sad, as the words seemed to ring in her ears:
"Not by might, but by My Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts."
HEN Cherry and Jem had really set forth to the hospital, Meg, who had been lying very quiet for some time, opened her eyes and spoke to her mother-in-law.
"Are you very busy, dear mother?" she asked.
"No, my dear, I have nothing to do now but to wait on you. Do you want anything?"
Meg was silent for a moment, and Mrs. Seymour saw traces of tears on her face, which, however, Meg was evidently anxious should not be noticed.
"You feel a little low, my dear," observed Mrs. Seymour kindly; "but you will be better soon, I hope."
"No," said Meg; "I don't exactly feel low, mother; but should you think it very wrong in me to ask you to let me hold him once more?"
"Will it upset you, my child?"
"I think not—I will try not; but, mother, I hadso looked forward to it, and I should like to hold him once more."
Mrs. Seymour made no further objection, but went into the other room, whither the little cradle had been carried, and lifted the tiny baby out carefully. She brought it to Meg's side, placed it in her arms, and then went back to clear away Jem's tea, leaving the young mother alone with her grief.
Dickie slept quietly, and Meg could cry over her babe unseen. She could lay her cheek against its little head, she could wrap her arms round it, she could press her lips upon its lifeless ones. But after all it was lifeless, and Meg shed some bitter tears over the thought that it could never know her love; but by-and-by these were wiped away. The remembrance stole over her that her little child was only parted from her for a short time, and was meanwhile in such safe keeping as she could never hope, at the best, to give it here. "The Lord gave, and theLordhath taken away," she murmured half aloud. "He has got him safe waiting for me."
Whether her soft words woke Dickie, or whether her slight movements had done so, she did not know; but at this moment he turned over and flung his arms about her neck.
"Are you awake, dear?" she asked, hoping he would not notice the little form lying at the other side of her.
"Yes, mo'ver-Meg. Are you cryin'?"
"I was crying, Dickie, but I'm better now."
"What for?" asked the child.
"Because I had a little baby-boy, and the Lord Jesus has taken him to His Home."
Dickie pondered.
"Did that make yercry, mo'ver-Meg?"
"Yes, dear; but I shan't cry any more," at which words Meg burst into such weeping that Dickie was frightened, and Mrs. Seymour came in from the other room.
She was going to take the babe, but Meg put out her hand beseechingly. "One moment, dear mother," she said.
Mrs. Seymour waited while Meg pressed one long kiss on the little face, and then she allowed her mother to bear her child away from her sight.
Meanwhile Dickie with clinging arms was trying to comfort her in his tender little way, and Meg turned round and yielded herself to his caresses.
"Is the home Jesus 'as taken him to better than this?" he asked in his gentlest tones.
"Oh, yes!" said Meg, drying her eyes, and trying to stop her tears.
"Then why do yer mind, mo'ver-Meg?"
"Because he's gone away fromme, Dickie. But I shan't be sorry soon."
"And fa'ver-Jem said as He'd sent meinstead," said Dickie comfortably, "and so that's nice for ev'wybody."
Meg smiled, though she almost cried again.
"Yes, Dickie," she answered, "and I'm not sorry for that part of it. I'm sure our Father in heaven knows best, and will make me glad in time that He has taken my little baby."
Dickie laid his soft cheek against her face, and then Meg saw her mother-in-law coming in with a little tray in her hand.
"Look, Dickie," she said; "here is a kind mother with some gruel or something for us. Why, here are two basins! How kind she is. Can you open your eyes now, Dickie?"
He tried, but quickly put up his hand to shield them from the light.
"How bad they are!" remarked Mrs. Seymour. "Meg, did Jem say what they did to him?"
"No," answered Meg, shuddering. "He said it was so dreadful, yet so easy that he should never tell it, lest any one else should be so cruel."
"How strange!" said Mrs. Seymour.
"Did the doctor say this morning that they should be tied up?" asked Meg.
"No; only bathed often. He said while he kept them shut of his own accord it was better not to harass him with a bandage. He looked very serious over it, Meg."
Meg did not answer. She was stroking the little face tenderly, and smoothing the soft brown curls.
