IT was a hot afternoon at the beginning of July. The air was sultry, as though a thunderstorm was not far off; and the sky was enveloped in a haze of grey mist, which, though it hid the sun, made the atmosphere not one whit less oppressive.
John Monday, in charge of his master's shop, was seated on a high stool behind the counter, idly swinging his long legs, and yawning occasionally as though weary of the day. Peering through the dusty window, he saw the street was unusually quiet, for few folks were about, and the children were not yet let loose from the board schools. A couple of babies, old enough to toddle, were playing in the gutter on the opposite side of the way. John Monday watched them with some amusement, and laughed to himself when one put a handful of dust on the other's head. This ill-treatment brought about a quarrel, which was settled by a blow from a small fist that, however, hit sufficiently hard to evoke a yell of mingled wrath and pain from the first offender. The next minute a slatternly woman appeared upon the scene, and after administering a shower of smart slaps on the bare arms of each child, dragged them into a doorway near by, and thus left the street free from any human presence.
John Monday sighed, and wished someone would come into the shop. He slipped off his stool, and going to the door stood on the step gazing up and down the street. At first there was not a living being within sight, but presently a figure appeared around the corner—a big man, clad in a tweed suit, bearing a large market-basket covered with a snowy linen cloth. He was evidently a countryman, judging from his healthy, ruddy countenance, and a stranger in Haughton, the boy decided, as he noted how the big man stared about him.
When the stranger caught sight of John Monday, he quickened his footsteps, and advanced towards him with a good-humoured smile on his face.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Harding lives?" he asked politely. "Mr. Harding, the watchmaker and jeweller?"
"Yes, I can," was the reply; "he lives here."
"Here!"
The stranger was evidently greatly astonished, for he took a step backwards, and gazed at the house with such a look of blank dismay on his countenance that John Monday almost laughed. Then he read Mr. Harding's name on the sign-board above the shop window, and exclaimed—
"Well, I never! To think that this should be the place! Well, I am surprised!"
"Do you want to see Mr. Harding?" the boy inquired.
"Yes—at least, I wanted to see his little cousin. Is she in?"
"No; she isn't home from school yet, but she'll be back by-and-by. Will you call again, or perhaps you'd like to come inside and wait?"
"I think I'd better wait. I've carried this basket from the station, and it's rather heavy."
John Monday led the way into the shop, and gave the newcomer a chair. The big man sat down, and, after placing his basket on the floor, took from his pocket a red handkerchief, with which he wiped his heated face.
"It's uncommonly warm," he remarked. He looked at the boy, who had perched himself on the high stool behind the counter, and a kindly twinkle came into his eyes. "I think you must be John Monday," he said; "my little niece has spoken of you in her letters."
"Then you are Uncle Dick—Mr. Dawson?"
"Yes. I thought I'd give Mousey a surprise."
"She will be pleased! She's for ever talking of you and her aunt."
"Bless her little heart!" Mr. Dawson exclaimed. "How is the dear child?"
"Quite well. She goes to school every day, you know, and is growing uncommonly sharp."
Mr. Dawson's face beamed with pleasure on hearing this; but it clouded as he glanced around him.
"This is a dull place," he said thoughtfully. "Eliza would be surprised if she saw her cousin's house—and he supposed to be so well-to-do, too."
"So he is," John Monday responded; "but he's that saving and mean he won't spend a penny more than he can possibly help."
"And yet he has behaved most generously to Mousey."
"I suppose so. He's sent her to a good school, and he minds what she says, though he'd hate to think anyone noticed it. I hardly ever open my mouth before him without he snaps out something sharp and nasty—sometimes I feel I'd a deal rather be in the workhouse than here."
"Dear! dear!" said Mr. Dawson; "I'm afraid you're discontented with your lot in life. Are you learning to be a jeweller?"
"Yes; but I hate the work. I should like to be a market gardener."
"I suppose Mousey has told you that's my trade?"
John Monday nodded. He was greatly attracted by Mr. Dawson's kind face, which seemed to express his goodwill towards the world in general.
"I love the country," the boy said earnestly; "when I've a holiday I go for a long walk to where the air's fresh, and the birds sing, and I feel as though I'd give anything to live where I could learn all about the trees and flowers; but what's the good of talking like this when it's my fate to be in this miserable hole all day long?"
He broke off, growing crimson, as though ashamed of having spoken so freely to a stranger.
Mr. Dawson regarded him with sympathetic eyes as he inquired—
"What do you mean by fate, young man? What I call Providence, I suppose. You take my word for it, when God has work for you in the country He will send you there, and till He does I reckon your duty's here, and I'd try to do it cheerfully, if I were you. Who is supposed to clean this shop?"
"I am," John Monday answered, surprised at the question. He was secretly much gratified at being called a young man.
"Well, then, if I were you, I'd, get soap and water, and a duster, and set to work to clean that dirty window," Mr. Dawson advised. "It strikes me your duty lies close at hand for the present, even staring you in the face."
The lad looked abashed, but his companion had spoken so kindly that he could not be offended. Before anything more could be said, Mr. Harding was seen in the street, and in another moment he entered the shop. He shook hands cordially with Mr. Dawson, and said he was delighted to see him; but why had that stupid boy kept him in the shop instead of showing him into the parlour?
Mr. Dawson replied that he had quite enjoyed a talk with John Monday, and they had spent a very pleasant time together. Then he picked up his big market-basket from the floor, and followed Mr. Harding into the parlour, where he placed his burden upon the table.
"It holds a pair of chickens, and a few vegetables and flowers, which I've brought as a present, if you'll kindly accept it," he explained. "My wife reared the chickens herself, so she knows their age to a day, and can answer for their being tender; and, of course, I grew the other things in my gardens."
Mr. Harding was profuse in thanks, and called Maria to carry the basket into the kitchen and empty it there. Afterwards, he insisted on Mr. Dawson taking the easiest chair in the room, and seating himself near by, prepared to entertain his guest.
"Mousey'll be home directly," he said; "you know she goes to school? She's getting on very well, I'm pleased to say—very well; in fact, I've no fault to find with her, for she's a good, obedient child."
