"There was no other good enoughTo pay the price of sin;He only could unlock the gateOf heaven, and let us in."
"There was no other good enoughTo pay the price of sin;He only could unlock the gateOf heaven, and let us in."
"There was no other good enoughTo pay the price of sin;He only could unlock the gateOf heaven, and let us in."
"There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin;
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in."
So sang Melina. Her grandmother heard her with surprise, and muttered to herself:
"What's taken to the child? I never knew her sing before."
"MOTHER," said Agnes Brown one fine spring afternoon on her return from school, "I wish you would let me ask Melina Berryman to tea next Saturday. I'm sure she'd like to come."
"Very well," Mrs. Brown agreed, "I shall be very pleased to see her, poor little girl."
Mother and daughter were together in the comfortable parlour of their home, which was a small house in a side street of the town, a street called Gladstone Street. The Brown family comprised father, mother, and three children, the eldest of whom was Agnes, the other two being boys. Mr. Brown was a junior clerk employed in the booking-office at the railway station; and his wife before her marriage had been a dressmaker, so that she was able to make all her own and Agnes' clothing, which allowed them to be better dressed than they could otherwise have been. The Browns had only been living in Hawstock since the previous autumn, when Mr. Brown had been shifted from a town some distance away to his present post; consequently they had few acquaintances in the place. Mrs. Brown had never yet seen Melina, but she had heard from her little daughter that she lived with an old grandmother who was anything but kind to her.
"Thank you, mother," Agnes said. She hesitated, then proceeded: "I wonder what you will think of Melina and if you will like her. You will say she is very shabby, I know. She's grown out of her winter jacket, and it's so tight for her that she can hardly fasten it; and she wears such a dreadful old hat."
"No doubt her grandmother is very poor and cannot afford her good clothes," remarked Mrs. Brown; "you have never been to her home, have you?"
Agnes shook her head. "No," she replied, "and I'm sure I don't want to, because they say at school that Mrs. Berryman is a wicked old woman."
"Wicked!" Mrs. Brown looked rather startled. "What do you mean, Agnes?" she inquired.
"I hardly know," the little girl admitted, "but I believe she drinks—"
"Oh dear, dear!" broke in Mrs. Brown.
"Melina can't help it if she does, mother," Agnes cried hastily.
"No, poor child, of course not. If this is true I am very, very sorry for her, but, on second thoughts, perhaps before you ask her here to tea I had better make some inquiries about her grandmother. I'll speak to your father, and ask him to find out what is known about her."
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Agnes, looking very disappointed. "If you find out that it is true—that Melina's grandmother does drink—what then? You won't want me to give up going to Sunday school with her, will you? No one has anything to do with her but me, except to make fun of her."
Agnes had been attracted to Melina at first because she had pitied her, but there was a warmer feeling in her heart for her than pity now. During the last two months she and Melina had attended Sunday school together regularly, and a friendship had sprung up between them which surprised their other schoolfellows.
"You may be sure I shall not stop your going to Sunday school with Melina," Mrs. Brown said, "but do not ask her to tea till I have spoken to your father. You see, my dear, if she comes here you will probably be invited to her home afterwards, and—"
"Oh no, I don't think so!" Agnes interposed; "Melina says her grandmother never sees anyone except on business."
"On business? What business?"
"I don't know—Melina doesn't know either."
Mrs. Brown was about to put more questions, but at that minute her little sons returned from school, and no more was said about Mrs. Berryman then. Later in the evening she asked her husband to try to find out all he could about the old woman, which he accordingly did, with the result that they both felt regretful that an intimacy should have sprung up between their little daughter and Melina Berryman.
"You say that Mrs. Berryman is addicted to bouts of drunkenness, and that she is supposed to carry on business as a money-lender!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, in accents of dismay, when she had heard all her husband had to tell. "How shocking! And I thought she was so poor!"
Mr. Brown shook his head. "At any rate she is able to lend money, I am informed," he said, then went on to explain. "She does business in this way: she will lend sixpence on Monday and have it repaid to her with another sixpence added to it at the end of the week. That's usury, of course, and, as you may imagine, her dealings are all with very poor people. I'm told she's a grasping, conscienceless old woman; and I can't help wishing that Agnes had not taken this fancy to her grandchild."
"I wish the same," Mrs. Brown answered, with a troubled sigh, "for we know what Agnes is—very affectionate and kind-hearted; she wants me to ask Melina here to tea on Saturday, but—" She broke off and looked at her husband doubtfully.
Mr. Brown looked doubtful too. He realised that Mrs. Berryman's granddaughter could not, by any possibility, be well brought up at home; but at the same time he felt that they ought not to allow that fact to prejudice them against her.