"Poor little man," she whispered at length.
Mrs. Seymour fed the child with a spoon, and just as she had finished a knock came at the sitting-room door, which she went to answer.
Meg guessed what it was, but she lay quiet, her thoughts dwelling on what Dickie had suggested—that the Home above was better than this.
Mrs. Seymour did not return for some time, nor indeed till the steps of Jem and Cherry were heard coming back from the hospital. She went outside to meet them, telling Cherry to go up-stairs, and preparing Jem by a low word for what he would find in his room when he entered.
Though he knew it would be so, the little coffin having been promised at seven o'clock, yet it was a shock to him after all; and he was glad that his kind mother had let him go alone into the room, that he might have time to get over his feelings.
Mrs. Seymour, finding that Meg was quiet, and even cheerful, went up-stairs to look after Cherry, and to see if her invalid lodger should want anything. She found the poor child sitting near the fire, looking very mournful; and guessing at once that she had lost her father, she went up to her and kissed her kindly, saying—
"You must tell me all about it presently, dear child. Just now I want you to help me as nicely as you did this morning."
Cherry looked up, greatly relieved to be set to work at something.
"What can I do?" she asked.
"Let us get the bath ready for Dickie again, and then you go down and fetch him, Cherry. Wrap this about him. He is awake; but I shall bathe him up here, for I think Meg has had enough excitement."
Cherry quickly understood, and in a few minutes all was ready, and she was standing by Meg's side asking Dickie if he would not like another warm bath.
"I'd rather stay 'ere," said Dickie; "but you'll let me come back, Cherry?"
"Oh, yes; only Mrs. Seymour has got such a lovely fire for yer, Dickie; and I'm goin' to try to carry yer up."
Meg added her word that it would be very nice; so Dickie allowed himself to be lifted out of bed.
"I 'tom back soon," he nodded, as he was borne towards the door.
"Yes, dear."
Then as Cherry went out, Jem came in from the other room, and sat down by his wife's side.
"Let me carry him, dear," said Mrs. Blunt's voice outside. "He's too heavy for you, and I was just a-goin' up."
"Oh, thank you; but I often do carry him," said Cherry.
"My! ain't he light? Well, dear," to the child, "you're not afraid as I am old Sairy?"
For Mrs. Blunt had heard the whole story from Miss Hobson that morning.
"No," said Dickie; but the very name made him tremble, and Mrs. Blunt, perceiving it, knew she should not have said that.
When he was placed on Mrs. Seymour's lap, Mrs. Blunt produced something which she had carried on her arm.
"There!" she said, with evident delight; "don't you think as we've been quick? This little nightgown was calico in the shop at nine o'clock this mornin', and here it is ready for him to put on now."
"You've made it for him?" asked Mrs. Seymour, too astonished to find words.
"That we have! When you sent for me this mornin' to tell me about borrowin' mine—bless 'im, he was welcome to it!—and to ask me to 'elp you with your laundry work, as 'as been put so behind this week, I ran down to Jenny to see if she would mind my children. (She's a kind girl at a pinch.) And then thinks I, 'Mrs. Seymour won't be ready with her irons and things for a few minutes;' and I pops on my bonnet, and takes the little 'uns round to the shop to get the calico. We was back in no time, and there was Jenny smiling at the door waitin' for me.
"'Jenny,' says I to her, 'I know as you're good at your needle, and I want to surprise Mrs. Seymour.I haven't made a present to any one these many years, but if you'll help me, I will to-day!'
"Jenny, she takes it in as kind as anythink.
"'All right,' she says. 'And I'll mind those precious babies of yours, and do the work as well; for I'm right down sorry for 'em up-stairs, that I am.'
"So we cut it out, and she was set-to with her needle afore I come up to you. When I got down again at twelve o'clock, after you'd finished with me, she'd done more than half of it, that she had!"
Mrs. Blunt was out of breath, so Cherry unfolded the little nightgown and showed it to Dickie, who, however, only smiled gratefully, but did not venture more than a peep with his poor little inflamed eyes.
Mrs. Seymour was so pleased at the thoughtful kindness that she could not say much.