"I'm sure she is," Mr. Dawson responded. He thought the parlour was even duller than the shop, and he added hesitatingly, "Do you think she is happy?"
"Yes, I believe she is," Mr. Harding answered; "she has made friends at school, and one in particular, the daughter of a fellow townsman. I cannot have children running in and out here, but I raise no objection to Mousey visiting at her friend's home. Really, I see very little of the child. My whole time, nearly, is devoted to business."
"It must make a great difference having Mousey in the house—I mean, it must be much brighter and more cheerful. That assistant of yours seems an open-spoken lad."
"John Monday? Oh, he's well enough in his way, but he's very slow-witted. He suits my purpose, though. Ah, here comes Mousey!"
The glass door was thrown open, and the little girl rushed into the parlour with her face aglow with excitement, having been informed by John Monday that a visitor awaited her within. She flung herself into Mr. Dawson's arms, and, much to his dismay, burst into a flood of tears, hiding her face against his breast. He soon discovered, however, that she was crying from excessive joy, for presently she looked up and smiled at him, whispering that she was as glad as glad could be, and there was no one like him, so kind, so dear, in the whole wide world!
THERE was a jealous feeling in Mr. Harding's heart as he watched Mousey and her uncle; still, he could but acknowledge that Mr. Dawson had a way with him which was certainly very attractive. He seemed capable of bringing his mind on a level with the child's, and looking at people and things from her point of view. As the old man listened to the conversation between uncle and niece, he heard more about Mousey's school life than he had ever heard before; and he realised that his quiet little cousin could be a great chatterbox. She was in high spirits, asking dozens of questions about her aunt and cousins. At last Mr. Harding suggested that she should take off her hat, and go and see what her uncle had brought them for a present.
"And tell Maria to get us an early cup of tea," he added, as she was leaving the room; "ask her to put the ham on the table, and boil some eggs."
Maria was struck by the unusual munificence of her master's orders, but she obeyed him without making a remark. Mousey arranged the great bunch of flowers Mr. Dawson had brought, in a big bowl, and placed it in the centre of the table. Mr. Dawson smiled upon her lovingly, glad to see her face so full of happiness; whilst Mr. Harding nodded his approval, and declared the flowers brightened the room wonderfully. Rarely had the little girl seen her cousin so amiable as he was during tea-time. He exerted himself to talk upon topics of interest to his visitor, and really proved a capital host. After the meal was over, he asked Mousey if she did not think her uncle would like her to take him for a walk.
"It's much cooler now," he said, "and I dare say Mr. Dawson would be pleased to see something of Haughton. Why not show him the park, eh?"
Mousey was delighted with the idea, and flew upstairs to fetch her hat, whilst her uncle explained to Mr. Harding that it was his intention to go home by a train leaving Haughton at eight o'clock.
"I'll have a stroll with Mousey, and then return here to say good-bye," he said.
"Very well," Mr. Harding replied; "I know you will be glad to have a quiet chat with the child."
So uncle and niece started off together, the latter eager to point out every object of interest. As they stood on the bridge above the river she told him how Mr. Harding's house was built over the water.
"It used to frighten me to think about it," she confessed, "but now I don't mind so much. We can't always hear the river—only when the tide is high, and the weather is very bad. I have to cross this bridge every day on my way to school."
"And you are happy, my dear?" he asked tenderly.
"Much happier than I was at first," she answered, "because everyone is very kind to me. But first of all I was dreadfully miserable—it was all so different from what I thought it would be like."
"It is different from what I expected, too," he acknowledged. "I'm sure if Eliza had guessed what her cousin's home was like she would never have consented to your being taken away from us. I am sure I thought—"
Mr. Dawson paused abruptly, doubtful if he ought to tell what he thought; instead, he said—
"Does Mr. Harding give you everything you want, my dear? Plenty of good food, and—"
"Oh, yes!" Mousey broke in; "although we don't always have such a nice tea as we had to-day," she added, with simple honesty.
"And your cousin is kind to you?"
"Very kind. I used to be afraid of him, but I'm not a bit now. But he is not like you, Uncle Dick; he never goes to church, and—" dropping her voice to a mysterious whisper— "a great many people call him a miser. John Monday says he's the meanest man he ever knew."
"John Monday is a rather dissatisfied sort of a boy, isn't he?" Mr. Dawson asked, by way of turning the conversation into another channel.
"He does grumble a lot," Mousey replied, "and sometimes he talks of running away, but I don't think he will, really."
They had now reached the park. After walking around, and looking at the flowers, they sat down on a seat to rest. A group of nursemaids and children were standing near, amongst whom were Mrs. Downing's little ones and their nurse. Mousey pointed them out to her uncle; and at that moment the twins caught sight of Mousey and ran up to her, casting shy, curious glances at her companion the while.
"Won't you speak to me?" Mr. Dawson asked, smiling.
They looked at the big man silently for a minute, then each shook hands with him in turn, afterwards sitting on the seat between him and Mousey till their nurse, having finished her gossip with her friends, came up and led them off, saying it would soon be their bed-time, and she must take them home.
"I'm so glad you've seen them, for now you'll be able to tell Aunt Eliza what they're like," Mousey said to her uncle. "It is nice going to school, Uncle Dick. I wish you could see Nellie Thomas, but I'll explain her to you, and then you'll be able to picture her, won't you? She has blue eyes and brown hair and a turn-up nose."
"I think I can picture her from your description," Mr. Dawson said gravely, "though I won't say I should recognise her if I met her in the street," he added; at which Mousey laughed.
"Do you know, child, I don't think you'd like to leave Haughton now," he remarked presently. "What would you say if I took you home with me to-night never to return here again?"
"I should love to see Aunt Eliza," she replied, "but I should not like to leave Mrs. Downing's school and the girls; and then there's Maria, and I think Cousin Robert would miss me a little. But you don't mean it, do you, Uncle Dick?"
"No, my dear, I do not. I am beginning to see that you are happier than I thought possible. I hope, Mousey, you read your Bible every day, and remember your dear mother's teaching?"