"I see what it is," he said at length; "you don't know whether or not we ought to allow a friendship between our little maid and this Melina. Well, can't you ask some one's advice upon this point?—some one who knows the child?"
Mrs. Brown's face brightened at this suggestion.
"I'll speak to Mr. Blackmore," she said; "he knows her. Agnes told me the other day that it was to please him that Melina first went to Sunday school, and that he always stops to talk to her when they meet."
Mr. Blackmore, who was doing the work of a curate in the way of visiting in the parish, had called on the Browns a few days previously. Mrs. Brown regretted that she had not thought of speaking of Melina Berryman to him then; but she might possibly meet him out of doors before very long, she reflected, in which case she would certainly do so.
"You cannot have Melina Berryman here to tea this Saturday," she told Agnes, "but I won't say that she shall not come a little later on."
With that Agnes had to be satisfied, but she looked and felt exceedingly disappointed.
On every occasion now when Mrs. Brown did her shopping she kept a look out for Mr. Blackmore, but she did not see him for some days. One afternoon, however, she was tempted by the bright spring weather to take a walk on the outskirts of the town, and, as she turned the corner which brought her to Jubilee Terrace, she saw Mr. Blackmore enter one of the cottages.
"I'll wait about and speak to him when he comes out," she thought, and proceeded to stroll up and down the pavement before the cottages. By and by she noticed a shabbily-clad little girl hurrying along towards her, followed by a group of small boys who were amusing themselves by laughing at her and calling her names.
Mrs. Brown paused, and the boys noticing the disapproval on her countenance, grew suddenly silent; but as soon as they had passed and believed her to be out of hearing, they commenced jeering at the little girl again, calling her "Saint Melina," evidently in the hope of provoking her to wrath.
"So that is Melina Berryman," Mrs. Brown said to herself; "what a shame of those boys to tease the poor child like that!"
She began to retrace her footsteps, intending to interfere; but at that instant the little girl reached her home, and, turning on the doorstep, faced her tormentors, her lips firmly closed, though her eyes were full of tears and her cheeks crimson. For a minute she looked at the boys steadily, in silence; the next she opened the door and disappeared within the cottage, whilst the boys, seeing Mrs. Brown intended to reprimand them, immediately made off.
Mrs. Brown stood outside the closed door of the Berrymans' cottage, which was next to the one which she had seen Mr. Blackmore enter, and waited. Presently a blue-eyed, fair-haired boy came whistling round the corner of the street. He glanced curiously at Mrs. Brown as he approached her, and, apparently thinking that she was waiting for admittance, volunteered the information that if Mrs. Berryman did not wish to be seen she would not answer the door however loudly anyone knocked.
"Then you know her—and her granddaughter?" questioned Mrs. Brown.
"I know Melina," he answered, "but I've never spoken to old Mrs. Berryman and don't want to. Melina's not a bad sort altogether—lately she's quite turned over a new leaf, since she took to going to Sunday school to please the little gentleman."
"The little gentleman?" Mrs. Brown repeated inquiringly.
"That's what she always calls Mr. Blackmore—the new lay-helper. She's changed a lot since she knew him. The boys about call her 'Saint Melina' now, because when they tease her, instead of answering back and using dreadful language like she used to do, she won't speak a word. I suppose you know Melina Berryman, ma'am?"
"No, but I mean to," Mrs. Brown replied, suddenly coming to that determination. "I'm waiting here to see Mr. Blackmore, who's gone in next door," she explained.
"That's where I live," the boy informed her; "I'm called William Jones. Have you been waiting long?"
"About ten minutes, I should think. But do tell me all you know about Melina Berryman, there's a good boy. I hope you don't tease her."
William Jones grew very red, and shuffled his feet uneasily. "I don't now," he replied, "because—well, I'm sorry for her; so you'd be if you heard her grandmother beating her sometimes. I can't say that Melina and I are friends though," he admitted candidly.
At this point the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Blackmore on the doorstep of the Jones' cottage. Mrs. Jones, who had opened the door for her visitor, retreated at the sight of a stranger, and Mr. Blackmore, immediately recognising Mrs. Brown, went and spoke to her, whilst William withdrew a little distance out of hearing.
Mrs. Brown explained to Mr. Blackmore that she had been waiting to see him and why, and after they had a long talk about Melina, the result of which was that when Mr. Blackmore moved on Mrs. Brown turned and knocked, rather timidly it must be admitted, upon Mrs. Berryman's door.
Several minutes passed, but no one appeared in response to the knock. Then Mrs. Brown knocked again, louder this time, and yet again. At length the door opened a few inches, and a harsh voice inquired who was there.