"Don't think as I grudged him theother!" said Mrs. Blunt; "but I thought as you'd feel it nicer for him to have one of his own."
"I'm sure Meg will take it very kind of you," said Mrs. Seymour, gratefully.
"Kind!" echoed Mrs. Blunt. "Nothin' as I could do for her would be kind, after all she has done for me. Why, my dear, I'm a new woman!"
Mrs. Seymour was too surprised to answer, and Mrs. Blunt went on earnestly:
"'Tisn't only as I have a tidy dress now, and a clean room, and better food, but 'tis the inside of me as is different. Instead of frettin' over the littlemoney I've got, she's taught me to make the most of it; and instead of being cross, and tired, and miserable, she's taught me as there is One above as cares for me, and will bear my burdens and lighten 'em, and comfort and cheer me into the bargain. There! if ye don't think that's enough to make a body grateful, I don't know what is."
"Is that mo'ver-Meg," asked Dickie, "as you're talkin' on?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Seymour, softly. "She's a dear mother-Meg, isn't she?"
"Cherry and me's goin' to stay 'long of her," he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Blunt.
"I know you are. You're happy children."
Cherry smiled brightly; and then Mrs. Blunt, having said her say, bethought herself of her children and hurried away, only pausing at the door to say, "T'other one's cut out, and we'll make it as soon as we can; only to-morrer's Sunday."
Yes, to-morrow was Sunday; and in the afternoon the little coffin was carried away and laid in the cold ground; while Meg, shedding no more tears, but full of peace, listened to Cherry's musical voice. Though she was very small for her age, she was a good scholar, and read fluently. Meg had chosen the account, in the eleventh chapter of John, of the Lord's sympathy: how He waited, that He might bless the more abundantly; how He wept, showing Himself the comforter of all who mourn; how He raised the dead,and gave precious promises of everlasting life to all who believe in Him.
Cherry and Meg, both mourning, and both needing the Heavenly food which should sustain their souls, found in that chapter, and above all in that beloved Saviour of whom the chapter treats, the rest and comfort that they needed.
When Jem came back from seeing the earth laid over his child, he met the glance of Meg's serene eyes and wondered.
She held out her hand and clasped his.
"Jem," she said, "come and read this over again to us, and then you'll get comforted, as we have been."
So Jem sat down and read it all through again, and got lifted, as they had been, from the dark grave to the bright sky, where He dwells "who liveth, and was dead," and is "alive for evermore."
S long as Meg was not well enough to get up, Dickie kept his resolve of staying in bed too.
Whether he had an undefined feeling that he was safer there, no one could guess; but whenever Mrs. Seymour or Cherry tried to coax him to be dressed, he always shook his head and answered,
"I 'ike to stay 'long of mo'ver—Meg."
One day Meg, thinking of all this, said to him, "Dickie, I'm going into the other room to-day. Cherry has made it all ready for me, and I'm going to have tea with Jem."
Dickie was silent, but his lip trembled. So Meg quickly went on,
"Shall I ask Cherry to dress you, dearie, so as to be up to tea with father-Jem too?"
"I can't wun about," said Dickie despondently.
"But you can sit by me," returned Meg; "and father-Jem has a secret for you."
"Has he?" asked Dickie, looking interested.
"Did you not hear him hammering and planeing in the other room?"
Dickie nodded. "Were that the secret?"
"I think so; would you not like to be dressed and see?"
Cherry stood looking on, and now added her persuasions; and Dickie, in hopes of finding out "the secret," allowed himself to be arrayed in his clothes, which, under Mrs. Seymour's soap and water and skilful fingers, could hardly be recognized for the same old garments which he had left off.
Cherry too had been busy, and with Mrs. Seymour's direction had made him two brown holland pinafores which covered patches with clean neatness.
"Oh, Dickie!" exclaimed his sister, kissing him impulsively, "I never did see you look so nice since before mother was ill."
"That he does," said Meg, smiling. "Now brush his hair, dear, and then he can sit on your lap till I am ready."
It was a mild, sunshiny day in April when Meg first walked into her sitting-room.
Cherry had been busy making everything as cosy as she could devise, and Meg looked round with satisfaction.
"You have been clever, Cherry," she said.
