HOW MRS. ALLISON MADE AMENDS.
MRS. BRADFORD passed the interval between her mother's death and funeral in what Margaret called "a continual worritting." She was ever harping on the money question, and wondering who would get the best share, or if it would be "divided equal"; whether there was much or little, and who would have the furniture, of which she knew Mrs. Allison had the disposal. She professed to be surprised that Margaret seemed so little moved by what excited herself so much.
"You take things very easy, Margaret," she said. "If you knew just what was coming, you couldn't put yourself less about."
"I don't know, then," replied Margaret. "And more than that, I don't trouble. Whatever mother had was her own, to do as she liked with, and whoever gets it, you'll not hear me say she's done wrong. As to you, Ann, it is always the money and not mother that is in your mind and on your tongue. You could not trouble yourself less, if her that's lying upstairs was a stranger, and naught akin to you, instead of your own mother. Please never to say another word to me about the money, or I shall be vexing you, and I don't want, 'specially at a time like this."
Mrs. Bradford was nothing if not prudent, and she took Margaret's hint, but thought the more.
By Mr. Collinge's orders, decent mourning was ordered for each of the sisters, so that, after all, as Ann remarked, Margaret's having ordered a coloured bonnet did not matter so much, though "it would have come in for second best if it had been black."
It was not deemed necessary for Adam Livesey to journey all the way from Millborough to be at the funeral, and as to the children's "black," it was to stay until their mother's return.
At length Mrs. Bradford's curiosity was set at rest—but alas! not her mind—by the reading of the will.
It set forth that inasmuch as the testatrix had only a life interest in a principal sum of twelve hundred pounds, that amount would be equally divided between her four daughters, in accordance with their father's will. That previous to, and during her widowhood, she had saved a sum of two hundred and fifty pounds. Of this she left ten pounds to her eldest daughter, Ann, "because she is better off than her sisters, and has had more from me at various times. Beside which, she has told me that she did not look for another penny from me, so she will receive, by her own showing, more than she expected or desired."
To her daughters Eliza and Martha, fifty pounds each were left, and certain articles of furniture and clothing were to be allotted to each, as well as to Margaret, by way of keepsakes, Ann having already asked for and received her full share. Then, after the payment of funeral expenses and all just debts, the remainder of the money, and whatever further sum might accrue from the sale of the furniture, was left absolutely to Margaret, youngest daughter of the testatrix and wife of Adam Livesey, of Millborough, Lancashire.
"There are no debts, I believe, except those for the funeral and the doctor's bill, and they will be nearly met by the club moneys. So that you, Mrs. Livesey, may reckon on coming into the hundred and forty pounds, beside something from the furniture. There will be Government duties to pay, of course, but near relationship lightens these," said Mr. Collinge, as he folded up the will.
The scene which followed was not pleasant, though the two sisters Eliza and Martha showed no disappointment, but tearfully owned it was good of mother to have denied herself and worked to leave them all a bit extra, when she might have spent every penny, and no blame to her. For their parts, they were content for Margaret to have more than themselves, for it was true that mother had done many a thing for those that were near at hand, and nothing for her that had least to do with and most to do for.
It gladdened Margaret's heart to hear these words, for she had started from her chair, on being made acquainted with the terms of the will, and looked from one to another, as if she could hardly believe them true.
She took in their meaning when she remembered her mother's oft-repeated expression, and the last on her lips, "I've made amends."
Margaret had to hear some fierce cruel words of reproach, all the more cruel because untrue and undeserved, from her eldest sister, whose disappointment and anger knew no bounds.
"So this is what you came for!" she cried. "It was to tell stories and undermine me with poor mother, that you left your husband and children for all this while, was it? I wondered, and so did other folks, that you could stop away; but you thought it would pay you. And it has, seemingly, for you've robbed us all of our rights, and me most of all. But your tricks will come by you main. 'Ill-gotten, soon goes.'"
If Margaret had not been equally overcome by the thought of her mother's kindness, and her way of making amends, and astonishment at Mrs. Bradford's sudden attack, she would perhaps have said words in reply that she would have been sorry for afterwards.
"Ann," she began, while the tears streamed down her checks, "I never said anything to poor mother. I didn't know she had a penny laid by. As for thinking she was going to leave me this money! How could I? If I'd known of it, I should have thought it would go to all alike, or more to you than me, when I hadn't seen mother for years."
Sobs stopped Mrs. Livesey's utterance, and though her sister did allude to "crocodile tears," the sympathy was with Margaret, and Martha bade her wipe her eyes and never mind, adding, "Better bear ill than do ill."
Mr. Collinge, too, interfered, and with authority, and told Mrs. Bradford that her sister's coming could have had no influence upon their mother, for Mrs. Allison's will had been made fully three months before.
"Then what did you come here for last week, with Miss Collinge, if it wasn't for her to witness something?" asked Mrs. Bradford, moved to tears now, though not of sorrow for the loss of her mother.
The gentleman could hardly forbear a smile.
"I have no objection to tell you, Mrs. Bradford, though I am not obliged to do so. I came in order that Mrs. Allison might place her club books and some other necessary documents in my keeping. Also to receive her instructions to furnish all her daughters with suitable mourning, free of expense to themselves. If you object to this, you can still pay for yours. Miss Collinge accompanied me, as she has often done before, when I have called upon your mother—not a matter of necessity, but out of good-will. As the directions were given and the books handed over in her presence, she was so far a witness. In fact, she took them out of a drawer in Mrs. Allison's room, at her request. She also heard your mother say that she wished each of her daughters to have what would make them equal, and the money she had saved unknown to any of her children would insure this. She said that you, Mrs. Bradford, suspected her of having put by a little, and wanted to get at it. I could say more, but for your sake, I will be silent."
Mr. Collinge had been induced to speak thus frankly, in order to defend Margaret, as well as to punish her elder sister for her greed and unseemly display of temper on such an occasion. His words had the effect intended, and Mrs. Bradford, instead of continuing the attack, seemed glad to get away from the house, which was left in Margaret's charge.
"The articles left to your sisters are all mentioned, and can be removed without delay. Whatever the remainder produces will belong to you, so you are the fittest person to take charge of them," said Mr. Collinge.
"Eh, but I don't want to stay any longer than can be helped, sir," replied Mrs. Livesey. "Just think! I've been near on a month away from my husband, and there are five more at home beside this—" indicating the baby by a little jerk of the head in her direction. "I wouldn't mind for a day or two, but I must be back at Millborough by the week end."
"So you shall, Mrs. Livesey. This is Tuesday. I am sure you will be able to return home on Friday," said Mr. Collinge, sympathising with her anxiety.
The house and its contents were not difficult to deal with, so the articles bequeathed to the elder sisters were promptly removed, those which Mrs. Livesey chose to keep packed, and the remainder prepared for sale by auction.
When Margaret started on her homeward journey, it was with a greatly replenished wardrobe, many useful additions to her household goods, and the certainty that, after all expenses were paid, she would have at least a hundred and fifty pounds, in addition to the three hundred which she had always known would come to her in due time.