"Oh, Uncle Dick, indeed I do!"
"That's right, my dear. 'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' If you do that, you won't be likely to forget Him as you grow older. And now, don't you think it's about time we turned homewards?"
"Perhaps it is," she agreed regretfully. "What a nice talk we've had together, haven't we? You'll be able to tell Aunt Eliza everything when you get home."
"You may depend upon that. Your aunt will ask me dozens of questions," Mr. Dawson answered. "I should like to give you a little present, my dear. Here's half a crown for you to spend in any way you please," and he slipped the coin into her hand.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" she cried earnestly: "Half a crown! Why, I never had so much money in my life before! Oh, how good of you, Uncle Dick!"
"Nonsense, nonsense! It's little enough I can do for you. What, you have no purse?"
"No; but it will be perfectly safe tied up in the corner of my pocket-handkerchief."
"Come in here."
Mr. Dawson drew her into a fancy shop, and purchased a scarlet leather purse, which he presented to her. Her pleasure was delightful to witness, and she could hardly find words in which to thank him, so deeply was she touched by his generosity and kindness.
John Monday was closing the shop as they returned, and in another half-hour it was time for Mr. Dawson to start for the station. Mousey could not help shedding a few tears as she said good-bye to him, and she kept on giving him "one more message for Aunt Eliza" till he laughingly declared she would make him miss his train.
She let him go at last, but stood on the doorstep watching his large figure, with the empty basket slung on one arm, and the shrunken form of Mr. Harding, who was accompanying his visitor to the station, until they were out of sight.
Mousey turned slowly into the house, entering the parlour with misty eyes and quivering lips. John Monday, who was evidently waiting to speak to her, glanced at her with some concern.
"I say, don't cry," he said kindly; "but I don't wonder you're sorry he's gone. He's a proper sort of man, he is!"
"See what he's given me. Such a beautiful purse, and a half-crown as well."
Mousey drew the scarlet purse from her pocket and handed it to her companion, who examined it with evident admiration, and declared it to be real leather.
"Oh, ain't he good-natured!" he exclaimed. "Look here," and opening his hand he exposed to view another half-crown. "He gave it to me when he said good-bye," he explained, "and I'd no time to thank him."
Mousey was delighted that Mr. Dawson had extended his kindness to John Monday too. She asked him what he meant to do with the money.
"I haven't decided. How shall you spend yours?" he inquired as he returned her purse to her keeping.
"I think I shall keep mine till I see something I really want," she said thoughtfully. "Oh, dear!" she continued, with a sudden change of tone, "I have not done one of my lessons for to-morrow. I must hurry, or I shan't get them learnt to-night," and she fetched her books and set to work at once.
MR. HARDING made no remark when told of Mr. Dawson's presents to Mousey and John Monday beyond advising them, in a few curt words, to take care of their money.
"I don't know how I shall spend my half-crown, because there are so many things I should like to do with it, and I can't make up my mind which would be best," Mousey confided to Maria the day following her uncle's visit. "I should like to give something towards the hospital. Mrs. Thomas says she will take Nellie and me to see the sick children one Saturday afternoon."
"What's that?" asked Mr. Harding, entering the room at that minute, and catching only the last part of the foregoing sentence. "What sick children are you speaking about, eh?"
"The ones at the hospital, Cousin Robert. They have a ward to themselves—a ward is a large room with a lot of beds in it, Mrs. Thomas says—and you won't mind my going to see them, will you?"
"Not in the least," he replied.
"Those who are well enough sit up in bed, and wear scarlet flannel jackets," Mousey proceeded, "and they have boards to fit across the beds like little tables, where they can keep their toys. There is a hand-organ in the ward, and a musical-box, too."
"Toys and such-like things don't make them suffer less," said Mr. Harding gruffly, as he took up the newspaper from the table and commenced to read.
Maria, having finished her business of dusting the room, went away, but only to return with the shabby suit of clothes which Mr. Harding usually wore on Sundays. Standing in front of her master, she held the garments up before him.
"I want you to look at these," she said, with a sound of indignation in her tones. "You told me to give them a good cleaning, and I've done so. I've brushed them, and sponged them, and tried to make them look decent, but I might as well have remained idle for all the good I've done!"
"What is it you're saying?" cried the old man irritably. "I'm well aware you cannot turn old garments into new; but there's a deal of wear left in those clothes yet."
"Look at them!" Maria exclaimed. "Do look at them, sir! The silk's all worn off the buttons of the coat, the sleeves are frayed at the wrist, and the lining's in holes."
"Pooh, nonsense! And even supposing the clothes are in the condition you say, what does it matter? I'm ashamed to hear you talk in such a manner, Maria! I thought you a sensible woman—not one to set store on fine clothes."
"Fine clothes!" Maria echoed. "Well, I was never accused of a love for fine clothes before; but I own I like to see folks dressed respectably. Fine clothes, indeed!"
As though fearing she would be led to say too much, she turned hastily away and left the room, after laying her master's garments on the table.
"Maria is in a bad temper," Mr. Harding remarked; "something must have put her out."
"Does it cost much to buy a suit of clothes, Cousin Robert?" Mousey questioned.
"Several pounds," he replied; "that is, a good suit."
"So much money as that? Look at these buttons. They are shabby, aren't they?"
The little girl had approached the table, and was examining the garments of which Maria had spoken so disparagingly.
"Y—es," Mr. Harding allowed; "perhaps they could be recovered."
"And the coat is so faded across the shoulders," Mousey continued; "it really is very shabby. Why don't you have a new one, Cousin Robert?" she plucked up courage to ask.
"Because a new one would cost money," he replied sharply, "and I've no intention of squandering on fine clothes what I've worked hard to gain."
"I thought you had plenty of money," Mousey said, looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face. "Oh, forgive me, Cousin Robert!" she pleaded, as he darted a fierce glance at her. "Do forgive me if I ought not to have said that, but, indeed, I meant no harm!"
"Is it your place to question me?" he demanded. "What does it matter to you what clothes I choose to wear?"
