HAT night, when Cherry had gone up to bed in Mrs. Seymour's room, and Dickie was fast asleep, Meg and Jem found themselves alone by their own fireside.
"My girl," he said, when she turned her face towards him after a long look in the fire, "this is a funny change as has come across our life."
"I hope it isn't a disappointment to you, Jem," she said. "I mean about Cherry and Dickie."
"No, my dear, no," he answered heartily. "If I had the choice over again I'd do the same."
"So would I," said Meg, "a hundred times over. I did not know all the joy it would bring. I never thought of it at first as anything but a care, that we did for our Lord's sake. I never guessed it would turn into a blessing."
"That's how the Lord's way mostly is," said Jem, thoughtfully; "but this about poor little Dickie is asad thing, Meg, and will make him a great care. Not that I grudge it—but as far as we can look ahead, it 'ull be more difficult nor if he could see."
Meg could not speak of it yet without tears, and she leant her head against Jem's shoulder in silence. Soon after this Mrs. Seymour came in, and Jem put her into her chair, saying—
"Mother, I was just thinking about you; for I want to ask your advice. I don't like to see this pale face. I want to send my Meg down to the country for a week or two."
Meg turned and was going to speak, but Jem put up his hand playfully, and went on—
"Mrs. MacDonald wants some more repairs done, and I'm to be sent there next week. Now what could be better'n Meg's goin' too?"
"Beautiful," said Mrs. Seymour. "Cherry will help me nicely, and we'll manage to take care of Dickie while she is away. Wouldn't you like it, my dear?"
"I was only going to say," said Meg, "that the doctor told me this afternoon that it would be the very best thing for Dickie. Jem, might I take him?"
Jem stroked her cheek, which had flushed with eagerness, and he said, turning to Mrs. Seymour and smiling a little sadly—
"Mother, she's like a hen with one chick; nobody can't take care of Dickie but her."
"Oh, Jem!" exclaimed Meg.
"No, more they can't, half as well," he went on."Nobody who has seen my Meg for the last few weeks, but knows as she has the true motherly heart. I'd thought as our Father above was goin' to give her one of her own to see after, but He's seen as it 'ud be nice for her to have two instead o' one. Ah! Meg, my girl, I've seen the meanin' of those words, 'as one whom his mother comforteth' since I've watched you."
Meg did not answer; she was thinking of the tiny white-robed form that had lain unresponsively in her arms. For a moment she felt very desolate.
"But it would be very nice indeed for Dickie to go with her," remarked Mrs. Seymour; "I am glad it's been proposed."
Then they explained as well as they could what had happened that evening, with the sad certainty which had come upon them, that the cruelty which had been practised on Dickie had made him quite blind.
"Now I can understand what made Cherry so dumpy," said Mrs. Seymour. "She came up-stairs as quiet as anything, and crept into bed with hardly a word. I've heard her sniffin' and that, for ever so long; indeed, that was partly why I came down to ask you if anythin' was the matter."
"Poor child," said Jem, "I could see as she felt it very much. There, mother, we've had mercies and trials both mixed up, as you may say. Here's my Meg about again, as is the greatest joy I've had for along time, and here's this trouble about poor little Dickie. Then Cherry's got a nice beginnin' of somethin' to do, and she too has got to hear, as her little brother, what she's loved so tenderly, is blind."
"Well, my dear," answered Mrs. Seymour, "I'm gettin' to learn, a step at a time, as God leads His people along in thebestway. He knows just how to send the sunshine and cloud so as to make the fruits of the earth come to ripen; and it's so with us: if we was to have all sunshine we'd be dried up, and should not bear fruit for Him, and if we was to have all cloud and rain, we'd be so damp and mildewy that I doubt if we should do much good. So He sends both, just as He sees best, to make us what He would have us be."
"Yes, mother," answered Jem, thoughtfully; "I dare say as you're quite right."
"You see, Jem," she added, as she rose to go back to her own room, "I have a lot o' time to think, as I stand washin' and ironin', and where I used to think of other folks and a hundred things, now says I to myself, 'What can I do better than think on the Lord, and all His ways?' So I put up a large-print Bible I've got, where my eyes can light upon a word here and there, without stoppin' in my work, and you'd be surprised what a deal o' comfort I get."
Jem kissed her for good night very tenderly.
"Ah, mother!" he said, "I see another way of gettin' to bear fruit; and that is to spread your rootsdeep in the soil as the great Gardener has got ready for us; I see that now, and I'll remember it."