"My name is Brown," Mrs. Brown answered; "I wish to see Mrs. Berryman. May I speak to her for a minute?"
"I am Mrs. Berryman. Do you want me on business?"
"I want to ask you to allow your granddaughter to come to tea with my little girl on Saturday. My little girl is called Agnes Brown; she goes to Sunday school with your granddaughter."
The door opened wider, revealing Mrs. Berryman with Melina close behind her. The child's dark eyes were sparkling with expectation.
"Do let her come," Mrs. Brown went on persuasively; "you would like to, wouldn't you, my dear?" she questioned, smiling at Melina.
"Oh yes, yes!" the little girl cried. "Oh, Gran, let me go—do let me go!"
"You can if you like," the old woman said ungraciously; "you've more friends than I knew."
She turned away from the door as she spoke, and Melina coming forward, said very earnestly, with a grateful ring in her voice:
"How kind you are! just like Agnes! I was never invited out to tea before!"
WHEN William Jones had told Mrs. Brown that Melina had quite turned over a new leaf he had spoken nothing but the truth; for a softening influence was at work in her heart—the influence of God's love. Since she had made the acquaintance of the little gentleman Melina had felt less lonely and embittered, and, impelled by a sense of deep gratitude towards him on account of his evident good will for her, she had continued to attend Sunday school, and had there been taught more of the Saviour whom Mr. Blackmore had spoken of as the one perfect Friend. At first the story of Christ's life on earth and His love for sinners had appeared to her a beautiful romance, too wonderful to be credited—that anyone could care for her enough to die for her had sounded incredible; but slowly the amazing truth was being revealed to her. The circumstances of her life had not changed, yet she herself was different; for she was learning to have faith in Jesus, and a new, sweet sense of happiness was creeping into her heart.
It was on a Wednesday when Melina received Mrs. Brown's invitation, and on Friday evening Mrs. Berryman called her into her bedroom, and, pointing to a brown-paper parcel on a chair, told her to open it and see what was inside. Melina did so, and then uttered a little cry of mingled astonishment and pleasure.
"Oh, Gran!" she exclaimed, "a new frock!—for me?"
"Yes," nodded Mrs. Berryman; "I bought it ready-made, but it's quite new."
"I see it is." The frock in question was of cheap, coarse blue serge, and could not have cost more than a few shillings, but Melina's face was expressive of the greatest delight as she fingered it. "Thank you, Gran," she said earnestly; "I may wear it to-morrow, mayn't I?"
Mrs. Berryman assented. "You want it badly enough," she admitted; "I didn't notice the frock you are wearing was so shabby till I saw you in the sunshine yesterday. It costs something to clothe a growing girl like you," she added grudgingly.
Melina flushed, and thought of the money hidden in the chimney. She proceeded to try on her new frock in silence; it fitted her very nicely, and a smile lit up her thin little face as she looked down over herself and noted the fact.
"Agnes will hardly know me to-morrow," she said with a pleased laugh; "she's never seen me anything but shabby yet. I never had a really new frock before." Hitherto, poor child, she had always been clad in second-hand clothes.
"Oh, Gran," she went on, "I wish—oh, I do wish I could have a new hat too! It wouldn't cost much—just a cheap one, I mean. I saw a sailor hat, with a dark-blue ribbon, ticketed 'sevenpence three-farthings' in a shop in the town the other day; it would look so nice with this frock."
"Sevenpence three-farthings? That means eightpence. Let me see your old hat."
Melina fetched it, and watched anxiously whilst her grandmother examined it. Perhaps Mrs. Berryman had not realised that it was so disgracefully shabby as it was, for she quickly laid it aside and, taking out her purse, presented Melina with a shilling.
"There, child, you can buy the hat you fancy," she said, "and you can keep the change."
For a minute Melina almost doubted that she had heard aright; then she gave a little gasp and cried quite excitedly:
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Gran! Why, I shall have fourpence after buying the hat! Do you know what I shall do? I shall begin to save towards buying a Bible."
"Towards buying a Bible?" echoed Mrs. Berryman in great astonishment.
"Yes," assented Melina. "Agnes Brown has one of her own—her mother gave it to her as soon as she had learnt to read. The Bible is God's word, you know, and it is full of beautiful stories—true stories; and it tells all about Jesus, too—"
"Yes, yes," interposed Mrs. Berryman, "everyone knows that."
She took her keys from her pocket as she spoke, and unlocked an old box, covered with wall-paper, which stood in a niche near the fireplace. Then she lifted the lid of the box, which, Melina saw, held a lot of faded old garments and several books. One of the books, a small, thick, leather-covered volume, Mrs. Berryman selected from the rest and handed to her granddaughter, remarking as she did so:
"There's no need for you to think of buying a Bible; you can have this one. It's yours by right, for it belonged to your mother."