"I'm very sorry to have made you so angry," Mousey said, the tears flooding her eyes; "but I—I can't bear to hear unkind things said about you, Cousin Robert, just because you dress differently from other people. And what can I say when they laugh at your shabby hat and green coat? I don't like you any the less because your clothes are old, for you're always good to me—but others don't understand."
"What do folks say about me?" he asked curiously. "Come, child, don't cry like that! You can't say? Humph! That means you don't like to say, I suppose. Very well, I'm not going to press you for an answer. Good gracious! To think that all this fuss is about an old suit of clothes."
"Are you angry with me?" she asked timidly, drying her eyes and glancing at him anxiously.
"No, no," he responded impatiently. "Here, let me fold up those garments of mine, and you can carry them upstairs to my room."
Perhaps Mr. Harding had not realised before how disgracefully shabby his best Sunday suit had become; but he certainly did so now as he examined the clothes with critical eyes. He had grown so into the way of saving that it had become habitual to him never to spend a penny upon himself if he could possibly help it. It was a new experience to know that there was someone who actually cared enough about him to be hurt because his clothes were old and worn; and Mousey's tears, and evident distress at people's remarks upon his personal appearance, had moved him more than he cared to acknowledge, even to himself. After all, why should he begrudge himself a new suit of clothes? He had plenty of money, as the child had told him.
"There, my dear," he said, as he handed her his despised old suit, neatly folded, "you can inform Maria that I'll pay a visit to a tailor, and order a fine new suit to be sent home by Sunday. Tell her she can give those old things to the next beggar that comes to the door."
Mousey ran off to the kitchen, where she found Maria still indignant at having been accused of a love for fine clothes, and delivered Mr. Harding's message word for word. Maria looked as though she could hardly believe she had heard aright.
"What shall I hear next, I wonder?" she questioned sarcastically. "What made him change his mind? There, put those things down anywhere! I'm to give them to a beggar, am I? It strikes me there are few beggars who would thank me for such a gift."
Mr. Harding proved as good as his word, for late on Saturday night a large parcel arrived, which Maria silently placed before her master on the parlour table. Mousey and John Monday were present; the latter offered a penknife to cut the knots in the cord which fastened the parcel, but it was promptly declined.
"I never cut a string in my life," Mr. Harding said impressively, "and, consequently, I have never had to purchase any. You should learn to be careful over small matters."
"Yes, Cousin Robert," Mousey answered, as the boy made no response.
The knots were untied at last. Then came another paper, with another cord, and, finally, the new suit of clothes was uncovered. After examining it carefully, Mr. Harding allowed the others to see his purchase.
"It's very like Uncle Dick's best suit," Mousey said, after she had felt the material. "You'll wear it to-morrow, won't you, Cousin Robert?"
"I suppose so," he replied; "but I shan't be nearly so comfortable as I should be in my old suit."
"Oh, but you'll soon get accustomed to this," she assured him brightly.
"Well, well, perhaps I shall. Here, Maria, take the things upstairs, and put them away—carefully, mind! You won't have occasion to grumble any more."
"I don't think I grumbled without a cause," Maria responded; "you must know that well enough, sir."
"Perhaps I do," he acknowledged, "perhaps I do. What's that you're saying, Mousey?—that you hope it won't rain to-morrow? I suppose you're looking forward to seeing me in my fine clothes, eh?" and he rubbed his hands together in a way habitual to him when he was in a particularly good humour.
Whilst this conversation had been going on, John Monday had remained perfectly silent, watching his master curiously.
"I thought I knew him pretty well," the boy told himself, "but I was wrong. I don't know him yet."
THE following morning was beautifully fine and bright. The feeling of oppression which had been in the air for several days had cleared away, and the heat of the sun was tempered by a fresh breeze.
Mousey looked at Mr. Harding with satisfaction as she joined him in the parlour preparatory to starting on their usual Sunday morning walk, and found him attired in his new suit of clothes. In his hand he held a new hat in place of the old one. He glanced at the little girl with a humorous twinkle in his eyes as she entered the room.
"One expense brings another," he remarked in his usual gruff tone. "I was worried into buying a new suit of clothes, and I thought I must have a new hat, too."
"I am very glad," Mousey replied quickly. "How nice you look, Cousin Robert!"
The old man shrugged his shoulders, but appeared pleased, nevertheless, though he merely said that "fine feathers made fine birds."
Contrary to his custom, John Monday spent that Sunday morning at home. He sat in the parlour, evidently in low spirits; and when Maria entered the room to lay the cloth for dinner, she was much surprised to find him there.
"What! Haven't you been out this beautiful morning?" she exclaimed.
"No," was the brief reply.
"You ought to go for a walk," she proceeded; "shut up in the shop as you are most of the week, I don't think you should stay indoors on Sunday. Do you know what I'd do if I were you? I'd start early, and walk to one of the villages around here, and attend the service in the village church. That would give you an object for a walk, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," the boy agreed listlessly; "but you know I never go to church."
"That's no argument in favour of your staying away for ever," she replied quickly.
"But my clothes are shabby," he objected.
"So are the clothes of a good many who attend the same church as I do. I'm sure I've seen people actually in rags at the mission chapel before now. I do wish you had joined Mr. Bradley's Bible class when he asked you!"
"I wish I had," he acknowledged. "I've half a mind to tell him I'd like to join, but perhaps he won't have me now."
"Oh, I'm sure he will!" Maria assured him, with conviction in her tones.
John Monday shook his head doubtfully, and heaved a deep sigh. Maria glanced at him keenly, struck by the hopeless expression on his countenance. She had always felt sympathy for the lonely workhouse boy who rarely received anything but sharp words from his master; but she would have liked him better if he had not possessed bad qualities, which caused her to look on him with suspicion. When he had first become an inmate of Mr. Harding's house she had pitied him exceedingly, but soon discovering that he deceived his master if it suited his purpose to do so, and told lies without the least compunction, she had set him down as an incorrigible character. Latterly, however, she had slightly modified her opinion of him, and was inclined to look on him with more tolerant eyes.