She bade Meg good-bye, and went up-stairs again.
"Cherry, child," she began, coming close to the bed, "give grannie a kiss, and let's tell the Lord all about it."
Poor Cherry broke into sobs, as she raised her face to meet that of her friend.
"Child, there are many things to comfort you. He'll not be unhappy, my dear, even if he is blind. People will be kind to him, and he'll not miss it as much as you fear. But, whether or not, the best thing we can do is to come to the bottom at once. The Lord knows, and the Lordloves. Cherry, He loves Dickie more than you and Meg do, and that's saying a great deal."
Then she knelt down, and taking Cherry's hand in hers, she prayed that they might all be able to trust Him who loved them, both when He sent cloud and when He sent sunshine. And then Cherry, yielding herself to submit to the cloud, suddenly remembered the flash of sunshine which had been sent her that day, and cheered up and took courage.
When Mrs. Seymour rose, she put up her face once more.
"Oh, grannie!—may I call you grannie?—how good you are to me. Indeed, I will try to be a good girl to you and mother-Meg."
"I'm sure you will, child."
"And I'll not fret about Dickie anymore. I felt so sorry, so—angry—but I've asked Jesus to forgive me. Good night, grannie dear."
So Mrs. Seymour, though she only kissed the little girl in silence, had her bit of comfort too that evening.
"Grannie," she thought; "I believe the child will be a true grandchild to me in time, and cheer up my old age when I can't so well help myself."
Early the next morning Cherry was up betimes. She dressed herself as neatly as her poor little mended clothes would allow, and, without being asked, proceeded to light Mrs. Seymour's fire before she went out.
She had often watched the thrifty woman take two or three pieces of coal, which she placed along the back of her stove, so as to form an arch for her sticks from the front bar. Then she would lay eight or ten sticks evenly from back to front across this, and eight or ten more from side to side, putting her paper lightly under the arch, and her cinders lightly over it.
"There, my dear," the old woman would say, "if you lay it like that, and your sticks are dry, you never need fear that if you turn your back your fire will be out. Those cinders will burn up hot before you have washed your hands."
All this Cherry remembered, and followed as implicitly as she could. When she had done she stood spell-bound, watching the effect. Mrs. Seymour,roused by the crackling of the sticks, opened her eyes, and startled her by calling out—
"Halloa! my dear, are you up already, and the fire lighted too?"
"Yes," said Cherry, coming forward; "I thought as you'd be glad to have it done, grannie."
"So I should, child. But look here, I've found a small apron of mine as 'ull do nicely for you to go to the doctor's with. Mind, Cherry, you never take it dirty, my dear. There it is on that chair."
Cherry found a clean, neatly-folded apron ready for her, and to her thinking it added to her appearance just the one thing she wanted.
She thanked Mrs. Seymour very gratefully, and ran down-stairs.
Many had been Meg's instructions the evening before as to how she was to clean the steps of the doctor's house, and Jem's hearth had been cleaned three times over, in order that Cherry should know properly how to do it.
As she hurried along the two or three streets which intervened between their house and the doctor's, she thought over all Meg had said, and hoped she should do it right.
It was a very nervous little girl who rang at the area bell, as the church clock near struck seven.
"Who are you?" asked the cook. "Ah, I know. Well, my dear, here's the pail and things; do it from outside, and I'll open the front door for you to beginon the top step. Here's the mat to kneel on. Don't you leave it out there, nor the broom, or they'll be walked off with."
Cherry promised, and waited while the cook went up-stairs to unfasten the door.
"Please," said Cherry, looking up with her candid eyes, "I'm not very used to making stones white, but mother-Meg says I shall do it much better in a day or two."
"All right; and if you don't quite know anythink, you just come to me, and I'll tell you."
Cherry began sweeping, and the cook went back to prepare her master's breakfast.
"Poor little thing," she said compassionately, when the housemaid came down to put away her brushes, "she don't look strong. I wonder master chose such a child."
"How old is she, then?"
"She looks fifteen, but she's that small and thin. She limps, and one of her shoulders is all crooked, but I never see a prettier face in my life. Her eyes is soft and large, and altogether——"
But Jane could not stay to hear, for the busy doctor must have everything punctual, so cook finished her sentence to herself.
When Cherry came back with the pail and broom, cook went to inspect her work in a very kindly spirit.