"To my mother!" Melina took the sacred volume eagerly, and, opening it, read on the fly-leaf, in a plain, round handwriting, "Melina Mead, her book." She glanced at her grandmother inquiringly.
"Mead was your mother's maiden name," Mrs. Berryman explained. "Your father gave me the Bible to keep for you; I'd nigh forgotten it till just now. That's your mother's writing on the fly-leaf, I believe. There's her name, isn't there, and a text?—her favourite text, I mind your father said it was."
"'Him that cometh to Me I will in nowise cast out,'" Melina read aloud. "Oh," she exclaimed, "she must have been a Christian, my mother! See how her Bible has been used! Some of the pages are quite worn! Yes, she must have been a Christian, I feel sure of it!"
"I don't know about that," Mrs. Berryman said; "I never saw your mother. Your father married her when he was living in London, and she died a year later when you were born—you've heard me say so before."
"But didn't father ever tell you what she was like?" Melina questioned wistfully.
"He told me that she was as good as she was pretty," Mrs. Berryman answered, rather impatiently; "but there, child, don't bother me with any more questions. Take your book and go."
The little girl moved obediently towards the door, saying as she went:
"Thank you for the shilling, Gran. Oh, I do hope that sailor hat hasn't been sold!"
The sailor hat had not been sold, and the following morning Melina became its purchaser. She felt very happy and light-hearted as she carried it home in a paper bag. On reaching Jubilee Terrace she found Mrs. Jones cleaning the doorstep of her cottage, and she stopped to speak to her, really to allow her a peep at the new hat.
"It's very pretty and neat," Mrs. Jones remarked, after she had looked into the paper bag; "to my mind it's just what you want."
Melina nodded. "I've a new frock too," she said confidentially, "and this afternoon I'm going to tea with a friend of mine called Agnes Brown. If you look out of the window at three o'clock you'll see me start."
"Poor child," Mrs. Jones muttered to herself, when the little girl had left her, "it's a novelty for her to have anything new. How bright she looks! She has certainly improved very much of late!"
Punctually at three o'clock Melina started for Gladstone Street, which was nearly half an hour's walk from Jubilee Terrace. Mrs. Jones, from her parlour window, waved her hand and nodded to her; and at the corner of the terrace she met William Jones in company with a friend. She noticed that the two boys stared at her very hard, and William was surprised into remarking on her personal appearance.
"Why, Melina," he cried, "what a swell you look! Where are you off?"
The little girl coloured, but not with displeasure. "I'm going out to tea," was her response.
Her way took her past South View. The garden in front of the house was gay with spring flowers, and she lingered to admire a clump of golden daffodils which grew near the gate. She was moving on when she heard her name called behind her, and, looking back, saw the slim, upright figure of the little gentleman.
"Good afternoon, Melina," he said; "were you admiring my flowers?"
"Yes," she assented, adding half apologetically, fearful that she had been guilty of a breach of good manners, "just for a minute."
"Wait, and I will give you a nosegay."
"Oh, sir, how kind of you!"
She stood at the gate and watched whilst he gathered some blooms of narcissi and daffodils, and thanked him gratefully when he returned to her and put the flowers into her hands.
"May I do what I like with them?" she asked, her face aglow with pleasure.
"Certainly; they are your own," he replied, smiling. "Perhaps you would like to give some to your friends, the Browns, as you are going to tea with them?"
"Oh yes! That was just what I was thinking! But how did you know that—" She broke off, looking at him in a puzzled fashion.
"How did I know where you are going? Because I met Mrs. Brown this morning, and she told me she expected you to tea this afternoon. I hope you will have a pleasant time. I am so glad you are making friends, Melina. Now, run along or you'll be late. Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon," Melina returned, "and thank you very, very much."
She walked on quickly now, and did not stop again until she reached the Browns' house in Gladstone Street. There she found Agnes and Mrs. Brown on the look out for her, and was welcomed most cordially by them both. She retained a few of the flowers Mr. Blackmore had given her, for herself; but the rest she gave to her hostess, and subsequently they graced the centre of the tea-table.
Melina was rather shy at first, but not for long, and she had become quite at home by the time Mr. Brown and his two little sons appeared upon the scene, when they all had tea. Melina enjoyed her tea, which was served in a fashion to which she was wholly unaccustomed, for Mrs. Berryman never cared whether the cloth was clean or otherwise—indeed, she often dispensed with it altogether.