"What makes you think Mr. Bradley might not admit you into his Bible class?" she asked, after a short pause.
"Because he told me his boys were all steady and respectable," he replied gloomily; "and I don't believe if he knew what I was really like he'd have anything more to do with me."
This was a great deal for John Monday to acknowledge. As a rule, he was on excellent terms with himself.
"I am sure there is something on your mind," she said earnestly; "can't you tell me what it is? If I could help you in any way, I gladly would."
"It's very good of you to say so," he answered, with a ring of real gratitude in his voice; "but I don't see that you can help me. However, I'll tell you what I've done. You remember that Mr. Dawson gave me a half-crown when he was here the other day, don't you?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Well, I've lost it."
"Lost it!" Maria exclaimed. "Oh, what a pity! I am so sorry! How did it happen?"
"I lost it over a horse," John Monday informed her.
"Lost it over a horse!" she repeated wonderingly. "I don't understand what you mean." Then a sudden light flashed across her mind, and she cried in accents of mingled reproach and dismay, "You don't mean to tell me that you've been betting!"
"Yes, I do. A young man I know very well told me if I put my money on a certain horse I should make a good bit, but the horse didn't win the race after all, and so I lost my half-crown."
"You foolish lad! That young man who advised you, whoever he is, is no fitting acquaintance for a boy like you. I think it's a very good job you did lose your money. Now, perhaps, you won't be tempted to bet again."
"I might win next time," he said rather sulkily, half regretful that he had confided in her.
"You might," she agreed, "and then, no doubt, you'd bet again. I do hope you'll stop at once. You don't know what a curse betting and gambling becomes, but I do, from sad experience. I had a brother who commenced making small bets when he was but a little older than you, and the habit of betting took such hold of him that it brought him to beggary. There! I've told you what I've never told a living soul besides, and I hope you'll take warning by my poor brother's unhappy fate."
"What became of him?" John Monday asked, deeply impressed.
"He died in a workhouse," Maria responded, her pale face flushing with shame, "after leading the life of a common tramp for years. Oh, the disgrace of it all! Not that there's any disgrace to come to the workhouse at last if a person's lived a respectable life, and been driven there through misfortune; but when a man's been made a pauper by his own folly and wickedness, as my poor brother was, that's very different. Many a good man's been born in a workhouse, and if I were you, I'd make up my mind to lead an upright, honest life, so that if I ever went back to the workhouse it should be by no fault of my own. There's an old proverb which says, 'God helps those who help themselves,' and I believe it's quite true. God doesn't help folks who bet and gamble, but He does those who try to be good, and He'll help you if you ask Him."
John Monday shook his head in a mournful way; then said anxiously—
"You won't tell Mr. Harding, will you, Maria?"
"About your half-crown? No. I hope you will never, never bet again; and take my advice, and have no more to do with that young man who tempted you to do wrong."
"I wish I'd never seen him!"
John Monday was in better spirits after his talk with Maria, although the loss of his money still weighed upon his mind. Maria felt troubled about him, and during the remainder of the day she was haunted by the look of despondency on his face which had first attracted her attention in the morning. As she and Mousey were leaving the mission chapel after the evening service, the little girl said in an excited whisper—
"Maria, did you see John Monday?"
"No," Maria answered.
When they were outside the building Mousey continued—
"He was sitting behind a pillar; but he left the minute the service was over. Look, there he is in front of us."
At that moment John Monday glanced back, and, seeing them, waited till they came up.
"I saw you in church, John," Mousey told him. "Did you like the sermon? I was glad Mr. Bradley preached."
"So was I," he responded. "I saw Mr. Bradley before the service, and he's going to let me join his Bible class."
"Oh, I am glad!" Maria exclaimed heartily.
"Shall you tell Cousin Robert?" Mousey inquired, after a minute's thought.
"I suppose he'll have to know," he replied uneasily, "though I hate the thought of telling him. I know how he'll look at me with his eyes as sharp as gimlets, and his mouth drawn down at the corners."
Neither Maria nor Mousey could help smiling at this description of Mr. Harding's countenance. John Monday stood in much awe of his master, and was almost as afraid of his satirical glances as he was of his sharp tongue. Unfortunately for his assistant, Mr. Harding had always had a bad opinion of him, and finding he was not expected to be straightforward and honest, John Monday never endeavoured to be either. As his master had always suspected his actions and motives, he had, in consequence, not treated him openly; indeed, until quite lately, he had thought it a fine act if he could deceive him in any way. Lately, however, a gradual change had been taking place in the boy's views of life. Mr. Bradley had sought more than once to bring good influences to bear upon him; and then Mousey had come to live in the house, and had astonished him not a little by her fearless truthfulness, and her honest endeavours to do right. A feeling of great dissatisfaction had crept into his heart, a sense of inferiority, and a longing to be better—a longing of which he was, strangely enough, ashamed.
WHEN Mr. Harding joined Mousey and John Monday at the supper-table that same Sunday night his countenance was so expressive of displeasure that the young folks wondered what could have happened during the evening to put him out. He had had a neighbour in to spend an hour with him—a naval pensioner, who lodged over a baker's shop on the opposite side of the street, and whose sole business, nowadays, appeared to be watching the doings of other people. As a rule, Mr. Harding found him an agreeable companion, but to-night the old busy-body had given him information which had greatly displeased him.
The supper proceeded almost in silence at first; but presently Mr. Harding turned sharply upon his assistant, and asked—
"What have you been doing this evening?"
John Monday, taken by surprise at the question, grew very red, and looked as guilty as though he had been caught in the act of doing something wrong.
"I—I—I've been to church," he stammered.
Mr. Harding scrutinised him severely, and came to the conclusion that he had told an untruth.
"I don't believe you," he said; adding, with a sneer, "You must think of a more likely tale than that if you want me to believe it."
"It's true!" the boy declared, with rising passion. "I'm not telling a lie! I'm not!"
"Oh, Cousin Robert, how can you think John has not spoken the truth?" Mousey interposed quickly, turning her eyes reproachfully upon the old man. "Indeed, he was at church to-night—at the mission chapel. I saw him there; and he walked home with Maria and me afterwards."