Though Adam and his wife had exchanged several letters during her absence, each was ignorant of much that had happened to the other. How could Adam employ another hand to tell of the great inward change which had taken place in himself? It is doubtful whether he could have expressed in words the feelings uppermost in his mind, even had Margaret been by his side to listen. Much less could he have conveyed these thoughts in writing.
So the letters dealt only with the continued health of the children at Millborough, and Margaret's told of the gradual fading of her mother, until the end came.
Mrs. Livesey was eager for Adam to know about her unexpected windfall, but unwilling that the tidings should reach him otherwise than from her own lips. So she gave no hint of it in writing, though the extent of her luggage puzzled the man not a little.
"Oh, Margaret! I am glad to see you. Give me baby till you get out," was Adam's greeting. "Long-looked-for, come at last!" And the man's hands were extended to relieve his wife of the child, his much missed pet and darling.
But a month is a long time in a baby's life, and Adam's youngest had become unaccustomed to the sight of the bearded face in which she used to delight to bury her fat fingers. She turned her head away from the extended arms, buried it on her mother's shoulder, and clung round her neck.
"It's dada, love," said Margaret. "Baby's own dada. He wants to lift her down and carry her as she likes. See, my pet!" and she tried, but in vain, to coax the child into looking at Adam.
"Eh dear! I must keep her myself till she gets used to you again. Who would have thought it?"
"I might ha' done," said Adam, ruefully, for it gave the father's loving heart a pang. "But we'll not frighten her. Let me help you out, and then I'll get in and reach out your things. The train goes no further, so there's no call to hurry yourself."
"I've a lot of things in the van beside these, Adam," said Mrs. Livesey, indicating her smaller parcels, "and there's more yet to come by goods train. You'll see there's a deal come back with me that didn't go with me."
"I've got you and the little 'un safe back, and that's best of all, however good the rest may be," said Adam. "And though you've had your troubles, you look a deal better in the face—plumper like. And you've a bit of nice fresh colour again, as you used to have. Not so much yet, but something towards it, as if you were growing younger."
And Adam, as he noted these improvements, looked with a face full of affection and pleasure at that of his wife.
Margaret smiled, and said, "Why, Adam, you might think I'd been at the mill for grinding old folks into young 'uns again. Happen you'll grow younger too, in a while, for I think I'm bringing what will ease your mind. You must get a cab. We can't carry the luggage home as we brought it here."
The cab was called, and, with no little pride on Margaret's part, and surprise on Adam's, the many packages with Mrs. Livesey's name appended were at length collected and piled thereon.
Then husband and wife got into the vehicle, and out came Margaret's secret.
"Adam, my dear lad," said she, as glad tears came welling up into her eyes, "Adam, mother told me, over and over, how sorry she was that she left us in such a way, and that she'd taken so little notice of us for years and years. She kept saying that she'd made amends, and so she had. When her will was read, I found out what she meant, though I couldn't understand before. She'd saved money, and she's left me a great deal, the biggest share, besides most of her clothes, and her watch, and some silver spoons, and a lot o' things more than I can tell you all at once. I've brought what I could, and the others will be here to-morrow. Just think, Adam! There'll be a hundred and fifty pound extra, beside the three hundred."
Margaret repeated the last sentence slowly, and with much stress on each word. She seemed to think this would be necessary, in order that Adam might grasp news of such an amazing and unexpected character.
"I'm very glad, Margaret. It would comfort you so to know that your mother was full of love to you at the last. It would be almost more than money to hear her speak in that kind way. And I'm glad about what she has left you, because your sisters married men that could do more for them than I could ever do for you. This will make things so much better for you and the little 'uns. Thank God!"
"For you too, Adam. It would be no pleasure to me, if you weren't to be bettered by it."
Adam said he was sure it wouldn't. To begin with, it would give him an easier mind to think that, come what might, there was this little sum between his family and want. And again he murmured, "Thank God!"
Margaret did just notice these last words, accompanied as they were with a look that she had never before seen on Adam's face; but her mind was too full of her good fortune, and the distance to be traversed too short to allow either of much thought or questioning. Then baby, who had been gazing at her father with the inquiring steadiness peculiar to the age of innocence, all at once awoke to the fact that he was not a stranger, as she at first imagined.
Holding out her arms, she was received into those of Adam, who was delighted to see his pet ready to spring toward him as the little tongue once more shaped the word "Dada."
"She knows me now; little Bess knows dada," he said, as the plump arms went round his neck and the rosy cheek nestled lovingly in the old place, giving the father a sense of having recovered his tiny treasure.
A few more moments, and Margaret caught sight of the other five, eagerly watching for mother's coming, and grouped about the door of their cottage home.
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Their astonishment at seeing their parents arrive in a cab, like real ladies and gentlemen ride in, almost rendered them speechless. But amazement gave way to joy, and mother was welcomed and baby squabbled over, each child being eager to take her, until, as Adam said, the little thing was "fair moithered" with the noise they made, and frightened at so many faces.
Little Bess settled the matter by clinging to her father with one arm and dealing a vigorous slap at Maggie, when her eldest sister strove to take her from his protecting grasp.
"Do be, children. You're fit to pull the child to pieces. Why, she'd forgot her dada at first, and do you think she'd remember a set of 'ruffi'ns,' like you? Eh dear! I soon find out I'm among you again."
Though Mrs. Livesey called them 'ruffi'ns,' they all felt that she was glad to be amongst them, for whilst Adam was handing out the packages, a great deal of hugging and kissing had to be done. The mother was not given to great displays of tenderness, but there was usually more in her heart than in her actions. The sight of the little group safe, well, and bearing about them all the signs of having been carefully watched over, made her almost too glad for words, and there was moisture in her eyes as she put down little Adam, "her baby but one."
Not till these greetings were over and the sound of the cab wheels had died away, did Sarah Evans make her appearance, neat and smiling, and with the words, "I'm glad to see you safe back, Mrs. Livesey."
The mother's eye had already travelled round the house, and long experiences of its ins and outs enabled her to realize the beautiful cleanliness of every part. There were no neglected shelves or dusty corners; no windows dim with dirt, no unwashed crockery on table or dresser.
It was high summer, so the one fire was in the little kitchen at the back. There it blazed merrily, and the bright fender and the few tin articles reflected its glow. The kettle sang a pleasant song, and a little rasher of bacon, only meant for the newly arrived house-mother, sent out a savoury smell to greet the nostrils of the tired and hungry traveller.
Mrs. Livesey's first words to Sarah Evans were not an answer to the young woman's greeting, but they came straight from the mother's heart.
"Eh! But you've done well by them all since I've been away. I'm sure I don't know how to thank you."
The words were just what Sarah had worked to win, and her bright face told that she regarded them as far better payment than the modest sum which had hitherto rewarded her services.
The girl busied herself in taking off Margaret's things, giving her warm water to wash with, and bestowing on her all the kindly attentions which cannot be bought, but which proceed from an honest and good heart.