"It don't look quiteclear, my dear, but as your mother says, you'll improve if you take pains. You'vedone it very well considering. Hasn't she, Jane? Come and see."
This was to give Jane, who was passing through the hall at the moment, an opportunity of agreeing with cook's verdict on Cherry's eyes.
"I haven't a mother, please," answered Cherry, timidly.
"Oh, I thought you said mother, my dear; I beg your pardon."
Cherry turned homewards, and the two comfortable servants went down-stairs again.
"It 'ud be a charity to alter one of my dresses for her, that it would," said Jane; "no wonder, if she ain't got no mother. But how her poor things was patched and mended; and how white her apron was. They're clean people who belong to her, if they are poor."
And so it came to pass, when Cherry had done her steps the next morning, the cook asked her to step into the kitchen with a very pleased look.
Cherry entered wondering, and then Jane ran down-stairs in a great bustle, and said she couldn't stay, but did nevertheless, while they produced her print dress, which cook explained had shrunk in the wash, and which they had together altered to Cherry's size.
"There!" said Jane, "we were up till I don't know what time doing it, and I believe it 'ull fit splendid."
Cherry, for thanks, burst into tears, at which both the kind-hearted girls looked very concerned. But when she could look up again, she said gently—
"Please, you mustn't think as those belongin' to me wouldn't give me clothes; but there's been illness and death in the house, and they took me and my little brother when we was in the greatest want. They'reeverso kind to us, only mother-Meg has not been strong enough to see about anything yet."
The pathetic eyes of the child, begging for indulgence, lest her best friends should be blamed for her poverty, quite struck the two well-to-do young women, and the cook answered quickly—
"I quite believe it, my dear; don't have any fear of us. Take your dress home, and tell—who is it, dear?"
"Mother-Meg——"
"Tell her that you've been a very good girl, and have done your steps very nicely to-day. I'll come and see her one of these days."
URING the week which elapsed before Jem's work took him into the country, Meg and Cherry were busy from morning till night.
Dickie must have a new frock, and, indeed, so must Cherry, though the doctor's servants had been so kind as to provide her with a print one.
"Cherry," said Meg one morning, "you know we'd take you with us if we could; but you see, dear, my mother hasn't but one room to spare, and I'm afraid, besides, we should be too large a party for her. But I shan't forget; and you must go another time."
Cherry looked up brightly.
"Oh, yes, mother-Meg; of course Ishouldlike to see the green fields, but I couldn't leave the doctor'sanyhow; so if you could take me ever so, I couldn't go."
"No," said Meg; "but I should not wish you to think I'd forgot you, dear."
Just then Mrs. Blunt tapped at the door, and came in with her pleasant face.
"Here I am, Mrs. Seymour; did ye expect me afore?"
"I was so busy that I hardly knew the time," answered Meg; "but I hope it isn't inconvenient to you to come?"
"Not a bit of it! Why, I'm pleased, I'm sure, as you want me. It's nice to be wanted, ye know, sometimes."
"I expect you're often wanted," smiled Meg.
She shook her head, smiling too.
"More of late than I used to be," she said. "But now what is it you want me to do?"
"Well," said Meg, "I want you to stay with Dickie while Cherry and I go to buy something, for he's too heavy for either of us to carry, and he has not got courage to walk yet. The noise in the street frightens him now he can't see it all."
"Poor little dear," said Mrs. Blunt, kissing him.
"We shan't be gone long," explained Meg; "and you can't think how glad I am mother advised me to save what I earned with her. Here's quite a little store—enough to buy some things for my two children, and to pay for making them."
"I should like to 'elp you for nothing," said Mrs. Blunt, understanding what Meg meant by those last words; for she had sent Jem down to explain to her, that she wanted to find some one to make Cherry's dress, and that she would ten times rather she should do it than put it out.
"But that would not be right," answered Meg; "and, like me, now you've begun to have a little saving-bag, the money can go into that."
Mrs. Blunt laughed.
"I always feel rich when I look into that bag, even if there's ever so little in it."
Meanwhile Meg was putting on her bonnet, and now stooped to kiss Dickie, who was sitting in his own little chair.
"Is this the chair as I've heard on?" asked Mrs. Blunt. "What a rare nice one! Why, it takes in half, I do declare, and makes into a little table too, like they do in the shops."