Mr. Harding appeared considerably taken aback on hearing this; but he darted a suspicious glance at his assistant, as he demanded—
"What made you grow so red, and look so embarrassed, when I questioned you as to where you had been? If you were always so harmlessly employed as you were to-night it would be better for you."
"John is going to join Mr. Bradley's Bible class, too," Mousey put in; "he saw Mr. Bradley before church this evening."
"Are you going to become a reformed character?" inquired the old man, satirically, of John Monday. "What is the meaning of this sudden change, eh?"
The boy muttered something under his breath—what, Mousey did not hear, but his face was so full of mortification that the little girl's heart was touched with pity for him, and she immediately took up arms in his defence. Surely Cousin Robert could not mind John's going to church, or joining Mr. Bradley's Bible class?
"You know nothing about it, child," he told her, not unkindly. "I respect Mr. Bradley, but, unless I am much mistaken, he is deceived in John Monday's character." He turned to the boy again. "Is it true, or not, that you have learnt to bet and gamble? I have been hearing stories of you to-night which have annoyed me greatly. Who's the young man whom you have been making your boon companion lately?"
"I—I don't know," John Monday began; then, meeting his master's stern gaze, he added, "I know his name, but not where he came from, or anything else about him. He is called Herbert Hambly."
"Indeed!"
"I am not going to have anything more to do with him."
"Since when have you come to that determination?"
"Since yesterday, sir."
"I am informed that whilst you were in this young man's company you made a bet on a horse-race. Did you win or lose?"
"I lost."
"Where did you get the money you lost?"
"It was the half-crown Mr. Dawson gave me," John Monday answered in a low, shamed voice, whilst Mousey looked shocked and frightened; "I don't know what he would think of me if he knew."
"Nor do I," Mr. Harding agreed; "but I know what I think. Of all the ungrateful, worthless boys that have come in my way, you are the worst! What is this Herbert Hambly's business?"
"I don't know. He has lodgings in the town; but I don't fancy he does any work."
"Humph! An idle young ne'er-do-well! How did you make his acquaintance?"
"He came into the shop one day and asked me to regulate his watch."
"And stuck about talking to you, I suppose? And after that he came again and again, but always when I was out of the way? Yes, I thought so!"
There was a short silence, then Mr. Harding spoke again.
"Listen to me, John Monday," he said impressively. "I forbid you to have anything to do with this Herbert Hambly for the future. Do you understand, or, what is more to the point, do you mean to obey me?"
"Yes, sir."
"And now I'll give you a few words of advice, though perhaps I might as well hold my tongue for all the heed you'll take of what I say. I have no doubt this young man induced you to bet; but if you follow in the way you have commenced, you will come to a bad end. No good ever came of betting. How you could have gone to Mr. Bradley and suggested joining his Bible class when you know he'd never countenance such behaviour as yours, I cannot imagine!"
"I never mean to bet any more," John Monday declared, "and I told Mr. Bradley what I had done, and he—he was very kind. He said what I don't think I shall ever forget, and he's going to be my friend. I don't intend to tell lies or deceive you any longer," he continued, looking his master full in the face. "I mean what I say, sir; I don't suppose you'll believe it, but you'll see I'll keep my word!"
For a minute Mr. Harding was too astounded to make any reply. He stared at his assistant as though he imagined the lad had taken leave of his senses.
"What am I to understand by this outburst?" he asked at length in his most disagreeable tone.
John Monday became suddenly abashed; and it was Mousey who, noticing his confusion, made haste to answer for him.
"He means that he is sorry for having behaved badly," she said in her simple, direct way, "and that he is going to turn over a new leaf. Isn't that what you mean, John?"
"Yes," he answered in a low voice, "that's it."
"Then I hope for the future you will not waste your time—my time, rather—in gossiping with that idle young man," Mr. Harding told his assistant severely. "I should be very glad to find I could trust you, for when I'm away, and you're in charge of the shop, I always have a feeling that you may be neglecting your duty."
"I never will again, sir," the boy responded earnestly.
"Don't make rash promises."
"But you forgive him, don't you, Cousin Robert?" Mousey pleaded.
"Oh, yes," he answered, "I forgive him.'
"Thank you, sir," John Monday exclaimed gratefully, whilst Mousey left her chair, and going to the old man's side, put her arms around his neck, and kissed his withered cheek with real affection.
He returned the caress, and asked if she was going to read to him, to which she replied she would willingly. So after Maria had cleared away the supper-things, the little girl fetched her Bible, and commenced the fourth chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians.
John Monday sat with bowed head listening attentively, whilst the old man watched Mousey as though it was a pleasure to him to look on her gentle, earnest face.
"'Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice:'"
"'And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.'" The child's sweet voice ceased, and there was silence for many minutes; at last Mr. Harding spoke in a strangely gentle tone for him.
"Thank you, my dear; it is a treat to hear you read. Now, don't you think it's time for you to go to bed?"
She agreed, and, after bidding him and John Monday good-night, left the room. The old man turned to his assistant.
"John," he said, "you and I have lived under the same roof for a good while now, but I don't believe we've learnt to understand each other for all that. Do you really mean that from this day you intend to serve me better?"
"Yes, sir," the boy responded earnestly.
"That being the case, we'll let bygones be bygones. I'm glad you have joined Mr. Bradley's Bible class, and I'm pleased to think he takes an interest in you. I fear you've been in bad company lately. What do you imagine made this Herbert Hambly seek your society, eh?"
"I really don't know, sir."
"He must have had a motive. He seems to be rather a mysterious personage."
John Monday made no reply. Herbert Hambly's conversation had been mostly about Mr. Harding—his miserly ways, and reputed wealth. The boy did not dare tell that he had given a good bit of information about his master, so he held his peace, though he felt terribly uneasy in his mind.
"Well, well," Mr. Harding said, seeing his assistant's evident embarrassment. "Understand, you are to have nothing more to do with the young man; and never let me hear of your betting again. Now, it's time for you to go to bed, too. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir," the boy answered; and, as he turned to leave the room, he added the assurance, "I really do mean to turn over a new leaf!"