They were very grateful to Margaret, who said, "Dear, dear, I'm not used to be waited on. It's mostly my work to run about after other folks."
But Sarah continued her thoughtful ministry until the meal was over, and the younger children in bed. Then, when she had done what she could, she said, "I'll be going home now, for mother hasn't been so well the last day or two. She'll be glad to see me, and you and Mr. Livesey 'll have plenty to talk about. But I'll come over for an hour or two in the morning, to fetch a few things that I can't take with me to-night, and if I can just help you to straighten up, I will."
So, with true delicacy and thought for others, Sarah Evans left husband and wife alone together as soon as possible.
RE-UNITED YET SEPARATE.
"THAT'S a clever young woman," said Mrs. Livesey, when the door had closed behind Sarah Evans.
"Aye, and a good one, too. She's shown what sort a stuff she's made of, this last month. Coming all on a sudden into a strange house and amongst five children, and expecting only to stop two or three days. It's just wonderful how she's managed with the money too, and made things so comfortable," replied Adam.
He wanted to say more, and to tell what lessons the little ones had learned from the lips of the young housekeeper. Most of all, he longed to tell of that new life, born within himself, which had given him an abiding sense of peace, and made him feel rich, in comparison with which Margaret's sense of wealth in her unexpected legacy, was as nothing.
She had found it very easy to tell of what had come to her through her earthly parent's will, but Adam found it very difficult to speak about the heavenly inheritance to which he could now lay claim through the loving will of his God and Father in Christ Jesus.
Anybody could understand Margaret's good news, and what the dead mother had left to her daughter. But only one who had been taught by the Holy Spirit could enter into the present happiness, or comprehend the eternal riches of another who has been born again, who, by virtue of this new birth, has learned to cry, "Abba Father!" and to say with heartfelt joy, "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance, and of my cup"; "I have a goodly heritage."
When the children went to rest, the young ones under Sarah Evans' guidance, the elder a little later, the father had bidden them in a whisper not to forget their prayers. Another night, mother would be settled and able to attend to them.
Adam was not cowardly in refraining from speech about these new and better ways before his wife. He wanted her to know of everything that had taken place during her absence. But he felt that in speaking of what God had done for his soul, and of the new habits he had striven to bring into the little household, he must use great caution and patience.
Margaret had always set herself determinedly against religious ordinances and people who professed to be religious. The practices and conversation of such she usually styled "cant," the individuals, "hypocrites," with a very great stress on the last syllable. She had ever persisted in turning her eyes upon two or three unmistakable "shams," and talking of them as if they were a fair sample of those who profess and call themselves Christians, and she rejoiced that she was not one of that sort.
Poor Adam was brimful of anxiety to speak on the subject nearest to his heart, but dreadfully afraid that at the first mention of it, Margaret might "fly up," as she had so often done before. He listened very patiently to all that she had to tell, and answered her many questions, which, indeed, seemed almost endless.
Margaret was specially full of Ann's disappointment on hearing the will read, and of the reasonableness of sisters Eliza and Martha.
"I wish you could ha' seen Ann," she said. "She was that vexed she looked as if she could have eaten me with a grain o' salt. But she always was that mean and having, there was no doing with her. She thought when she got poor mother beside her, she would persuade her into leaving her all she had. Ann always thought her share ought to be elevenpence ha'penny out of every shilling. But mother saw through her, and served her out at last."
Margaret's exultant tone jarred on Adam's ear. The thought of that scene after the funeral was to him almost too painful to dwell upon, and he said, "Well, Margaret, I'm glad for some things I wasn't there with you. I should ha' liked to hear your mother's kind words about me and to you, and it's a great comfort to know she said them. But I shouldn't have enjoyed any quarrelling over what had been hers that was but just gone. As it is, I feel sorry about it, for I hate quarrelling among relations."
"So do I," replied Margaret briskly; "but I hate being put upon, too, and I know, if Ann could have had her way, nothing belonging to mother would have become ours. I did keep in on the funeral day, though it was hard work. But I thought about poor mother, and that helped me, for it isn't nice for people's mouths to be filled with a tale of two sisters quarrelling over anybody's things directly they've done with them. Mr. Collinge took my part, and gave it Ann pretty plain, because he knew more than I did. And then you know, Adam, there was another thing that helped me to keep my temper. I'd got a deal the best o' the bargain."
What could Adam say that would not be out of harmony with his wife's train of thought? Indeed, before he had time to think of an answer, she was off again, telling him of all the lesser items that made up her legacy.
"There's a lot of clothes that will serve me for years and years, with a bit of altering, for mother was taller and stouter than I am. She kept to black after father died, and always bought it good; so some of her worst things will make up nicely for the children. Fancy, Adam, there's two nice dark-coloured silk gowns, that have been laid by, oh such years, and haven't a spot on them. Then there's a black one, quite a beauty. You remember mother went out nursing sometimes in very good houses, and had a many presents. I believe there are things to last a lifetime, and I shan't need to be frightened of wearing my one decent gown and shawl, like I used to be, thinking I should never be able to get another."
Thus Margaret ran on, and how could Adam help sympathizing with her delight in her new possessions? She could add, and he knew with truth, "I never expected or looked for them, Adam, but I'm glad mother has done the right thing by me."
Had he not grieved for years that his scanty means prevented his wife and children from turning out as nicely dressed as their neighbours?
Had he not cast many a wistful glance into the shop windows, and wished he could buy a pretty bonnet or a length of stuff so temptingly displayed there, for the use of his Margaret?
He would not need to look and long and turn away with a sigh of regret from such objects now. Margaret would have enough and to spare, thank God! Here was another desire of his heart granted. A worldly wish in one sense, but a very natural desire, and neither selfish nor wrong.
So the man smiled, while his heart was full or thankfulness, and he told Margaret that she would be so smart there would be no walking beside her, and he should have to take the other side of the street.
"As if I could be content to dress myself up and leave you with only your old things! Nay, Adam, I hope I'm not o' that sort. You must have a new suit, and we shall be able to have a walk out on a Sunday without being ashamed of a neighbour seeing what we've got on."
"Eh, my lass, I was only joking. Don't I know that you would ha' no pleasure in your things if the rest of us were not as well off? And we can go to church too, can't we, Margaret?"
This was the thin edge of the wedge in Adam's hand, and he felt a little doubtful of introducing it. But Margaret was in too good a temper to be easily put out. Moreover, she reflected that when, as a girl, she got a new thing, she made a point of going to church in it, as a favourable place for its immediate display to a goodly number of people.
So she answered, "I daresay we may, sometimes. I should like Mrs. Mitchell to see that we can all go out nice and neat, when our things are ready. Beside, in church one is always sure of a good hour and a half's quiet, and that would be something. I'm mostly too tired to take as long walks as we did when I was young, and we were first married.