Dickie looked very pleased, and Mrs. Blunt's own babies toddled round to look and admire. They regarded the little blind boy with awe, having been drilled by their mother as to how they were to behave to him. But his gentle little face won them at once, and when they found that he looked very much like themselves, and wore frocks and pinafores, they ceased to be afraid, and began to prattle about the little bits of toys they had brought up with them.
Meg glanced at the three crowded round the little table, and left them with a happy heart.
Mrs. Blunt busied herself with some work Meg had left for her, and it did not seem long before she came back, accompanied by Cherry carrying a long-shaped parcel.
"Look!" she exclaimed, spreading it out on the table, "just look what mother-Meg has bought for me! Here's some dark blue serge for my best frock, and stuff for two aprons, and a new hat. I never saw such a lot o' things in my life."
Then Meg unrolled her parcel, and there was a ready-made jacket for Dickie, and stuff like Cherry's for a neat little frock, and a hat, which Meg put down on his table in front of him, guiding his soft hands to feel its shape and newness.
"For me?" asked Dickie. "What a nice lickle hat!"
"See if it fits you," said Meg, placing it on his head.
Cherry was delighted; and then Meg turned to the table to begin cutting out, so that no time might be wasted.
"Does he never run about?" whispered Mrs. Blunt, glancing towards Dickie.
"Not yet," answered Meg, in the same tone.
But the children's society was very attractive, and before long they noticed that Dickie stood up of hisown accord, and even went so far as to feel his way round to the other side of his table.
"He will get on by-and-by," said Mrs. Blunt. "It's all new to him, poor little chap."
Cherry sat by, watching the children, and working at the seams of her skirt; and if ever her heart felt thankful it was this morning, as she saw Dickie, sheltered from all danger, playing so peacefully there. Her own new dress was only a part of her happiness, and when she thought of all the love which had been showered upon her, she felt as if she could sing for joy.
"Mother-Meg," she said softly, when she was next standing by her to have something fitted, "I don't know how to tell you how grateful I am to you and father-Jem."
Meg smiled kindly. "Tell Jesus," she answered, stroking her wavy hair, "for when we tell Him, it does not make us less glad, but more."
So Cherry went back to her work, and Meg and Mrs. Blunt were left to theirs.
"Do you think as we shall get this done to-night?" asked Mrs. Blunt.
"I hope we shall—I think we may. You see, to-morrow is Sunday, and I did want for us all to go to the Mission Room together. I don't know that Cherrycouldgo in that old thing, though I am not sure, now I say so, that shabby clothes ought to keep us away."
"No," answered Mrs. Blunt; "but one don't like to be looked down on."
"I suppose we ought to think about pleasing God more than about pleasing our neighbours."
"That's very true, I'm sure."
"And if we wear whatHehas given us, we ought to be satisfied that it is right."
"Only some of us didn't always make the best of what He did give us," remarked Mrs. Blunt, with a little smile.
"We learn, don't we," asked Meg, "when He teaches us? Mrs. Blunt, I wish you'd get your husband to go with us to-morrow."
"What, in his working-clothes? He ain't got no others, my dear."
"Jem goes in his," said Meg.
"Yes; but a carpenter's different from a mason."
"It's cleaner work, of course; but I don't believe that our Father in Heaven minds a bit about clothes. He clothes us with the 'Best Robe,' and He looks at us in that."
"What do you mean by 'the best robe,' Mrs. Seymour?" asked the woman, still plying her needle as fast as she could. She had found in talking to Meg, that there was often a hidden meaning under some quaint little sentence.
"Don't you remember in the parable of the prodigal son, how the father says, 'Bring forth the best robe and put it on him?' It seems to me that thatis how God looks at us. He covers over all our rags and tatters with the Robe of His Son's righteousness, and He looks at that instead of at our poor doings."
"I see," said Mrs. Blunt; "and I'll ask Blunt to think of what you say. I'm sure I miss goin' out of a Sunday dreadful; but I haven't been, I do believe, since the first year I was married."
Meg did not exclaim, but she answered gently, "We must ask God to help you both to go; I'm sure you would feel different."
"Idofeel different already; and Blunt says as I've grown young again. Think of that! It's all along of you, Mrs. Seymour, and what you've helped me to learn of our Saviour. But I want Blunt and the children to take the comfort of it too."
"Of course you do," answered Meg, sympathetically, "and you'll have it too, if you ask for it."
"Shall I?" asked Mrs. Blunt.
"It says, 'Ask, and ye shallreceive,'" answered Meg.