"Mrs. Seymour says I shall be very useful if I take pains," answered Cherry, "and I have been trying very hard to, mother-Meg, because I do eat so much."
Cherry said this with compunction, and Meg laughed a little.
"Never mind that, dear. While I have been lying still I've been thinking of a lot of things you might do to get a little living."
"Have you?" asked Cherry, sitting down by the fire with Dickie on her knee.
"Yes; you might help mother with her washing sometimes; or you could learn to do nice needle-work. I mean to write to Mrs. MacDonald and ask her if she wants any done."
"I did learn to work when I was at school," said Cherry.
"You see, Cherry," pursued Meg, "it is not that we would not keep you altogether if you needed it, or it were right; but it will be much better and happier for you to have something to do; and then if you could earn enough to get some neat clothes and put a little by, how nice that would be."
Dickie grew tired of this talk, and asked if his secret was going to be told.
Meg took him on her lap, and as he nestled his soft curls against her, she explained to him that they must wait till father-Jem came home.
Just as she was saying this the doctor's quick rap was heard at their door, and he entered at once.
"I am late, Mrs. Seymour," he said; "but I waited till the pressure of my work was over, because I want to have a good look at this little fellow's eyes. Does he never try to use them?"
"No," answered Meg; "he seems to dread the light so much."
"I'm afraid—" said the doctor, glancing up at her and stopping short.
Meg looked yearningly into the little face.
"I think I was told he is not your own child?"
"No," answered Meg; "they are our adopted children."
"What puzzled me was that his sister said his name was Dickie Seymour."
"So it is," said Meg, as if this were a new thought to her. "How strange I did not think of that; but he is no relation."
"The best thing for him would be to go into the country," said the doctor, considering; "but I suppose that is out of the question. Even then I doubt if he will ever—"
Meg looked at him startled.
"Do you mean that I am going to lose him?" she asked, not knowing how to put it so that Dickie should not understand and be troubled.
"No, no," said the doctor quickly, putting his handin explanation to his own eyes. "But it would be a great thing to improve his health."
"I will think it over," said Meg, her thoughts instantly flying to her own dear mother and the little rose-covered cottage at home.
"Now, my little man, let me have a look into your eyes. Don't be afraid; I'm not going to hurt you much."
He proceeded to open the lids, in spite of Dickie's wail of pain; while Cherry stood by trembling, having well understood the tenor of the foregoing conversation.
"Itdoeshurt me," said Dickie, trying to draw away.
"Ah, well," said the doctor, letting him go; "time will show. Can you see me now, or your sister?"
But Dickie only buried his head in Meg's bosom, and would not be persuaded to try.
Just as the doctor was going out at the door he turned back and addressed Cherry.
"My little girl, are you old enough to have left school?"
"Yes, sir; I passed all the Standards just before mother died."
"Indeed?—and what are you thinking of turning your hand to?"
"Anything I can get," answered Cherry, blushing.
"Because the girl who used to clean my steps every morning has gone to a regular place, and I want some one else. Would you like to do it?"
Page 195.Cherry went up-stairs to see if Mrs. Seymour should want her to do anything before she went to bed.—p. 195.
"Very much, sir," she answered, smiling.
"My servants are busy just then, and I do not like my steps to be cleaned after eight o'clock. You see, my house being a doctor's, people begin to come early."
"I could be there as early as you like, sir," said Cherry, looking towards Meg for confirmation.
"Yes," answered Meg, "and I'm much obliged to you for thinking of her, sir."
"Oh, as to that, she may as well have it as any one else. It is two shillings a week, and not very hard work."
After arranging that Cherry should begin the next morning, he bade them good day, and went off to finish his rounds.
"Oh, mother-Meg, did you ever think I could have anything so nice?" asked Cherry, kneeling down by her side, and laying her head on Dickie's lap.
"No, indeed," answered Meg, "we must not forget to thank Him who has sent it to us, Cherry. How kind God is to us!"
Cherry did not answer in words, but she was very quiet for a long while, looking soberly into the fire.
Presently Dickie, concluding that the doctor was gone, and that he need have no further fear of molestation, put up his little hand to stroke Meg's face.