"Adam," she continued, returning to a list of her new treasures, "there is the beautifullest Bible you ever saw, with gold on the back and covers, and such lots of pictures. I remember mother taking it in, a part every month, and getting it bound when it had all come. It cost pounds, and when we were at home we used often to quarrel about who was to have it at last. Ann always made sure of that, but mother left it among the special things to me. I know you like books, so I kept what there was; but they're heavy carrying, so they will come with the other things I told you about, by goods train."
The mention of books gave Adam another opportunity. "I've been reading a good deal out of the big Bible since you've been away, Margaret. It was very lonely without you, for Sarah went to bed mostly when Maggie did, and I was by myself, maybe for an hour. I've got quite in the way of reading a chapter last thing, and, Margaret, I went to the Mission Room in Aqueduct Street, where the men invited us to go, and Mr. Drummond too. You'll remember the men calling, don't you?"
Margaret assented, but in an absent sort of way. Indeed, she was hardly taking in the sense of Adam's words, though she caught the sound of them, for her thoughts were pre-occupied. Her mind was at that moment full of the question, "What shall I do, because I have no room where to bestow my goods?" The last word being substituted for the fruits, the very abundance of which embarrassed the rich fool of the parable.
Margaret's abundance was much less difficult to dispose of, but the cottage was small, and even the handful of things that were coming would require very judicious arrangement, so as not to be in the way of every movement. And so it was little wonder that, instead of answering her husband, she said, after a moment's thought, "I think we will put the new table where that little one stands, and it may go upstairs. The corner cupboard will be very handy, and take up hardly any room. I've always thought I should like one, but we had nothing much to show through the glass doors. Now there'll be mother's best china tea-set, all complete, and her teapot, as bright as silver itself. I hope none of 'em will get broken on the road, for there wasn't a crack in one when I packed them. We can do with the chest of drawers upstairs, and fill them, too, with the clothes and bed linen."
Adam sighed, poor fellow! With his full heart, he wanted to say something, but he was dimly conscious that this would be the wrong time to persist, whilst he was afraid to be silent.
He had made a start on the new and better way. He had begun new practices of prayer and Bible reading, and he dreaded the thought of these being interrupted. Unlike many who think that the race is won when a start is made, Adam was almost painfully anxious not to be turned off the course, having once entered upon it. Yet he could not help feeling that difficulties might arise when Margaret returned, which would be hard to overcome.
It was something that as yet she had neither answered him sharply, nor ridiculed his new love for Bible reading; but this might arise from her not having heeded his words, though she answered them after a fashion. So, finding that Margaret was not likely to enter into his feelings, Adam tried to enter into hers, and even gave his opinion about the placing of the furniture, though he well knew it would not be acted upon, unless it agreed with her own. But what matter? Does not the great Apostle of the Gentiles tell us that it is the woman's business to "guide the house"? And is it not good for the husband when she attends well to this plain duty, and exercises a wholesome influence in her proper sphere?
Margaret's unpacking, straightening and plans for the morrow came to an end at last, and owning herself "right down tired," she announced her intention of going to rest.
"Won't you let me read a few verses, while you sit down for a minute or two, Margaret?" asked Adam, determined not to lose this first opportunity.
"Read! To-night! What is the man thinking about? I'm that tired I can hardly lift one foot after another to get upstairs. If I sit up any longer, how am I to turn out in the morning? Whatever has come to you?"
Adam was going to try and tell his wife what had come to him. But she did not want an answer.
Before he could shape his words, she quietly lifted the large Bible from the table before him, restored it to its usual resting-place, and deposited the tea-caddy on the top of it.
"It's no good beginning at this time o' night," she said. "If you started to read I should be sure to go to sleep, and then I should be like baby, as cross as two sticks at being waked up. Maybe you'd have to carry me upstairs."
Margaret's tone was good-tempered and her face smiling, but her actions were decided enough. She followed up the removal of the Bible by fastening the outer doors and putting out the gas. Then calling, "Come along, Adam," she went straight upstairs.
He could only follow, for there was plainly no chance of five minutes with the Book he loved, and he felt that if he were to persist, he might do more harm than good.
"I'll not vex her. I mustn't wonder that she sees no need of Bible reading, when I remember that I have only just begun to care about it, I, that am forty years old. I must do what I can, and be patient and wait God's time."
Thus thought Adam, and he was comforted to some extent. He had learned several sweet passages of Scripture off by heart, and he could go over these if he could not add to them. Then Mr. Drummond, who understood something of the difficulties which beset a beginner at Bible study, had given him a little book as a help. It was quite a tiny volume, which Adam could slip into his waistcoat pocket, and on each page there was a text in good large print for the morning, and another for evening.
"It is not always easy, Adam," the manager told him, "to find time and opportunity for reading a whole chapter, or even a Psalm. But if you can just get a verse into your mind, a precious word of comfort, a sweet promise, or a something to make the way plain before you, as you go about your work, it often proves of more lasting benefit than a longer portion rapidly read over. You can make it your own, and think about it many a time whilst your hands are busy."
Adam had already derived much comfort from following this advice. He looked for his morning and evening messages as portions of bread on which his soul could feed during his hours of toil, or wakeful seasons during the night-watches.
One day there came the words, "Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep."
Adam had always been one to feel for and with others, but he was too shy and silent to express his sympathy. But these words gave him courage, and he tried to comfort a fellow workman who was in great trouble at the time. Thus, between two who had been as strangers, through seeing each other daily, sprang up a feeling of brotherly kindness and mutual good-will, which time only tended to strengthen.
On another occasion, Adam was taunted about his "new-fangled notions," and accused of "setting up for a saint." This was a tender point with the man. He was not ashamed of his profession, and he felt "joy unspeakable" as his mind dwelt on the love and grace of his Divine Lord. But these were holy things, and he could ill endure for them to be rudely spoken of.
He was tempted to answer sharply, but he found strength to resist through the sweet message: "If ye suffer for righteousness sake, happy are ye."
"Trust in the Lord, and do good."
As Adam followed Margaret up the narrow stairs, he felt glad, in spite of his partial disappointment, for he had previously read the sweet message:
"Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him."
"Surely I may wait and be patient," he thought, "when God waited forty years to be gracious to me."
Adam thought Margaret was asleep, when he knelt by the bedside in earnest prayer. But she was not. She was only "making believe, to see what her husband was after," and she heard whispered words of thanksgiving for her safe return and a prayer that God would bless her.
STUMBLING-BLOCKS.
MRS. LIVESEY'S children were naturally delighted at her return, and full of eager curiosity about the contents of her many boxes and parcels. Their joy was, however, much sobered when they found that mother's coming meant Sarah's going, and that without delay.
The past month had been a very happy one to them all, for Mrs. Livesey's deputy had ruled by love. Sharp words and accompanying sharp slaps had become things of the past. Sarah being young, and yet the eldest of a tribe of brothers and sisters, well knew how to occupy and amuse her juniors when indoors.
