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JOHN'S ADVICE.
AILIE gave a sharp cry, and slipped down on the ground close to Job Kippis, clinging to his coat, as if for protection.
"Good mornin'," said Job, nodding. "Got the little gal here, you see, all right."
"What are ye thinkin' of doin' with her?" asked John, putting the oft asked and, as yet, unanswered question.
A twitch of Job's coat spoke plainly enough as to Ailie's state of mind, even without the imploring:
"Oh, please—"
"What d'ye advise?" asked Job.
"Work'us," said John.
"Please," sobbed Ailie, with another stronger twitch.
"There, there, wait a bit, deary," said Job soothingly; and, returning to his stitching, he remarked, "She don't seem over-willin' to go."
"A scrap of a child like that! Don't know nothin' about it," said John tersely. "Send her off, and she'll do, never fear."
"Poor little deary!" murmured Job. "It's hard, ain't it, for her?"
"Look ye here," said Forsyth. "I've a wife an' five children o' my own, an' one not my own, as I took up an' 'dopted five years since, when I wasn't in my present circumstances. So long as I've a crumb to spare, I ain't a-going to cast her off. But I ain't a-going to 'dopt a second, I can tell ye. Six is enough for a man, who's been nigh upon three months out o' work."
"Out o' work still?" asked Job.
"I've found a job as 'll last a week; just serve to keep us on where we be. It'll pay up some o' the back rent, an' do little enough beside."
"'Tis hard lines for ye," said Job compassionately. "Don't ye think I was a-wishin' you to do anythin'. No, no I you've enough, as you say, wi' your own."
John Forsyth nodded, and said, "She can't look to live on the neighbours, neither. There's nothin' left but the work'us."
Another sob from Ailie.
"Poor little un," said Job. "And it's two months to when her mother comes out?"
"Two months nigh. And she with nothin' to live on then, neither, comin' out a widow, an' the little she had left gone to pay her rent."
"Poor thing—yes," said Job.
"So you'd best let me take the child off to the work'us this mornin'," pursued John. "I'll go to work this afternoon, an' 'twill be some days, likely, afore I'll be free again to walk so far."
"Don't think I'll be in such a hurry," said Job.
"You're not thinkin' o' keepin' the child yourself!"
"Maybe, for two or three days," said Job cautiously, adjusting his work. "There's a many things I'd like to say to her."
"Ye'll be drawn into doin' more. Tell ye, it won't answer. She'll mind goin' then more than now."
"Maybe I'll mind partin' with her too!"
"And you'll let me take her off!"
"Thank'ee—not such a hurry."
"'Tain't as if you was a young man," expostulated Forsyth. "It's only fair you should think o' yourself afore others."
But this remark worked differently from the way in which John intended that it should.
"It wasn't the Master's way, somehow, to think o' Himself afore others," said Job.
"Eh?" said John.
"'Twasn't the Master's way," repeated Job, laying two folds of scarlet cloth together. "I think He'd maybe have me help the poor stray lamb, as nobody else can help—maybe He'd wish I should do it for His sake."
"Don't know nothin' about that," said John. "A man must act with common prudence, I says."
"So says I," responded Job. "There ain't a more prudent transaction, I can tell ye, than that o' lendin' to the Master. It's hundred per cent interest that He gives back."
"You're gettin' out o' my depth," said John, with some impatience. "Poor folks like us, livin' from hand to mouth, haven't no time for religion—and livin' in dirty holes, with a crowd o' yelling children round, ain't the way to practise it, neither."
"Ain't a man in the world that needs religion more than such a one," said Job quietly. "Don't ye want help in gettin' your daily bread, and in takin' care o' your children?"
"I wants a deal o' things I'll never get," said John curtly. "What'll ye do about the child?"
"Keep her a bit. She'll sleep in my closet—an' maybe—"
"Hope you won't have cause to repent it," said John, getting up, with some annoyance at the rejection of his advice. "Good mornin' t' ye."