Here, however, the cloth was clean and uncrumpled, and the tea things laid with care; whilst the wooden bread platter was spotless, and the butter was in a pretty glass dish. Before the meal commenced Melina was surprised to see her companions bow their heads reverently, whilst Mr. Brown thanked God for the meal they were about to take: she had never heard grace said before.
"You must come and see us again, my dear," Mrs. Brown said a while later, when her little visitor was about to leave; "you would like to, wouldn't you?"
"Oh yes, please," Melina answered, her dark eyes meeting Mrs. Brown's with an expression of wondering gratitude in them. "I can't imagine why you are so kind to me!" she added, thinking that she liked Agnes' mother very much.
Mrs. Brown did not know what response to make to this. She put an arm around Melina and gave her a warm, impulsive kiss; but, instead of returning it, Melina drew back and looked at her in astonishment.
"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Brown; "don't you like to be kissed?"
"Oh yes," the little girl replied quickly, fearful of being misunderstood, "but I—I am so surprised. You see, I can't remember that anyone ever kissed me before."
"Oh, poor child!"
"Gran never has—no, never! But I don't want to be kissed by Gran! You—oh, I do like you! I wish you were my mother, that I do!"
"Your own mother is dead, is she not?"
"Yes. If she had lived she would have loved me, wouldn't she?—just like you love Agnes?"
"Just like that."
Melina sighed. "I wish she had not died," she said, with trembling lips and a sudden rush of tears to her eyes.
"You must not wish that, my dear. God took her, and all He does is for the best; you will, I hope, realise that some day. Now good-bye. Agnes and the boys will go part way home with you—they will like the walk."
Mrs. Brown kissed her little visitor again, and this time the caress was returned.
"Good-bye," Melina whispered, in a voice which was tremulous with deep feeling; "oh, you don't know how much I shall look forward to coming again!"
ONE afternoon, a week or so after Melina's visit to Gladstone Street, on returning from school at half-past four o'clock the little girl was met at the front door of the cottage by her grandmother and pulled roughly into the kitchen.
"Oh, Gran, don't!" she cried imploringly; "you're hurting me!" Then, as Mrs. Berryman's grasp of her shoulder did not relax, she gave herself a sudden twist and freed herself. "What have I done to make you angry again?" she demanded.
"You've been telling tales to that woman next door," Mrs. Berryman said wrathfully,—"telling tales of me—your grandmother! You wicked, ungrateful girl! Mrs. Jones had the impertinence to stop me in the street just now and take me to task for boxing your ears last night when you smashed that teacup; you must have complained to her or she wouldn't have known!"
"I did tell her about it," Melina admitted; "I was in the yard—crying—and she spoke to me over the wall. I didn't mean to break the teacup, it slipped from my fingers when I was wiping it; and you hit me so hard that my head's been aching ever since. You had no right to do it—no, you hadn't! It was shameful of you!" She spoke defiantly, but took care to keep out of her grandmother's reach.
"I've the right to do as I please where you're concerned," Mrs. Berryman declared, "and so I let Mrs. Jones know!"
"I hope you weren't rude to her," Melina said, her voice betraying anxiety; "she's been very kind to me lately, and she was kind to you when you were ill. Don't you remember what a nice custard she made you, and—"
"We've no need of her kindness," Mrs. Berryman broke in; "and look here, my girl, if I ever find out that you've been telling tales to her again, I'll—I'll beat you as long as I've strength to hold a stick!"
The old woman looked as though she was quite capable of putting her threat into action, and Melina, cowed and trembling, slipped out of the kitchen and ran upstairs to her own room, her heart beating with mingled indignation and fear; for she saw that her grandmother had been drinking and was, in consequence, in a quarrelsome mood. A short while later she heard the front door open and shut, and guessed that Mrs. Berryman had gone out—most probably to get more drink.
The little girl now went downstairs, and ascertained, as she had expected, that she was locked into the cottage. She did not mind that, but what she did mind was the fact that she could not find anything to eat. Tears of self-pity filled her eyes, for she was hungry.
"It's too bad of Gran to go off like this," she muttered; "I suppose she means to keep me without tea for punishment for telling Mrs. Jones how hard she hit me last night. I wonder what Mrs. Jones said to her—I should have liked to have heard."
She went upstairs to her room again, and, taking her mother's Bible from the drawer in which she kept it, sat down on the bed, opening the book at random. The first words she read were these: "Beloved, let us love one another; for love is of God; and everyone that loveth is born of God and knoweth God. He that loveth not, knoweth not God; for God is love."