A little before twelve o'clock Mrs. Blunt went down to prepare her husband's and children's dinner, and Meg rose to get ready for her Jem.
"Let me do it," said Cherry, "and then you can go on with the work; I've come to the end of all I can do now."
Meg willingly let her try, and so the dress progressed rapidly, and when Mrs. Blunt and her babiesreappeared after dinner, she was surprised to see how much had been accomplished.
About eight o'clock that night the last stitch was put in it, and the last button sewn on; and then Cherry went into the other room, and came back in it smiling and blushing, and looking so pretty that Mrs. Blunt, who was preparing to go, was obliged to stoop and kiss her.
"Thank you, Mrs. Blunt," said Cherry earnestly. "I know you've put out your own work for me, and I think it's very kind of you."
"You're welcome, my dear; and I've had one of the happiest days I ever spent—that I have."
When she was gone Cherry suddenly turned to Meg.
"Oh, how selfish I've been! I never thought about Dickie's frock; shall you be able to take him to-morrow in his old one?"
"Yes," answered Meg, "it was impossible to do both; and his jacket will cover up the dear little old frock."
"I wish I'd thought of it," said Cherry, sorrowfully.
But Meg assured her, that even if she had it would have made no difference.
"So be happy, dear," she said, "and enjoy the nice new frock which God has given you."
Cherry kissed her and wished her good night, and then went up-stairs to see if Mrs. Seymour should want her to do anything before she went to bed.
"My!" exclaimed Miss Hobson, when she stood in the doorway, with her golden hair falling over her shoulders. "My! you do look nice so, Cherry."
Cherry laughed. "Mother-Meg wishes me to wear my hair like this," answered Cherry, "and mother used to like it when she were alive. Only I couldn't, ye know, when I'd got no soap, nor brush, nor nothing."
"Ain't that a nice dress!" said Miss Hobson, admiringly. "I shouldn't 'a known ye, Cherry. But why didn't young Mrs. Seymour get ye a black one for yer poor father?"
Cherry looked a little troubled, and Mrs. Seymour quickly interposed.
"She would ha' done, but I advised her not; it's better as it is. Cherry is as sorry for her poor father in this one as ever she would be in a black; and 'tain't as if Meg could get her another best one in a hurry."
"No," said Miss Hobson; "only some folks thinks a deal o' black."
"Very foolishly," answered Mrs. Seymour decidedly; "but that's not my Jem's Meg. She never even got a bit of new black for the little darling that's gone. She had one as she'd had at the Hall, and she says to me, 'Mother, you'll not think as I don't care because I don't spend Jem's money getting black things.'"
"Well, you needn't be hot over it," said Miss Hobson; "I didn't know the reason, of course."
Cherry came to her bedside, and spoke gently, though there were tears in her large sweet eyes.
"Miss Hobson,don'ttell any one as I haven't a black frock—no one but you knows; and it don't make a bit of difference so long as I think asGodsent it."
Miss Hobson stroked the little hand which lay on her sheet, and called out to Mrs. Seymour, who had turned away,
"Mrs. Seymour, I'm sorry as I was cross; and I wouldn't ha' said a word if I'd remembered in time."
Then she drew Cherry towards her, and asked her to give her a kiss.
"You've been a kind little girl to me all this month past, that you have, my dear; and you can go to that drawer there—the bottom one. In the left-hand corner you'll find a work-box. Will you bring it to me?"
Cherry did as desired, and when it was placed on the bed, Miss Hobson raised herself on her elbow.
"Yes," she said, "that's it. That was give to me when I was a young woman, all fitted up as nice as anything, with scissors, and thimble, and cottons and all. It was give to me by my young man as was drowned at sea, and I've kept it hoarded up this thirty years. But now I'm going to give it to you, Cherry. Whyshould it lie there when there's one of my Lord's little ones as 'ud be glad of it for their work?"
"Do you really mean forme, Miss Hobson?" asked Cherry, looking at the beautiful box as if she could not believe what she had heard.
"Yes; it will not make him as is gone seem more far off, for your havin' it. He was always generous, and he'd have liked you to have it, as these poor old rheumatic fingers of mine can't use it no longer."
She wept a little, while Cherry stood by, hardly liking to take her at her word.
"You see, Cherry," Miss Hobson went on, cheering up as she spoke, "I've been too apt to think of myself all my life, so the Lord has made it so as I've only myself left to think about. And then He begins to teach me to think about Him. And every day, as I think aboutHim, I care less about myself, and more about Him. And so it comes to pass as He brings me you to think of too. And by-and-by He'll let me do something for you, perhaps, more'n giving you my dear work-box."