Ailie never moved till he was gone, and then, standing up, she asked, with dilated eyes—
"Ain't I going, really?"
"No, deary, not to-day."
"Nor to-morrow?" asked Ailie.
"Nor to-morrow, deary."
"Nor next day?"
"Maybe not next day, neither."
"Nor till mother comes?"
"We'll see," said Job soothingly. "I'll keep ye on a while, if I can."
"I won't be hungry," said Ailie. "I'll eat ever so little—an' I'll be so useful—and—and—I do like you ever so much."
"I'd like you to love me," said Job. "Maybe ye'll call me gran'father—eh?"
Ailie's face brightened yet more at this suggestion, and she gave vent to her feelings in a wild gambol round the room, which rather startled Job at the moment, though he took it placidly.
"She's so happy she don't know what to do," he murmured. "It'll be cheery for me, too, won't it? So long since I've had a little 'un about me."
"I'd like to go an' tell Lettie, gran'father," said Ailie, luxuriating in the new title, but before she had time to decide on going down, the door opened slightly, and Lettie's small voice said—
"Please may I come in?"
"Come in, deary," said Job. "Why it's quite lively, it is, to hear the little voices," muttered the old man, as he stitched away. "I've been lonesome at times, an' it's mighty pleasant."
"Lettie, ain't it beautiful?" cried Ailie. "I've been a-sleepin' in the cupboard, under the beautifullest thick coverin', an' had a breakfast o' real tea an' bread an' butter. And he says I'm to call him gran'father, and I means to do it always, 'cause he's as good as a real gran'father; an' I'm not going to the work'us to-morrow, nor next day, nor p'raps not at all."
This was jumping at conclusions more readily than Job Kippis had calculated upon; but he could not resolve to check her happy words, and he quieted himself with the remembrance that he had made no promises.
Lettie's pleasure almost equalled Ailie's own. And in a few minutes, the latter's excitement cooled down so far as to allow her to climb up into the window-seat with Lettie, where they sat watching Job, and wondering much at the steady progress of his work.
"Ain't it a bright red?" said Lettie.
"I'd sooner it wasn't so bright, for the sake o' my old eyes," said Job. "But I loves the old colour too."
"What old colour, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Why the old scarlet, deary—same as I once wore when I was a soldier, d'ye see?"
"Was you a soldier?" asked Lettie. "I'll tell Hor that, 'cause he wants to be a sailor, an' that's sumthin' like, isn't it?"
"Sailors wears blue, and soldiers red," said Ailie, doubtful of her own information, though she spoke confidently.
"An' they both fights for the country," said Job. "One on land, and t'other on water. That's pretty nigh all the likeness betwixt 'em. Yes, I was a soldier once, but 'twas long ago. I was wounded in a battle, fought long afore you was born—battle of Waterloo," and Job looked round proudly at the picture over the mantel-shelf, with a movement of his hand to his head, a half-salute in memory of old days. "Fought it under him, ye know."
"Do 'ee make him tell Hor all about it," whispered Lettie to Ailie. "'Cause Hor's out after work now, and can't hear."
"So I will, too," said Job, overhearing her, and nodding his head. "And, maybe, I'll want ye all to be soldiers."
"Hor's goin' to be a sailor, he says, an' we can't be soldiers," said Ailie. "Can we, gran'father?"
"Not wearin' a red coat an' carrying a musket nor rifle," said Job Kippis. "Different sort o' soldiers, deary. There's a deal we all have to fight with; but I've got to make ye understand all that. Maybe that's why you was sent to me—because the Master wanted you to learn it," added Job, thoughtfully.
"I shouldn't wonder—I shouldn't."
"There's a deal o' fightin' down in the court," said Ailie.
"Ah! 'Tisn't that sort o' fightin', neither," said Job, with a half-sigh. "Fightin' for their own way—different sort o' thing that from fightin' in the Master's Service. But I'll tell ye all about it some time."
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SUNDAY IN THE GARRET.