While at Adam Livesey's, she brought all her powers to bear for the benefit of the children, who had hitherto been left pretty much to their own devices in this line. But Sarah taught them merry little games, or to lisp nursery rhymes and accompany them to suitable actions, making herself, for the time, the biggest child of them all. Often the cottage rang with laughter, in which Sarah's could be distinguished no less hearty than the rest. Before bedtime her sweet voice would lead theirs in some simple hymn, fitted to their childish minds. She was care-taker, friend and playfellow all in one, and having a large and loving heart, she became much attached to her little charges.
Still she felt the trust a very serious one, but, as she told her Uncle Richard, "It came upon me without seeking, and when there seemed to be nobody else handy to fill the gap, I couldn't say 'No.' So I just ask that He who gave me this work to do will, from day to day, give me the will and the strength to do it well."
Sarah's heart glowed with joy and thankfulness when the time came for her to give back her charge into the rightful hands—the cottage in good condition, and its inmates safe and well. She was glad her duties were over, but sorry to have to unclasp the little arms that clung round her neck, whilst the lips covered her cheeks with kisses, or pleaded, "Don't go, Sarah. Stop just till to-morrow."
"There's no room for me now, and you've got your mother back. Besides, my mother wants me, and says our little Jack has cried many a time for Sarah. I'll come and see you, never fear;" and so the warmhearted girl tore herself away.
"It was nice," she told her own mother, "to see Mrs. Livesey look them all over and the house too, and then turn to me and say, 'You've done well by them. I don't know how to thank you.'"
Sweeter still was it for the young Christian to have the approval of her own conscience, and to know that with the best powers she had she had striven to benefit these children in higher things also. And so, thanking God for His sustaining grace, the girl prayed that her labour of love might not prove in vain in the future.
Adam Livesey told his wife how, week by week, his wages had been carefully husbanded, and every penny accounted for to himself; and when Sarah made her appearance the next morning, according to promise, Mrs. Livesey was still more warm in her thanks and praises.
"Somebody will have a good wife when you get married, Sarah," she said; and in the fulness of her heart, she bestowed a pretty necktie upon the girl, and would have added a gift in money.
"I'll take the tie for a keepsake and thank you," replied Sarah. "But please don't ask me to have any more money. I've had what I bargained for regular, and I'm best paid in knowing that you and Mr. Livesey are satisfied, and that nothing has happened to the children while their mother was away."
The girl was firm, so Margaret could only repeat her thanks and tell her to come in as often as she could, for she would never be made a stranger of in that house.
When Sarah's back was finally turned, Mrs. Livesey sang her praises to all whom it might concern.
"That Sarah Evans is worth her weight in gold. She's one of a thousand. The first girl I ever knew to say 'No' to an extra five shillings, specially when she was as well worth the pay as one penny is worth another."
So on for twenty-four hours, and then—
It is a pity to have to tell it, but at the end of that period, Mrs. Livesey changed her tune, and it came about in this way. The little people missed Sarah, and said so. They even cried after her, and would hardly be pacified, though they had new china mugs with "A Present from Oldford," in gilt letters on one side, and their Christian names on the other.
Gilt and white china mugs may be very pretty to look at, and treasures to children who have few, but they cannot tell stories or join in games, or comfort a little mite who has fallen down and bumped his head. They cannot kiss away tears from baby faces, or coax back smiles; and so, sadly missing Sarah, who did all these things, the youthful Liveseys begged to have her back again. Finding this impossible, they lifted up their voices and wept, to the surprise and indignation of Mrs. Livesey.
Adam excused them to their mother, saying, "It's no wonder. The girl has been so kind and gentle with them. I don't believe one of them has had a slap or a cross word since you went away."
Adam made this remark very innocently, thinking only of the pleasure a mother would feel in knowing that her children had been so tenderly dealt with.
Sarah took it differently, and rather sharply echoed the last words, "Since I went away! I suppose I'm the one to do the scolding and slapping, then, when it is done. I'm beginning to see this, that I might as well have stopped away altogether. It's 'Sarah did this,' and 'Sarah said that,' or 'taught the other,' till I'm beginning to feel as if nobody but Sarah could do anything right for you all now."
Truly the mother had dropped into her own old ways without loss of time, and more than one little hand and back had tingled under her fingers before the night of that first day, even though the children had been promised new garments and other good things. It was the old, active, bustling, quick-spoken Margaret back again, as they were all soon made to understand.
It was very natural for one innocent tongue after another to tell what Sarah had done and taught. But much would have been better left unspoken, for the effect produced was very unexpected.
A red spot became visible on Margaret's cheek, and her dark eyes had an angry light in them as she said at length, "I don't want to hear another word about Sarah, She has turned you all upside down while I've been away. I'm obliged to her for what she's done in most ways, but I don't want new fashions, so we'll go back to old ones."
As we already know, Mrs. Livesey was a warmhearted woman, who thought nothing too much to do for her husband and children. Like most such, she was quick-tempered and prone to jealousy, of a kind. She liked to be first and foremost in her home and with those she loved, and could ill bear to hear the praises of another.
She had been willing enough to give due credit to Sarah Evans, but she wished to do all the praising herself. She was quick enough to see that the girl had made her children very happy, and, with a strange mixture of feeling, was grateful for the doing, yet annoyed that this should have been the work of a mere stranger.
Conscience often pricked her for sharp ways and words. Her deputy's experience proved that cleanliness, order, and obedience might be maintained by joining kindness to firmness. Yet Mrs. Livesey could not forgive Sarah for succeeding in things where she had so often failed. From that day forward, she resolved that the memory of Sarah's rule in the household should be blotted out as rapidly as possible. In time she succeeded so far as to keep the children from talking about her, and when the young woman came to the house, she so managed that, without showing her any incivility, she prevented the girl from wishing to repeat the visit.
A busy time followed Mrs. Livesey's return. The active mother knew no rest until she had the pleasure of seeing her husband in new garments, her children's wardrobes renovated, her house re-arranged to suit the additions made in the way of furniture.
Then she looked with pride and satisfaction after little Maggie as she went off to the Sunday school between Jessie and Alice Mitchell, and said, "There! I can send my girl out as nice as her neighbours. I've got the desire of my heart at last."
How fared it with Adam in the meanwhile?
If the truth must be told—not over-well. In the old days, if any one had said that more than eight shillings per week would be added to the family income, Adam would have been quite certain that nothing but good could be the result of the increase.
After a short experience, he was not quite so sure.
Margaret had nothing beyond human resolutions and human strength to enable her to bear this sudden prosperity with meekness. She was hardly the one to do it. She was, as her husband told Richard Evans in confidence, "a bit set up."
She was proud that the money had come from her side. She was a little self-willed in the use of it, and, seeing that she had never consulted her husband about the application of his own earnings, she did not ask his advice as to spending what was, she considered, doubly her own.
She had one or two rash plans for laying out a portion of the capital so as to bring in more interest, but fortunately Mr. Collinge persuaded her to let the money stay where it was, on a well-secured mortgage at five per cent.