Melina read no further, but closed the book and sat thinking. "I suppose real Christians always love one another," she reflected, "and are kind to everybody. There's the little gentleman—he's a Christian, I know; and Mrs. Jones—I think she's one; and Agnes Brown and her mother—ah, yes, they're Christians too! I've wondered why they're all so kind to me; of course it's because they take Jesus for their example. Miss Seymour told us last Sunday we all ought to do that, but I can't—not altogether! I can't forgive people who're rude to me, though I can hold my tongue and not answer back; and—I can't forgive Gran—she's a cruel old woman to serve me like this! Very likely she won't be back till quite late, and she won't care whether I'm hungry or not."
Her lips quivered, and a few miserable tears rolled down her cheeks; but a minute later she started to her feet and ran to the window, for someone had flung a handful of gravel against the glass. Looking out she saw William Jones in the yard of the adjoining cottage; he was gazing up at her with a broad smile on his face, so, flinging up the window, she addressed him in anything but a friendly tone.
"William Jones, was it you who did that?" she demanded, and, without giving him time to reply, went on: "If you'd broken the glass there'd have been a dreadful row with Gran—she'd have made you pay for it; but there, I dare say you'd have gone away and said it wasn't you—"
"Oh, come now," the boy broke in, growing very red and looking indignant, "it's too bad of you to make out I'd behave like that! What you must think of me! I don't tell lies, Melina Berryman. If I'd broken your window I should have owned up, but the handful of gravel I threw couldn't have hurt."
"Why did you do it?" Melina asked.
"Because I wanted to speak to you. I guessed you might be up there, and I knew your grandmother was out, for I met her not ten minutes ago walking towards the town. I say, are you locked in?"
"Yes," the little girl assented, "and I don't suppose Gran'll be back for ages. The worst of it is she hasn't left me anything to eat."
"What! Oh, now that's too bad! Shameful, I call it! Do you mean to say there's no food in the house?"
"Oh yes! But I can't get at it—even the bread loaf's locked away."
William Jones' face expressed the sympathy he felt; seeing which Melina forgot how often he had teased her in the past, and allowed her heart to soften towards him.
"Never mind," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, though she did mind very much; "tell me what you want to speak to me about."
"Oh, I was only going to ask you if you like oranges," he replied; "do you?" Then, as she nodded, he continued: "They 're very nice and sweet now, and I bought a couple of beauties on my way home from school; one I've eaten, the other I've kept for you. Stand back!"
The little girl obeyed, and the next moment an orange, flung with unerring aim, came whizzing through the open window and rolled across the floor. She seized it, and returned to the window with a beaming countenance and sparkling eyes.
"Thank you," she said, with an unusually gracious smile. "I shan't mind going without my tea now. It looks a lovely orange, and what a size it is!"
"Well, eat it, and see if it's as good as it looks."
The boy watched her peel the orange and divide it into flakes. She ate one flake slowly and pronounced it delicious, then the rest, and when the last was gone, thanked him again. He had not expected her to be as grateful as she evidently was.
"Oh, don't say any more," he said; "I'm glad I thought of keeping it for you. I was half afraid that you wouldn't have it—"
"I was so hungry," Melina interposed, as though that fact explained the readiness with which she had accepted his gift. "I—" She paused abruptly, remembering the occasion on which, having made a similar confession to him, he had said he was sorry and she had retorted that more likely he was glad. How very rude she had been! "I can't think why you should have bothered about me!" she cried impulsively, "I've been horrid to you sometimes."
"And I've been horrid to you," he admitted; "it's always been on my mind about that tuppence you had to spend—"
"Oh," she broke in, "I'll tell you now! It wasn't my tuppence—it was the little gentleman's. He gave it to me. I—I oughtn't to have let you believe it was mine."
He was silent for a minute. "Well, it wasn't quite straight of you," he admitted. "Isn't the little gentleman, as you call him, a good sort?"
"Indeed he is!"
"Everyone who knows him likes him. Have you heard what he's going to do on Good Friday evening?"
"No. What?"
"He's going to hold a kind of service in the town hall. There'll be a magic-lantern showing Bible pictures, and there'll be hymns sung and an address by Mr. Blackmore himself. Wouldn't you like to see the pictures?"
"Yes; but there's no chance of that, I'm afraid. I suppose I should have to pay—"
"Oh no! It will be a free entertainment. Why don't you go? Be in good time and then you'll be able to get a seat well to the front—that's what I intend to do. I advise you to do the same."
"Perhaps Gran won't let me; it'll just depend what sort of temper she's in. Good Friday? Why, that's next week."
Melina leaned her elbows on the window-sill, and rested her chin on her clasped hands. She was finding her conversation with William Jones interesting, and was glad that he seemed inclined to prolong it. By and by he told her he regretted that he used to tease her, and that he meant to try and prevail upon the other boys in the terrace to let her alone in future.