"SUNDAY mornin' to-day," said Job Kippis, as they sat down to breakfast, after Ailie's second night in her new home.
"Shops all shut, ain't they?" said Ailie, that being her chief association with the Day of Rest. "I don't like Sunday, gran'father."
"Don't ye, deary?"
"No, 'cause lots o' men don't go to work, an' fight an' frighten me."
"And ye've never been to Church, likely?"
Ailie made a gesture of dissent.
"Them big houses with steeples, ain't they?" she asked.
"Houses for to worship God in," said Job reverently.
"I don't know nothin' about it," said Ailie. "Nobody don't here."
"I've a deal to teach you, haven't I?" said Job. "Don't you know nothin' about God, Ailie?"
"Up in the sky, ain't He?" asked Ailie.
"Up in the sky, an' down upon earth too. He's just everywhere. There ain't a place nor a spot where God don't be."
"Down among the houses?" asked Ailie.
"Sure enough, down among 'em all."
"And where there's grass, an' trees, an' flowers?"
"Yes, among 'em all, and God made 'em too."
"He didn't make the houses," said Ailie. "Father was a mason, and he built some of 'em—leastways he helped."
"What was they built of, deary?"
"Stones an' bricks," said Ailie.
"And how did he get the bricks?"
"Why, they was all made, gran'father, 'cause once father took me ever so long a walk, and there was all the rows and piles o' bricks, an' men a-making of them as fast as they could."
"An' who made the stones, deary, an' who made the clay the bricks was made of?"
Ailie looked at him without speaking.
"Yes, 'twas God did all that," said Job. "He made the earth, an' the stars, and the sun, an' moon, and the trees, an' grass, and the birds, an' beasts, and men, an' women, an' children, an' old Job Kippis, an' little Ailie. He made everything, an' He's everywhere."
"How did He make 'em?" asked Ailie.
"Why He made them out o' nothing," said Job. "That's just what men can't do. Give me a bit of red cloth an' I'll make a coat; but tell me to make it out of nothing, and ye might as well tell me to fly like a bird. But God can, ye see, Ailie. He says, 'Let there be light,' an' light comes; an' He says, 'Let things be made,' an' they're made."
Ailie looked wonderingly at Job, and then recurred to his former remark—
"He ain't everywhere. He ain't here."
"He's in this room this very minute," said Job solemnly.
"He ain't though," said Ailie, half frightened.
"He's here all the time," repeated Job. "He's a-listenin' to every word we speak, an' more than that, He knows every bit of what old Job an' little Ailie are thinking."
"I wasn't thinkin' any harm," said Ailie. "Will He be angry?"
"Such a deal to tell her," murmured Job. "Dear, dear, how will I ever make her understand? Sure, deary, God is only angry with sin, and with nothing else at all."
"What's that?" inquired Ailie.
"Just whatever's wrong," said Job. "Tellin' lies, an' stealin', and quarrellin', and not lovin' Him, and all such things."
"I wasn't thinkin' any harm," repeated Ailie. "I only wanted to know what He was like. Will He be angry with that, gran'father?"
"Not a bit, deary. Sure He likes you to want to know about Him. I'll tell you one thing He's like—He's just a kind gentle Father, who loves little children, an' wants 'em all to be happy."
"But if we was to see Him," explained Ailie softly, "what'd He be like?"
"'No man hath seen Him at any time,'" said Job, half unconsciously quoting from the Bible. "He's too glorious for that, Ailie. We'd have to lie down an' die that minute, if we could see God. We couldn't bear the sight."
"I don't know what 'glorious' means," said Ailie.
"Ain't the sun glorious when it shines so bright, an' dazzles your eyes if you try to look?"
Ailie's "yes" was emphatic.
"That's what it is; but the glory o' the sun is nothin' by His glory, deary—'twould look as dark as a piece o' black cloth in the sunlight."
"I'd like to see it," said Ailie.