JOHN MONDAY soon found that his resolution to turn over a new leaf was not an easy one to keep; but he persevered against difficulties which he had never for one moment anticipated. It did not take him long to discover that the path of duty, honestly followed, is often thorny and full of stumbling-blocks for steps unaccustomed to the road, and that bad habits are not easily shaken off. Then, too, Herbert Hambly, the acquaintance who had seemed so desirable in every way only a short while since, could not be made to understand all at once that John Monday no longer desired to know him; and on one occasion the young man waylaid the boy in the street, and demanded why he persisted in avoiding him.
"Because my master says I'm to have no more to do with you," John Monday answered, thinking it best to speak plainly; "and so you mustn't come to the shop to see me again."
"But we can meet elsewhere," the other suggested craftily. "Don't you want to win back that half-crown you lost last week?"
"I'm not going to bet again."
"Oh, indeed! Why not, pray?"
"Because it's wrong," was the blunt reply.
Herbert Hambly glanced at the boy shrewdly, then shrugged his shoulders with would-be carelessness, and broke into a scornful laugh.
"Come now, that's rich!" he cried. "What a funny chap you are, to be sure! The other day you were all for making your fortune, and now— Hulloa! Why is that little girl staring at us?"
It was Mousey on her way home from school. She had recognised Herbert Hambly as the young man of whom Mr. Harding disapproved, for she had seen him with John Monday on several occasions; but she was not prepared to find them apparently in deep conversation together, knowing the acquaintance had been forbidden, and in her astonishment paused on the opposite side of the street to look at them.
"It's Mr. Harding's little cousin," the boy said hastily. "Please understand you must not come to the shop again on any account, and I'm not going to meet you anywhere else. Good-afternoon," and he crossed to Mousey's side, whilst Herbert Hambly stared after him with a look of blank astonishment.
"I've been doing an errand for Mr. Harding," the lad explained as he turned homewards with Mousey. "I suppose you wondered to see me talking to Herbert Hambly? I was trying to make him understand that I can't be friends with him any longer."
"I did wonder when I saw you," Mousey acknowledged. "I was afraid you had forgotten what Cousin Robert said on Sunday."
"Oh, no!"
"Do you know we break up for the summer holidays next week?" she said presently. "Nellie Thomas is going to the seaside for a month with her mother and brothers. Won't that be nice for them? Mrs. Downing and Miss Longley will remain at home, and they say they hope I'll come and see them sometimes. Do you think Cousin Robert will let me?"
"I dare say he will; but I shouldn't have thought you would want to see your school teachers in the holidays."
"What a funny idea! Oh, John, I have spent part of the half-crown Uncle Dick gave me! What do you think I have bought? An India-rubber ball for the twins. They were so delighted. The rest of the money I gave to Mrs. Thomas to spend for the sick children at the hospital."
John Monday sighed regretfully as he thought of the fate of his own half-crown. Mousey guessed his thoughts, and hastened to offer all the consolation within her power to give.
"Never mind," she said, and the boy understood that she referred to his bet; "you won't do it again."
"I don't know," he replied gloomily. "I don't intend to, but things seem going against me. I can't get properly quit of Herbert Hambly, and—" dropping his voice to a confidential whisper— "I'm afraid of what he'll do if he cuts up rusty."
"I don't understand what you mean."
"He might tell Mr. Harding things about me. He was always asking me questions about Mr. Harding, and I know I told him a lot I ought not to have told. And once I let him look through the glass door into the parlour to see the old secretaire where Mr. Harding keeps his account books and some of his money. I must have been mad, I think, but I hadn't found out what he was really like then."
"How did you find out what he was really like?" Mousey asked wonderingly.
"It was after I had lost the half-crown. I told him I hadn't any more money, and he advised me to help myself to some."
"What did he mean?"
"He meant I should steal from Mr. Harding."
"Oh, John!"
"Yes, he meant I should steal from Mr. Harding," he repeated. "He said if I took it from the secretaire Mr. Harding would never be able to prove it was I who had done it; and if I won the next bet I made I could replace the money, and no one would be any the wiser."
"What did you say? Did you tell him how wicked he was?"
"No; I was frightened. That was the real reason why I made up my mind to have no more to do with him. You won't tell anyone what I've told you, will you?"
"No," Mousey replied, looking at him with eyes full of distress. "Oh, what a wicked, wicked man he must be! Don't you think it would be better to tell Cousin Robert?"
"No, no, not for worlds!" he cried hastily. "Mind, you have promised, and if you break your word, I'll never trust you with a secret again!"
"I won't tell," Mousey hastened to assure him, forgiving the almost fierce manner in which he had turned upon her on account of the wretchedness she read in his face. "No wonder you have looked so unhappy lately," she added sympathetically.
"Unhappy!" he exclaimed bitterly. "I have been miserable—miserable!"
When they arrived at home Mr. Harding chid his assistant for having been absent so long, and asked him where he had been. John Monday made an evasive answer, which raised the old man's suspicions, and he proceeded to question him further. Then the boy, in desperation, explained how he had met Herbert Hambly, and the difficulty he found in dropping his acquaintance. Mr. Harding appeared less annoyed when he learned the truth, and said he should look-out for an opportunity of speaking to the irrepressible young man; on hearing which, John Monday turned white to the lips. During the evening Mousey informed her cousin of the ways in which she had disposed of her uncle's half-crown.
"Did you not buy anything for yourself?" he inquired in surprise.
"No; there was nothing I really wanted. Dolly and Dick were so pleased with their ball! You'll let me go to see them sometimes in the holidays, won't you, Cousin Robert?" she asked coaxingly.
"Yes, if Mrs. Downing wishes it. So she is not going away herself? Humph! I suppose she can't afford it. I can't think why folks are constantly wanting to be running from one place to another for change of air. When I was young things were different, and people put away their money against rainy days. And young people used not to have such long holidays when I was a child, let me tell you. I went to the village school, and that was all the schooling I ever had. I had none of the advantages of education that you are having. You ought to consider yourself a very fortunate little girl."