Taking all things together, Adam began to doubt whether, whilst the bit of money might have added to their bodily comfort, it had increased the happiness of his little household. After six months' experience, he came to the conclusion that things had gone rather the other way, and Margaret and he hardly pulled as comfortably together as of old.
Adam, poor fellow, thought he and his wife only needed to meet again, and then he would be able to commune with her of all that was in his heart. He tried to tell her about that first night at the Mission Room, when he learned some of the value of his soul, and of the price paid for its redemption. He was full of his subject, but he soon found it hard to speak to one who seemed neither to understand nor to sympathise with him.
He almost doubted whether she heard him, for she made short answers that did not mean anything, she yawned, looked about her, and finally started up before he had finished with the question, "Is that baby crying?" And though Adam could hear no childish voice, she went to see if all were right, and did not come back until long afterwards. He was thankful that she allowed all the children who were old enough to go to the Sunday school.
"It gets them nicely out of the way, Adam, and saves their clothes too, which is another good thing."
The best thing of all, the teaching and training, the feeding of those whom the risen Saviour called "My lambs," was entirely overlooked.
Once or twice Margaret accompanied Adam to church. But she seemed to take little interest in the service, and felt, as she said, "quite strange now." So, after having exhibited herself and her husband in their new apparel, and derived but little satisfaction therefrom, she decided to stay at home, as a regular thing, and rest on Sundays.
"I've got out of the way of going to church," she said. "I'm most comfortable at home, as a good wife should be, Adam," And Margaret laughed as if she had said something clever.
In her younger days, Margaret lived for some years in a country place, and in speaking of it she said: "There was some pleasure in going to church where you knew everybody. In a great place like Millborough you go and see only strange faces. Nobody speaks to you, or takes a bit of notice. I'm more comfortable at home. I've got into another rut now, and I mean to keep in. We've done very well for years without so much church or chapel going, and why need we bother our heads now? We're sober and honest, we pay our way and meddle with nobody. I've a quiet conscience, and I think you might have one, too, Adam, for any harm you do."
Adam could understand Margaret's feelings. They were just what his own had been a few short weeks before. But how was she to be awakened to her need of forgiveness, or the preciousness of the Saviour he had found, if she had no disturbing consciousness of sin?
The truth was, that Margaret felt very insignificant as one of a city congregation. What were her new garments to the strangers she saw there? Who noticed them or her? Why, in the country every second person would have had a word with her. Where was the good of going when there was nobody to meet?
Thus Margaret entirely overlooked the fact of the great Presence promised wherever two or three should be gathered in the name of Jesus.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Livesey was not contented to take her own way; she began to throw stumbling-blocks in her husband's path. She would not walk with him, and was resolved he should not leave her to walk alone on the new and better way he had chosen.
Did Adam arrange to go to church in the morning, he was asked how he could be so unreasonable.
"How can I do my work and look after the two little 'uns?" she would say. "You know, Adam, they're just at the age when they oughtn't to be left for a minute. I like to have a nice dinner for you all on Sunday, and here you'd go off and leave me to do by myself, with these two up to all sorts of mischief."
Adam would yield with a sigh, and resolve to stay at home or go out with his youngest pair.
Adam was now better provided with books, and amongst those which Margaret had brought was a fine old copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress," with quaint pictures. Situated as he was, Adam could hardly have possessed a volume better suited to his wants.
It was, however, difficult to find a quiet spot in which to read. He would fain have read it aloud, but Margaret protested against this.
"I read that old book years and years ago. I don't want to hear it again," she said.
If Adam brightened at this, and began to speak about the trials and victories of the pilgrim, he soon found that if Margaret had read the book, its contents had long been forgotten.
So it was with others. Let the man try to interest his wife by reading aloud, and she would reply, perhaps with a good-humoured laugh, "It's no good, Adam. I'm not fond o' reading, like you. I shall be asleep in a few minutes if you begin, and no wonder, when I'm afoot nearly all my time. Talk to me, and I shall have to answer."
But talking meant speaking about the neighbours or the children, or of what was going on at Rutherford's. Any and everything except the "one thing needful." Truly Adam was called upon to climb the hill Difficulty without going beyond the threshold of his cottage door.
"Can two walk together, except they be agreed?"
Adam was sometimes almost ready to give up, so many and constant were the petty hindrances against which he had to contend. But he thought, "If it be hard to bear and to forbear, with the help of prayer and the comfort and strength that comes from knowing that God sees and loves and cares for me, what would it be without these things?"
So the trustful soul got new courage, and Adam, thinking about the trials of Bunyan's pilgrim, said to himself, "Christian had to start for Zion, leaving wife and children behind him. But they followed him after all. Maybe poor Margaret will be like her. Still, it would be sweet if we could travel together."
Thus Adam's faith was tried, whilst it was but as that of a little child clinging to a father's hand, and knowing nothing of the way by which it is led. But from the depths of his awakened soul, he cried, "Lord, help me to bear and forbear. What I know not, teach Thou me. By Thy Holy Spirit's help I have got to know something about my own need, and been guided to the feet of Jesus to find a Saviour in Him. O God, let that same blessed Spirit teach my poor Maggie. I am slow at speaking, and I don't know what is best to say to her, for I seem to have tried all ways that were plain to me. Send her the same Teacher and the same light that showed me my sinfulness and need. Help me to be very patient, for she's a good wife and mother, according to what she knows, and would give the last penny or the last bit for me or the children. I'll try to wait Thy time. O God help me not to murmur, but to be sure that time and way of Thy ordering must be best!"
BY THE PATH OF SUFFERING.
"AND we know that all things work together for good to them that love God."
An easy text to adopt when the "all things" suit our inclinations and are in accord with what we think should be.
Adam Livesey learned to make the text his own, and humbly acknowledged that even the little provocations which, added together, took most of the comfort out of his domestic life, drove him to seek to know more of that "love of God which passeth knowledge." He was wonderfully patient with Margaret, and, if she would have told the truth, she must have owned that she found it as hard to persevere in her course of conduct as Adam did in his.
Nay, harder, for he was upheld by a strength which she had not. She had resolved to break Adam of his new-fangled notions, and whilst conscience reproached her for harassing one who was so patient, and her naturally warm heart pleaded for the husband who was, after all, dearer than the whole world beside, Margaret did not like to give in when she had determined on any course.
Sometimes she chose to taunt Adam about his friend the manager.
"A deal of good his coming has done us," she said. "Not one shilling a week has your fine Mr. Drummond put on to your wages since he came. And he never will. Don't tell me that he can't. I know better. Where there's a will there's a way. And you that have worked all your life at Rutherford's. You haven't had a rise for years. It's a shame. That's what it is."
"I've had the best rise I ever had," replied Adam. "It's through Mr. Drummond I got the good news that Jesus loved me and gave Himself for me. That has made me a rich man—me that was o' no account;" And the man's face was lighted with a holy joy as he spoke of his blessed heritage.
"I don't make much account of riches that you can neither see nor spend, Adam. I tell you my riches are a deal the best, for they bring twelve pound ten every six months, and help to clothe and feed the children and make home comfortable. If you could only put your new fortune into the shape of half a crown a week more wage, I should like it a deal better. And so would you, I'll be bound."