"I can't begin to thank you," said Cherry, "but itiskind of you. I never saw such a nice one in my life. Are you sure as you won't be sorry as you've give it to me, Miss Hobson?"
"No—no, my dear; not so long as you take care on it."
She passed her crooked suffering fingers over it tenderly; then, as if she could not help it, she raisedherself and pressed a kiss upon the lid. Then she bade Cherry take it away and keep it as her own.
When Cherry showed her treasure to Mrs. Seymour she said—
"That's cost Miss Hobson a deal to give up, I can tell you. But when she thinks as her Lord would be pleased, she don't stick at it. It's forHis sake, child!"
HERRY, go down and ask Mrs. Blunt if any of them are going with us," said Meg, as they rose from breakfast the next morning. "Tell her we shall start at a quarter to eleven."
Cherry made her way to the ground floor, and knocked at Mrs. Blunt's door.
It was quickly opened by the eldest girl, with the baby in her arms. She did not ask Cherry to enter, but went back to her mother, who was busy in the other room.
Mrs. Blunt herself came forward, and spoke in a low tone.
"Ask 'em to be kind enough to knock as they come down, and if we're ready, we'll come."
Cherry nodded.
"How's little brother?"
"All right," answered Cherry, smiling; "he's sopleased as father-Jem is going to carry him; and he says as he'll sit as still as anythink."
"So do my Pattie. I've promised as I'll take her, if Blunt will go." She lowered her voice and half came outside. "I think he will—but men is men, my dear."
Cherry understood, and went up-stairs again with her report.
How proudly, when the time came, did she dress Dickie in his new hat and jacket, and sit with him on her knee telling him stories till the time that Meg should be ready.
Presently she came out of her room, and Cherry fancied that her eyes looked rather tearful.
"Well, my girl," said Jem, starting up from his chair, "we're none too soon. It is nice to have you to go along with me once more."
"I'm very thankful," she answered gently, turning towards the door.
Jem took Dickie up in his strong arms, while Cherry followed Meg to the stairs. She linked her arm confidingly in hers, and her golden hair fell over Meg's shoulder as she whispered,
"I know as we don't make up for the little baby, even though we do love you very much indeed, mother-Meg; I wish as I could do anything for you."
"You do a great deal for me, Cherry," said Meg affectionately, "and I'm very thankful that we've got you both. Doesn't Dickie look happy?"
He did indeed, his arms clasped round Jem's neck, his little face leaning on the broad shoulder.
Jem went out at the front door, while Meg tapped at Mrs. Blunt's.
"We're ready," announced the woman, "and it's mighty kind of you to wait for us."
She came out of her room, followed by her husband, who had brushed himself up as well as he was able.
Three or four of the children pressed out also, and Meg, seeing this, offered a hand to two of them, which gratified them very much.
Jem waited till Blunt came up, and they paced along together, while Mrs. Blunt joined Cherry, and so they came to the Mission Room where Jem and Meg generally attended.
Jem went in first with his little frail burden, and when he had found seats for his friends, he followed Meg to where they usually sat.
When the hymn began, Dickie raised his head from Jem's breast with a light in his face. Meg was afraid he would speak, but Jem warned him by a low word, and after another moment Meg saw tear after tear come from his little sightless eyes. The first he had shed since he had been their child, she thought; and she took his little hand in hers and kissed it.
But that hymn went to another heart besides Dickie's.
Mrs. Blunt's husband sat as one in a dream. Where had he heard those words before?—
"There is a Fountain filled with Blood,Drawn from Immanuel's veins;And sinners plunged beneath that flood,Lose all their guilty stains."
"There is a Fountain filled with Blood,Drawn from Immanuel's veins;And sinners plunged beneath that flood,Lose all their guilty stains."
He closed his eyes, and he saw a certain bare room with a lot of little children sitting round; a teacher sat close to them, who was leading them in a clear voice, while the little ones followed and joined in as they could.
"And sinners plunged beneath that flood!"
"And sinners plunged beneath that flood!"
The hymn rose and fell to the end; and then there was a prayer, while his mind did not follow the speaker's words, but went back to that old country Sunday School, in which he had sat week after week, month after month, and even year after year.
"Lose all their guilty stains."
"Lose all their guilty stains."
What had the years since then brought him but guilty stains?