"Don't you interfere," she replied quickly; "I can hold my own ground."
This was spoken in her old curt manner, but her voice softened as she proceeded: "It's very nice of you, though, to want to take my part, but I think you'd better not. Do you know why the boys have taken to calling me 'Saint Melina'?"
He nodded. "Yes, because you don't abuse them and show your temper to them like you used to; they know you go to Sunday school now, and they say you've turned pious. I shouldn't mind being called 'Saint Melina' if I were you."
"I think you would—if you knew you were being mocked."
At that moment Mrs. Jones' voice was heard calling to her son to take a letter to post for her, and, with a friendly nod to Melina, the boy went to do her bidding.
Mrs. Berryman did not return for some hours later, not until past nine o'clock. Melina was still in her own room when she heard her grandmother come in; but the old woman called to her immediately, and she hastened downstairs.
"Here I am, Gran," she said, as she entered the kitchen where Mrs. Berryman had already sunk into a chair; "shall I get supper now?"
"Supper? No. I don't want any," was the response.
"But—but I do," Melina ventured to say; "you know I haven't had any tea."
Her grandmother laughed harshly. "It will do you no harm to fast," she said; "it will tame your spirit, Melina. Ah, ha! you won't be in such a hurry to complain of me to Mrs. Jones again! However, you can have some bread and cheese now if you like; I suppose I mustn't starve you."
She rose unsteadily, unlocked the corner cupboard, and cut her granddaughter a thick slice of bread and a small bit of cheese. Melina took this frugal supper in silence, thankful to get it, whilst Mrs. Berryman, having resumed her chair, fell into a doze, from which she presently awoke with a start.
"I'm tired and shall go to bed," she muttered thickly, and, rising, she rambled out of the room. Melina heard her slowly mount the stairs and enter her bedroom. Silence followed, which remained unbroken.
Ten minutes later, having finished her supper, the little girl went upstairs herself; but before going to her own room she listened at her grandmother's door. The sound of stertorous breathing fell upon her ears, and, opening the door noiselessly, she glanced inside. A candle was burning on a chair close to the bed, and Mrs. Berryman, fully dressed, was lying on the bed in a heavy sleep. Melina did not disturb her; but she tiptoed across the room and put out the candle, then beat a hasty retreat.
"How very careless of Gran to have left her candle alight," she thought, "and so near her bed too! I must really tell her about it in the morning. If she doesn't mind, one of these days, when she's not herself, she'll set the place on fire!"
But when the morning came, Mrs. Berryman was in such a bad temper that Melina was afraid to mention the matter to her, and decided to hold her peace.
"She'd say I had no business in her room," she reflected; "no, on second thoughts, perhaps I'd better not speak of it. I dare say she'll never leave her candle burning like that again."
WHEN Melina told her grandmother of the service which was to be held by Mr. Blackmore on Good Friday evening in the town hall, and asked permission to attend it, the old woman answered, "No, certainly not"; but on hearing that there would be no charge for admission, she said, "Well, if there'll be nothing to pay, I don't mind your going. By the way, who's this Mr. Blackmore?"
Melina had not previously mentioned her acquaintance with the little gentleman to her grandmother, so her response was a decided surprise to the old woman.
"A friend of mine, Gran—a very nice gentleman who's come to live at South View. He helps the vicar, and—"
"Oh! the lay-helper!" interposed Mrs. Berryman. "He was pointed out to me in the town the other day—a thin little chap who wears glasses. A friend of yours, is he, eh?" She broke into a sarcastic laugh.
"Yes, he is, Gran—really. I've known him months now—since January. He was very kind to me once—when you were ill and sent me to buy some groceries. Coming home I—I dropped a packet of tea, and he—Mr. Blackmore—gave me the money to buy more, and since that, when we've met, he has always spoken—sometimes we've had quite long talks together. I like him so much; he is a real nice little gentleman."
"And it's he who's going to hold this service on Good Friday?" questioned Mrs. Berryman.
Melina assented. "There's to be a magic-lantern," she explained; "did you ever see one, Gran?"
"Yes. What time does the service commence?"
"At six o'clock, and it'll be over by eight. Agnes Brown and her brothers are going with their mother and father, and William Jones is going, and—"
"And I've half a mind to go myself," broke in Mrs. Berryman; "I haven't seen a magic-lantern for years. I wonder, though, if there'll be a collection?"
"I haven't heard that there is to be," responded Melina, who, since her conversation with William Jones, had made full inquiries about the forthcoming service.
The little girl was not quite pleased at the prospect of her grandmother's company on Good Friday evening; she felt she would much rather be by herself, but of course she did not say so. Perhaps it would be wet on Good Friday, she reflected, and in that case her grandmother would in all probability elect to remain at home, for the town hall was some distance from Jubilee Terrace.