"No, dear lass, no," returned Adam fervently. "I would not change the unsearchable riches of Christ for all the money in the world. I should ha' said same as you once, but 'whereas I was blind, now I see.' I was a poor lost sinner, now saved through faith in the 'grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.' I'm hoping and praying every day that you'll say the same before long. Good-bye, dear lass."
Adam looked at Margaret with a tender, yearning gaze, but she did not return it or answer his good-bye, and he went off to his work, whilst Margaret continued her grumble to a neighbour, who came in at the moment.
"I was just talking to our Adam about his wages," she said. "As a regular thing, he only gets a pound a week. When he has piece work, it mends things a good bit, only the poor fellow has to slave like anybody on the treadmill when Rutherford's is busy. But he never grumbles, not he. You might think half Millborough belonged to him, to hear him talk."
"You're better off, by a deal, than most of us, Mrs. Livesey. Your husband is just as steady as old Time, and never gives you an ill word. Beside, you've your own little fortin, as one may call it, for a fortin it is, added to regular wages," and the speaker gave a sigh. She had a husband who earned more than Adam's wages and Margaret's fortune put together, but owing to his drinking habits, she was far worse off with only two children, while the Liveseys had six living.
Margaret liked any allusion to her "fortune." It gratified that feeling of pride which had been growing ever since her mother's death. She answered, with a satisfied smile, that it was a good job there had been a bit o' money laid by on her side. She often wondered how she had kept a house over their heads, when there was nothing but what Adam worked for. He was always a real good husband.
"I expect he's better still now he's turned religious."
"He was good enough for me before. If he'd been like some men, I might have been glad enough to see an alteration," returned Margaret, rather sharply.
"You may say that," replied her neighbour, without resenting the implied allusion to her own partner. "We're none of us so good, though, but what we might be better. I often feel as if I wanted something different, some comfort that I can't get out of my share of this world."
Margaret was not prepared to administer such, and the neighbour took her leave with the thought in her mind that Mrs. Livesey hardly knew when she was well off, specially in the matter of a husband.
It was true that Adam never grumbled. He worked with his might, was satisfied with fair wages, and he had mastered that very difficult lesson which St. Paul spoke of, and could say, "I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content."
He had his desires and longings, but not after the good things of this world. He wanted to grow in likeness to Jesus, to be fruitful in every good work, to increase in the knowledge of God.
He could not have put his longings into these very words unless he had just read them, but he did feel like a very child, ready to be taught and led, and humbly conscious of his ignorance and weakness. He clung to what he had already gained, and thanked God for it with a rejoicing heart. And only God knew how he prayed that the partner of his life, the mother of his children, might yet share his fortune, and that they might walk to the house of God in company.
All the while Margaret, with far less to try her than of old, was making troubles both for Adam and herself. She was soon to experience a very real one.
That very morning, one of the workmen at Rutherford's placed some iron beams near a sliding gate. They were not firmly fixed, but were only intended to remain for a few minutes, and then to be gradually removed. The man was, however, called away for something else, and in the meanwhile, Mr. Drummond and another workman approached the spot, followed by Adam Livesey, who was a couple of paces behind the manager.
The workman advanced to open the gate without noticing the insecure position of the beams, the first of which was displaced by the movement, and the rest came crashing down. Adam's eye was turned in that direction, and he saw the danger, and uttered a warning cry, whilst darting forward to save Mr. Drummond, who was perfectly unconscious of the possibility of risk.
No one could tell just how it was done; only the manager was thrust aside, the first workman, whom Adam vainly strove to reach or warn, lay crushed and bleeding on the ground, and Adam's strong right arm, broken in two places, hung helpless by his side.
Great drops of moisture sprang to the poor striker's brow, and, sick and faint, he sank down beside the wall of the building and tried to wipe his pallid face with his rough hand. Even in that moment of suffering, his first thoughts were for those at home, his first words told of anxiety for them.
"Poor Margaret! How will she bear it? Oh, sir!" To Mr. Drummond, who was bending over him in deep distress. "I shall never lift the hammer again."
"Adam, my dear fellow, words cannot tell how grieved I am that you should be bearing this for me. You saved my life at the cost of this calamity to yourself."
"Did I? Did I really?" said the suffering man, as a ray of light crossed his pallid face. "Then it's not all trouble. There's a bit of comfort out of it. I doubt poor Jim has got the worst. I tried."
"You did, my friend, all that courage and presence of mind could do. But poor Sam is past all earthly suffering. One of the beams struck him on the temple, and must have killed him instantly."
Whilst these brief words passed, means were being used for the removal of all that remained of poor Sam. Then Adam was conveyed to the hospital accompanied by Mr. Drummond, who intended first to ascertain the extent of his poor friend's injuries, and then to break the news to Mrs. Livesey.
There are always loungers and hangers-on in the neighbourhood of a great hive of industry like Rutherford's, and the tidings flew rapidly from mouth to mouth, and lost nothing in the transit. It reached the ears of little Tom Livesey, who was just leaving morning school. The lad rushed wildly homeward, and bursting into the kitchen, in the midst of tears and sobs, told that "there'd been a lot o' men killed at Rutherford's, and they said father was one of 'em."
Poor Tom was not to blame for this false report. He told the tale as it had been told to him, and in the anguish of his childish heart rushed homeward and wailed out his terrible tidings.
Margaret Livesey will never forget that time or the half-hour that followed it. She was almost like a woman turned to stone, and at first incapable of speech or action, or anything but remorse. She endured a lifetime of misery during the brief interval which passed before she knew the truth.
All poor Adam's patience and long-suffering, his unselfishness, his loving ways with his little ones, his steady industry, his perfect confidence in and true affection for herself, his silence under provocation, or the soft answers which always seemed most natural to him, where many a man under similar circumstances would have replied with an oath and a blow—all these things came before her mind's eye on one side.
And on the other what did she see?
Ah, she could hardly bear to look. She got a view of herself, such as all her previous experiences had never given her. All her own sharp, impatient ways and words, her want of sympathy with her husband's joy, her unwillingness to listen when he would fain have poured out his very heart-longings for her to understand, if such might be. Her worritting ways, her finding fault with the course which Adam had chosen, and at which many another wife would have rejoiced with a full heart.
These things Margaret saw, and she clasped her hands in utter misery, as she thought of his "good-bye" that very morning, when he lingered for a word or look from her, and she gave him neither. Oh, if she could have him back! If he had only been hurt, not killed, how she would have worked for him in turn, and never grumbled, be the toil ever so hard, the hours ever so long.
What was now the value of the fortune of which she had been so proud? How gladly would she have given up every penny, just for the chance of saying, "Forgive me, Adam. I'm sorry for my contradictious ways and cross words. Say you forgive me, and put your kind arm round my neck once more, whilst we have just one farewell kiss."