He heard not a word of the prayer; but the first sentence that arrested his attention was, "May I not wash inthem, and be clean?" and then he listened with an eagerness which surprised himself.
He heard about the proud man turning away in a rage; he heard about his servants trying to persuade him—and mentally said that this was like his own wife; he heard how the man obeyed the prophet's words, and dipped seven times in the stream; heheard how he was cured from his loathsome disease; he heard how he went home rejoicing.
And all through the preacher's words these lines kept running as a strain of sweet music—
"There is a Fountain filled with Blood,Drawn from Immanuel's veins;And sinners plunged beneath that flood,Lose all their guilty stains."
"There is a Fountain filled with Blood,Drawn from Immanuel's veins;And sinners plunged beneath that flood,Lose all their guilty stains."
Slow tears forced themselves from under his eyelids, which he hastily brushed away with his hand.
What passed in the man's mind during that hour was known to none but God; perhaps he was hardly conscious himself at the time what a great transaction had taken place; but from that day forth, first very slowly and fitfully, but afterwards growing stronger and firmer, came the knowledge that he had plunged in that crimson tide, and had been washed and was clean.
As they walked home very little was said; there had been many praying during that little service for the man who had hardly moved a finger, but had sat with bowed head during the whole time, and they believed that their prayers had been heard.
When they parted at the door of their home, Blunt looked up and wrung Jem's hand.
"Thankye kindly," he said. "If ye don't mind, I should like to come next Sunday."
Mrs. Blunt, like a wise woman, did not stop to speak, but followed her husband into their room,where their little daughter Kittie stood, clean and smiling, ready to meet them, with their frugal meal set out on the table.
Page 220.All day long the two sat out under the apple-trees basking in the sunshine.—p. 220.
That was a happy Sunday. How Dickie was praised for sitting so still, and what a soft little colour mantled in his face when he heard that they were pleased with him!
That evening Meg left Cherry to take care of Dickie, and went to the service with her husband.
When they came home, the sound of singing on the staircase made them pause. It came from the top of the house, and Jem and Meg went up to see who it could be.
Their mother's door was ajar, and through it they could see Cherry sitting by the fire, singing in a clear, bell-like voice, Dickie resting on her lap. Miss Hobson's door was open, and she lay propped up on her pillow listening with a peaceful look on her face.
"Whiter than the snow!
"Whiter than the snow!
sang Cherry.
Whiter than the snow—Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb,And I shall be whiter than snow."
Whiter than the snow—Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb,And I shall be whiter than snow."
"Sing it again, Cherry," said Dickie, "'cause I do like it so. Did we sing that this mornin', Cherry?"
"Not this one," answered Cherry.
"I 'fought we did—sing it again, Cherry. Do you fink He'll washmewhiter than snow?"
"Of course He will, Dickie, if you come to Him."
"What do it mean, Cherry, 'whiter than snow'?"
"I think it means being washed in the Blood of Jesus."
"But how, whiter than the snow?"
"Don't you remember, Dickie, when there was snow, afore mother-Meg took us away from old Sairy,—don't you remember how there weren't a spot on it when we got up one morning?"
"Yes—I 'member," said Dickie. "Shall we be like that?"
"I 'spose so. Them as is washed, He can't see no spot on us, more than we can on the snow."
"Mother-Meg says as there ain't no sin inHeaven," murmured Dickie. "Let's go to sleep now, Cherry."
So Meg and Jem came in at that, and Jem carried him down-stairs at once to his own little bed, too sleepy to say more than a very soft "It is nice!" as he laid his head on his pillow.
After that Cherry prepared the supper which she was allowed to stay up for, as it was Sunday night—a great treat, but Meg liked nice things to happen on Sundays.
"That child sings like the angels," said Miss Hobson, when Mrs. Seymour came in from her service. "She's been up here this hour, and I feel as if I'd been nigh the gate of heaven."
"How's she learnt them?" asked Mrs. Seymour.
"Before her mother died. She's got a book full of'em. She says when she was alone up in that attic she used to sing 'em to Dickie pretty near all day; and what's more, I've heard it often through the window, but o' course I didn't know as it was her."
"We didn't guess as we should ever come to know and love any one livin' inthathouse, did we, Miss Hobson? It shows us how some nice things can come out of bad things!"
Miss Hobson shook her head assentingly, but her mind was running on something else.