"Well, dear?" she said inquiringly, for there was a question on his lips.
"Mo'ver-Meg, did the doctor say as you was goin' toloseme?"
"No, dearie, he did not think I should," said Meg, soothingly.
"'Cause hesaidso," persisted Dickie.
"He didn't mean that," answered Meg softly; "and even if he had, Dickie, those who love Jesus can never be really lost."
"I 'ove Jesus," said Dickie, considering, "and so do Cherry."
"I'm sure you do; and to those who love Him He says, 'No man is able to pluck them out of My hand.' When once we are in the care of Jesus, nothing shall ever drag us away from that."
"Is that why Jesus has sent me to you, mo'ver-Meg?"
"I expect it is, Dickie; He's been very good to you."
Dickie smiled happily, then started up expectantly.
"There's fa'ver-Jem!" he exclaimed.
"So it is," cried Meg.
Even then he did not attempt to look, but sat in an attitude of suppressed excitement, till Jem really came in and shut the door.
"Where's my secret?" asked Dickie eagerly.
"Let me speak to Meg first," answered Jem, coming to his wife's side and kissing her.
"Well, sweetheart, the room don't look like the same with you out of it, that's certain!"
"No," said Cherry, "I never saw her in it afore, but I couldn't think it 'ud look so much better."
Meg smiled at their love and praise, and then Cherry made the tea.
Meanwhile Jem went to the corner and uncovered something which stood there, bringing it forward to Dickie, and telling him to look at what it was.
Dickie leaned forward, opened his eyes, gave a cry of pain, and then looked pitifully up in Meg's face.
"I can't see, mo'ver-Meg; where is it? It's all dark 'ere. Do light the lamp for me."
But no lamp could be of any avail, as Meg saw when he felt about with his tiny hands in the broad daylight to find his way to the secret.
"Here, darling," said Meg, struggling with her tears, and commanding her voice by a great effort, "here is the secret; put your little hands and feel it."
Dickie, believing that the lamp had not yet been lighted, and not guessing or being capable of understanding the calamity which had fallen upon him, let her guide his hands to the arms of a little chair, high enough to reach the table.
"For me?" asked Dickie; "a chair for my werry own?"
"Yes," answered Jem, taking him from Meg and placing him in it. "See, Dickie, you can play bythe table or sit by the fire. I have made it for your very own."
"Kind fa'ver-Jem," said Dickie, contentedly. "Now Cherry, light the lamp, so as I can see it."
Meg looked at Jem as if seeking strength from his pitying eyes; then she bent and laid her cheek against Dickie's head as she said tenderly—
"It's because your eyes have been so bad, dear."
"Will they get better?" he asked.
"I am not sure, dear."
"I want to see my booful chair, and mo'ver-Meg!"
Jem took the child out of the chair and wrapped his arms round him, pacing up and down the room with him on his breast.
"Kind fa'ver-Jem," said Dickie, settling himself in those strong arms.
They went up and down for some minutes, while Meg and Cherry wept, and wiped away their tears in turn.
By-and-by they heard Dickie ask in a whisper—
"Shall I ever get better, and be able to see my mo'ver-Meg?" And Jem answered, in that low husky voice which betokened strong emotion—
"I can't say as you will for certain, Dickie, not here; but there's one thing as I do know on. In heaven we are promised, all of us who love Him, to see His face; and that'll be better than even mother-Meg's."
Dickie listened silently.
"That 'a benice," he said at last with a little sob.
"Yes, Dickie," Jem went on, still walking to and fro with soft even tread, "there is no sorrow nor sufferin' there, no cryin', nor pains, nor achin'; but He says they shall see His face, and His name shall be in their foreheads. Don't ye think, Dickie, as, if His holy name is in our foreheads, He'll take care of them as bears it?"
Dickie assented, but he was thinking of other things.
"Did ye say as my eyes 'ud be all right there, fa'ver-Jem?" he asked at length.
"Yes; all right there. 'They shall see His face,'" answered Jem.
Dickie was satisfied.
"Put me in my chair close to mo'ver-Meg, fa'ver-Jem, and she'll tell me all 'bout it. She allays does tell me such nice fings."