These thoughts did not take long to pass through Mrs. Livesey's mind, and during the time she was moving about in a mechanical way and preparing to go, she scarce knew whither, in search of what was left of the husband who had gone from her in health and strength so short a time before.
As she approached the outer door, she heard a step drawing near it, and, looking up, she saw old Richard Evans, with a face full of mingled sorrow and sympathy, coming towards her.
A GLEAM OF HOPE.
MR. DRUMMOND had sent Richard Evans to break the bad news of the accident to Mrs. Livesey, whilst he accompanied Adam to the hospital.
"Oh, Mr. Evans! My poor Adam, my husband!" wailed Margaret, as she saw the face of the old workman, and not waiting to hear what news he had brought. "To think he should be taken from me in such a way, and him so good and kind. There's so many that are no use to anybody, and that nobody would want, though they might miss them for their very badness, and because they made their families miserable. What shall I do? What shall I do?"
Tears streamed down Margaret's face, and all her independent, self-reliant manner was gone. She could only clasp her hands in an agony of combined remorse and sorrow, as she wailed out her regrets and complaints in turn.
"You've heard of the accident then," said Richard. "Ill news flies fast indeed, for I thought I'd lost no time in coming. Mr. Drummond was so anxious you shouldn't hear in a sudden way."
"My little Tom heard about it, and ran home as fast as his feet would carry him. Poor thing! He knew no better than to speak out. How should he? Where is my poor Adam? Where have they taken him to? I must go and bring him home."
"I'm grieved for you," began Richard, "but words bring poor comfort. There's only One that can wipe away tears and give the oil of joy for mourning. May He comfort and strengthen you. But you must have a bit of patience, Margaret. You shall see him as soon as it's wise for you to go."
"Where have they taken my husband?" persisted Margaret.
"To the hospital. Mr. Drummond went with him. He would trust nobody to see after him on the road but himself. You shall go to him, I tell you, as soon as possible."
"Seeing him won't bring him to life," cried Margaret. "And oh, dear, dear, I let him go out this morning without answering him, or giving him so much as a look when he said, 'Good-bye, dear lass.'"
"Well, you must make that right when you see him. Adam isn't the one to bear malice. He'll forget and forgive. He's badly hurt. Arm broken in two places, beside cuts and bruises, but he'll get well in time, no fear."
"Get well!" cried Margaret, hardly believing that her ears were telling the truth. "Why, some one told my little Tom that his father was killed, and ever so many more men beside him."
"Nay, Mrs. Livesey, things are not that bad," said Richard, relieved to find himself in the position of one who brings comparatively good tidings, when his heart had been sinking within him at the thought of what had to be told. "Your Adam is worth any number of dead men yet. I've told you the truth. He's hurt, but nobody thinks his life is in any danger.
"It's poor Jim that's killed, the merriest, thoughtlessest chap at Rutherford's, in spite of his sharp-tongued wife. She'll be sorry she never gave him a gentle word, I daresay, now he's gone, though I fancy it will be more for the loss of his wages than his company. There must be such-like wives to be all sorts, I reckon," said Richard. "Your home is a different place from what poor Jim had to go to. Keep up your heart, Margaret. Adam's hurts are being well tended to, and you can see him soon. I'll go with you to the hospital."
Margaret's face had been growing paler as she listened to the hopeful words. She had borne up somehow, when the first great shock came. Now the revulsion of feeling was too great, and to the surprise of Richard Evans, she sank at his feet, fainting and unconscious.
With fatherly tenderness, the man succeeded in lifting Margaret from the ground and on to a couch, one of the treasured articles of furniture which formerly belonged to her mother.
Little Tom had been an eager listener to the news brought by Richard, and had just gathered that, after all, his father was still alive, when a fresh terror seized him. "Mother must be dead," he thought, for her face was white, and she neither spoke nor moved after she was laid on the couch.
Richard Evans read the child's fears in his face, and said, "You must be a man, Tom. Don't cry, but run off to the missis next door, and tell her to come this minute to your mother."
Tom had been on the point or giving vent to his feelings by a lusty roar, but the firm words of Richard Evans checked the sound, and subsiding into mere tears, he ran off to obey his orders.
The neighbour returned with him immediately, and Richard gave Margaret into her care. Then he sent Tom on another errand.
"You know where I live, little chap, don't you?" he said.
"Yes," replied Tom.
"Then go thy ways to my house as fast as thy feet will carry thee, and bring Sarah Evans back here, if she's with her aunt when thou gets there. If she isn't, tell my wife she must come, for somebody is badly wanted at Adam Livesey's."
Tom's fears lent swiftness to his feet, and when he reached the house, he could hardly deliver his message for want of breath.
Sarah was with her aunt, but knowing what had happened at Rutherford's, she had quietly made ready to go and offer her services to Mrs. Livesey, without waiting to be asked.
"Maybe she'll have got a neighbour in, Sarah," said Mrs. Evans, when the girl told her she was going to do what she could for Margaret. "She has behaved none so well to you. I don't forget how you went to the house before, and set Mrs. Livesey free to go straight away to her mother, and how you toiled and moiled with her tribe of little ones all those weeks, doing for them as well as she did in some ways, and better in others. And when they got to love you, poor things, as was only natural when you made their home happy and bright, she gave you the cold shoulder, and drove you right away from the house."
"Don't say 'drove,' aunt," replied Sarah; "there was no driving."
"You mightn't call it driving, my lass, but it was the same thing. Margaret Livesey thanked you and praised you, and gave you a necktie, and would have given you a bit of extra money too if you'd have taken it. Those things were all very nice in their way, but it wasn't very nice for you to go to the house a few days after, with your heart full of loving-kindness towards those children, and to feel that you weren't wanted under the roof where you had done your best for everybody, as in God's sight. And Mrs. Livesey knew it, but she couldn't bear for the little things to be made bright and happy by anybody but herself, though, owing to her sharp ways, she often made them glad to get out of her sight."
"We are not all alike, aunt," replied Sarah, the flush on her face showing, however, that the words went home. "I'm not beyond owning that I felt a bit hurt when Mrs. Livesey let me know, without words, that she only looked on me as a girl that had been a sort of stop-gap in the house, and that now my work was done I was not to think I had a settled place there. But after all, you know she said I had filled the gap well, and that hits been a pleasant thing to think of ever since."
"I think I should wait till she asked me, before I went near her again," said Mrs. Evans.
"Maybe I should too, if all were well with her," replied Sarah. "But I cannot wait now. I shall go, and if I can be of any use I shall stay. It isn't likely Mrs. Livesey can have the heart to work, when her mind will be full of poor Adam. He will be away from home till he gets a turn round, that's certain, and she will want to go to him whenever she's allowed in at the hospital."
"Aye, with all her little sharp ways she dotes on Adam and the children. She'll feel every pain he has to suffer as if it were her own. Still, I think I should let her send for me if she wanted me," persisted Mrs. Evans.
"There's nobody knows all about the house and where everything is, like I do, aunt, or could be of the same use all at once, as I can."