"Who do ye think has been up here a listenin' to her too?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Mrs. Seymour, looking round quickly, for she disliked visitors in her little home, more especially on Sundays. Miss Hobson knew this, but she went on calmly:
"We was sittin' here, as you left us, me in my bed, and Cherry by your fire, when there comes a little rap at the door, and Kittie Blunt comes in.
"'Oh, Kittie,' says Cherry, half-startled, 'do you want Mrs. Seymour?'
"'No, I don't, I want you—may I come in and speak to yer?'
"'I suppose so,' says Cherry, as if she didn't rightly know. I think she'd forgotten as I was close by, and she could ha' asked me."
"Well?" questioned Mrs. Seymour, as Miss Hobson paused.
"Well—Kittie she comes in and stands just whereI couldn't see her, but I could see Cherry and Dickie as I lay, and she says in a low voice, 'Cherry, was you at the Mission Room this mornin'?—but there, I know as you was—well, Cherry, mother said as I should have a turn to go to-night, and she'd put the little 'uns to bed. So I puts on my things and goes; leastways, I set out to go, but when I got a little way—Cherry! I met one o' my schoolfellers, and she said as it was nonsense what was talked there, and I should be a silly girl if I went. So I turned t'other way with her, and we went a walk instead. And after a bit I felt so wretched, and all at once I said good night all in a hurry, and ran home. But when I got to the door I couldn't make up my mind to go in and tell mother how bad I'd been, and she so kind in smartenin' me up and all, and I came up to ask you if you could ever have done such a thing?'
"Cherry, she looked up from hugging of Dickie, and she says as gentle as anythink, 'I expect I could have, Kittie, only you see I don't want to do nothing bad just now, 'cause I'm so happy.'
"'Yes,' says Kittie, 'but if you wasn't happy, Cherry?'
"Cherry nodded, and she says, 'That's what I mean. When I used to be so miserable, and we was so hungry—Dickie and me—I used to tell dreadful stories to quiet him sometimes.'
"'Oh!' says Kittie.
"'I didn'tmeanto be so wicked,' says Cherry, 'and I didn't think much about it then; the words used just to slip out, anything as come first; but since I've come back here to this nice home, I'm awful sorry as I could ha' said such things, 'cause, ye know, I did love the Lord Jesus, even then!—and think o' telling lies and lovin'Himat the same time!'
"Cherry's eyes was droppin' tears all this time and then Kittie comes runnin' to her side, and throws her arms round her neck and begins to cry, and says, 'I thought as I loved Him, too, but I'm sure I don't, or I couldn't ha' turned my back on Him as I done to-night! You should 'a heard what Pollie says, against Him!'
"'But you runned away from her,' says Cherry, 'and you're sorry now, and want Him to forgive you, don't ye, Kittie?'
"'I don't know,' says Kittie sorrowfully; 'I don't see as how He can, for I can't go down and tell mother about it.'
"'Why not?' says Cherry.
"''Cause Ican't; it ain't no use, Cherry.'
"'Shall we ask Jesus to help you do it?' says Cherry, huggin' of her.
"They was quiet after that, and at last Kittie, she says, 'Ask Him then,' and Cherry she bends over her head and whispers somethin'. Then, Dickie, who'd been listenin' all the time, says to her, ''Oumus' go down now, Kittie, 'cause Jesus 'ull help 'ou, now.'
"So Kittie got up without another word and left the room, but when she got to the door she ran back and kissed them both over and over again. 'I do love Him,' she says, 'and Iwilltry to do as He likes!' And then she runs down in good earnest. After that Cherry begins to sing that one about the snow—'Wash me in the Blood of the Lamb, and I shall be whiter than snow.' That was just before you come in, Mrs. Seymour, and I was, as I says, sittin' nigh the gate of Heaven: for it seems to me, when we come to think o' His forgivin' love, as we mount up, and up, and up, till we are a'most lost in wonder!"
Mrs. Seymour did not answer beyond a gentle "Yes—yes—yes," as she busied herself in preparing her invalid's supper; but the story sank down into her heart, and many a time little Kittie got a kind smile or a word of encouragement, where before she would have passed her with a nod. And thus she gave "a cup of cold water" to another of His little disciples.
A day or two after this Jem and Meg bade Cherry good-bye, and left her under Mrs. Seymour's wing, proud to be of some use in the world. For Mrs. Seymour's last words as she placed her hand upon the girl's shoulder were—
"She's my grandchild, you know, Meg, and I couldn't spare her now for anything."