"I do; indeed, I do!" she replied gratefully; "and I know it's all owing to you, Cousin Robert. You must not think I don't remember how much money you have to pay for me."
"Never mind that," he told her hastily, whilst a queer expression crossed his face as he reflected in what manner her school bill was being paid.
"I wish I could help John in some way," Mousey thought as she laid her head on the pillow that night; "but I'm afraid there is nothing I can do."
Then she remembered how her mother had impressed upon her that she could always pray for those who seemed beyond her help, so she earnestly commended the orphan boy to the care of his Father in heaven, and never doubted but that God would befriend him in his time of need.
MOUSEY could not help feeling a little low-spirited when the end of the term arrived, and she said good-bye to her school-fellows. They were full of plans for spending the holidays in various enjoyable ways, and condoled with Mousey because she was to remain at home.
"I wish you were coming with us to the seaside," Nellie Thomas said, as she and Mousey lingered over their farewells. "I can't bear to think you will be shut up in that dull old house whilst the boys and I will most likely be building castles in the sand, and fishing and boating, and having such a good time!"
"Never mind," Mousey responded, trying to speak cheerfully. "I hope you will enjoy the holidays as much as ever you can; and I shall not be shut up in the house. Cousin Robert doesn't mind my going out by myself now I know my way about."
"But I'm sure you'll be dreadfully dull! How shall you amuse yourself all day?"
"Oh, in different ways. You know I never had sisters or brothers, so I don't mind being alone as much as you would. I suppose we must say good-bye now. You'll give my love to Mrs. Thomas, won't you?"
"Yes, I will. Mind, you must come to see us as soon as ever we return. Good-bye, Mousey."
"Good-bye," Mousey answered.
So they parted. Mousey pursued her homeward road with a very sober face, thinking how much she would miss her kind little friend, and wishing that it was the end instead of the commencement of the holidays.
However, the time did not hang so heavily on her hands as she had anticipated, for the morning following the one on which Mrs. Downing's school had broken up, Mr. Harding informed Mousey he wished her to go out every day, and suggested that she might go to the park, where she would be perfectly safe. In the park she found Miss Longley with the twins, and spent a very happy hour in playing with the children. The next day Mrs. Downing was there in place of her sister, and seemed very pleased with Mousey's company. She encouraged the little girl to talk to her whilst the twins amused themselves. The two, thus drawn together, found they had much in common; and, though Mousey liked Miss Longley too, there was little doubt but that the elder sister held the first place in her heart, perhaps on account of a look which often crossed Mrs. Downing's face which reminded the child of her dead mother.
One afternoon when Mousey was in the kitchen with Maria she heard Mr. Harding call to her, and running into the parlour, found Mrs. Downing there. Mr. Harding was rubbing his hands, and was evidently in his most amiable frame of mind.
"Mrs. Downing has been giving me a first-rate report of your progress at school, my dear," he said. "I am pleased and gratified to hear you have been a good girl, and have done your best."
Not only had Mrs. Downing given Mr. Harding an excellent report of his little cousin, but she had paid him several pounds on account of her husband's debt, thus reducing it more than the old man had expected, and strengthening the favourable opinion he had formed of her; and as nothing pleased him better than to receive money, he was accordingly in high good humour.
"Mrs. Downing is so kind as to wish to take you back to her house to tea," he continued; "I need scarcely ask if you would like to go!"
Mousey's glowing face answered for her; and when Mr. Harding told her to run away and fetch her hat, she obeyed him with alacrity. Before going upstairs, however, she returned to the kitchen, and informed Maria that she had been invited out to tea. Maria good-naturedly followed her to her bedroom, brushed her hair, and assisted her with her hasty toilette.
Mrs. Downing and Mr. Harding seemed to be getting on capitally together, for when Mousey returned to the parlour she heard her cousin saying—
"I am sure you will make your school pay. I consider you have done wonders already. There was a crying need for a middle-class school such as you have started in Haughton."
"I am glad to hear you think so," Mrs. Downing answered. "I shall do my best, and I hope my efforts may be crowned with success."
She rose as Mousey came into the room, and held out her hand to the old man in farewell, a pleasant smile lighting up her face. His manner to her was most courteous, and he thanked her heartily for her kindness to his little cousin.
Mousey thoroughly enjoyed the short walk which followed, during which she talked unreservedly to her companion. Arrived at their destination, the little girl was seized upon by the twins, who bore her off to their nursery, where they showed her all their toys, and soon persuaded her to join them in a good romping game. Then followed tea, which was a pleasant meal made merry by Dolly and Dick, who insisted on sitting one on each side of their visitor, whom they appeared to regard as especially their own. About seven o'clock John Monday arrived to take Mousey home, and she said good-bye to her friends with many expressions of grateful thanks, which touched Mrs. Downing's kind heart, and prompted her to give the little girl a motherly kiss, and a promise that she should come again.
Mousey tried to amuse her companion with an account of the happy time she had spent, as she tripped lightly homewards by his side; but the boy appeared moody, and disinclined for conversation. He only made one remark all the way, and that was: "Mr. Harding had a long letter from your Aunt Eliza by the evening's post."
"I wonder why she has written to Cousin Robert, and not to me, as she usually does," she thought. "I hope nothing is wrong!"
Nothing was wrong, as Mousey was soon to learn. She found Mr. Harding in the parlour on her return, reading the newspaper. He turned to her as she entered, and inquired how she had got on at Mrs. Downing's. She was too curious to know the contents of her aunt's letter to give him a lengthy account of her visit, but she curbed her impatience as much as she could, and replied that she had spent a most enjoyable time.
"I've had a letter from Cousin Eliza," he next remarked. "She enclosed a note for you. Here it is."
"Oh!" Mousey exclaimed joyfully. "John Monday said you had heard from Aunt Eliza. Thank you, Cousin Robert," she said, as she took the note from his hand.
She read it at once, her face alternately flushing and paling as she grasped its meaning. It ran as follows:—