But Good Friday, when it came, was a perfect spring day, sunny and mild, with a foretaste of summer in the air, and a quarter to six o'clock in the evening found Mrs. Berryman and her granddaughter arriving at the town hall together. They procured seats in a very good position for both seeing and hearing; and then Melina looked about her trying to find the Browns. By and by she caught sight of them, and proceeded to call her grandmother's attention to them.
"Look, Gran," she said in an eager whisper, "there are the Browns—a few rows in front of us, on the opposite side of the hall. Mrs. Brown's looking at us now. She's nodded to me, and I think she's trying to nod to you."
"Hush, child!" admonished Mrs. Berryman; nevertheless she looked at Mrs. Brown, and returned her smiling recognition with a rather awkward nod.
A few minutes later Melina discovered William Jones, seated well to the front; and after that she picked out several of her schoolfellows.
Before six o'clock the hall had become crowded. Most of the people present were of the working classes, many of whom appeared well-to-do, whilst others showed signs of great poverty; and some there were who, like Mrs. Berryman, never went to places of worship, and had been drawn there because they wanted to see the magic-lantern, and would not lose the opportunity of being entertained for nothing.
"I should think it must be nearly six o'clock," Melina said at length. "Oh!" she cried a minute later, "there's the little gentleman!"
Unobserved by her, Mr. Blackmore had entered the hall and mounted the platform, to the front of which he now stepped to address the assembly.
"My friends," he began, as the whispering which had been going on suddenly ceased and all eyes were fixed upon him, "to-night I intend to show you some pictures representing scenes from the life of Jesus; but before I do so, I want you to join me in singing that hymn, familiar to most of us I expect, which commences, 'There is a green hill far away'; and, whilst we sing, let us in our hearts thank Him who for our sakes died on Mount Calvary, and think of that first Good Friday evening nearly nineteen hundred years ago."
With one accord the whole assembly rose, and Mr. Blackmore led the singing.
"There is a green hill far away,Without a city wall,Where our dear Lord was crucifiedWho died to save us all."
"There is a green hill far away,Without a city wall,Where our dear Lord was crucifiedWho died to save us all."
"There is a green hill far away,Without a city wall,Where our dear Lord was crucifiedWho died to save us all."
"There is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where our dear Lord was crucified
Who died to save us all."
Melina now knew the hymn all through, and she lifted up her voice with the rest. To her great surprise her grandmother joined in the last verse. "Fancy Gran's singing!" she thought to herself.
"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,And we must love Him too,And trust in His redeeming Blood,And try His works to do."
"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,And we must love Him too,And trust in His redeeming Blood,And try His works to do."
"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,And we must love Him too,And trust in His redeeming Blood,And try His works to do."
"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming Blood,
And try His works to do."
The hymn concluded, Mr. Blackmore asked the people to be seated; and, whilst they were settling down, he moved to one side, and the gas was lowered.
The first pictures shown upon the screen, which stretched across the back of the platform, represented scenes from the early life of Jesus. The audience, with the keenest interest, saw the infant Saviour in His mother's arms, the wise men kneeling in worship before Him; saw Him, a young boy, teaching in the Temple, and, later, working at the carpenter's bench. Then they saw Him healing the sick, preaching on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, and blessing little children; and at last, after Judas Iscariot had betrayed Him and Peter had denied Him, they saw Him standing in the judgment-hall before Pontius Pilate.
Mr. Blackmore had so far explained very fully the meaning of each picture, in such simple words as no one could fail to understand; but when the picture of the scene in the judgment-hall was replaced by one showing a distant hill, on the summit of which three crosses stood out plainly against the horizon, he merely said:
"The green hill far away, on the evening of the first Good Friday."
Melina drew a breath so deep that it was almost a sob. That morning she had read in her mother's Bible the account of the Crucifixion, so she knew exactly what the picture was meant to tell. She gazed at it through a mist of tears. Then all at once she became aware that her grandmother was strangely affected. The old woman was trembling, almost as though she was afraid.
"What is it, Gran?" Melina whispered anxiously; "are you ill?"
"No, child, no," was the response; "don't talk! Ah!" The exclamation was full of relief.
The picture on the screen had been withdrawn, and the gas turned up.
Mr. Blackmore now came to the front of the platform again.
"That is the last picture I have to show," he said, "and I want you to take the memory of it home with you to-night—I want you to think of Jesus, crucified on Mount Calvary, and to remember that it was for your salvation that He died there. You can say, each one of you, 'He died for me.' The hymn we have sung to-night says:"