"Nobody's seen Him—God, the Father, I mean," said Job reverently; "but He sent His Son into the world, and men saw Him, an' He was the Image of God."
Ailie did not understand—it was not likely she should.
Job thought he would stop there for a while, and let her think over what he had said, but all at once she asked:
"Gran'father, do you think father was remembered?"
"Don't ye remember him, eh, deary?"
"'Tain't that I mean. He wanted to be remembered."
"And sure you wouldn't go to forget him, Ailie?"
"'Tain't that," repeated Ailie. "'Twas a story Mrs. Forsyth told him, of a thief as wanted to be remembered; an' father, he wanted it too, an' he asked—"
"Asked who?" inquired Job, anxious to draw her out.
"And he made me ask too, he did."
"Ask who, deary?"
"Why,—I don't exactly know. Somebody as was nailed up, he said."
"And so He was," said Job. "Nailed up on a Cross, for you an' me, Ailie. Why, He's the very same Good Shepherd I was tellin' ye of yesterday."
"Is he?" said Ailie.
"An' the same I call the Master. That's one o' His Names. He's the Son of God, who came down from heaven to die for the world. Didn't your father know nought 'o that?"
"Maybe he knowed more than me," said Ailie. "What was it the thief said?"
"He said, 'Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.'"
"That's it," said Ailie. "Only Mrs. Forsyth had forgot the end. An' was he remembered?"
"The thief? Didn't the Lord say to him, 'To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise'? That's heaven."
"No, but I means father," said Ailie. "Maybe he wasn't remembered?"
"Nobody knocks an' doesn't get a answer," said Job. "What was it he did, deary?"
"He wanted to be remembered," said Ailie. "An' we didn't know how to ask, an' there was no one to tell. But father told me, an' I said, 'Please remember father'; an' father, he asked too,—and we thought—maybe—"
"Sure the Lord heard him, Ailie. Ain't we told, 'Look unto Him and be ye saved?' and didn't He say, 'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest'? There's a many came to Him, and some didn't know much about Him, nor how to speak to Him, but I never heard as He turned one away. He always hears an' answers."
Job rose from the table as he spoke, but he took out no work that day. He let Ailie wash up, and then he called her to his side, and read aloud the story of the Crucifixion, adding brief explanations as he went along. Ailie listened for a while, and, when she grew restless, Job broke off.
"That'll do now, I reckon," he said. "Don't ye go an' forget, little un'. It's time to think o' Church."
"Church!" repeated Ailie, in astonishment.
"Sure enough, Church is for everybody to worship God in," said Job. "I'd be main sorry to stay away. Will ye come with me, Ailie?"
"I ain't fit," said Ailie, looking down at her soiled and ragged frock.
"To—be—sure," said Job slowly. "Why didn't I think o' that afore now, an' get ye all washed and patched? 'Tisn't as my own clothes is anythin' much, but they be well mended, an' as clean as clean! Good thing I'm a tailor, an' independent o' the woman-kind, havin' none belongin' to me."
"I ain't clean," said Ailie.
"Seems I had best leave ye at home to-day, an get ye all in shape afore next Sunday," said Job. "Eh, deary?"
Ailie had no objection. She rather wanted to stretch her limbs after sitting so long. So she sought out Lettie, and indulged herself in a wild scamper through the back-yard, while Job Kippis made his way to the nearest City Church, with its scanty congregation and quiet Service.
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JOSIE'S EXCURSION.
"LEVESON, it's such a time since you came home last," said Josie, one bright October day.
"A whole fortnight," said Leveson Therlock, stooping to kiss his little sister. Though only her half-brother, he loved her as much as ever brother loved little sister of his own.
"A fortnight is a dreadfully long time," said Josie. "Mother has been wanting you nearly as much as I have—haven't you, mother?"
"If not more," said Mrs. Therlock.
"O no, it couldn't be more, because I have wanted Leveson as much as could be. Do you know I cried for you in bed one night, Leveson?"
"I heard of a little child once who cried for the moon," said Leveson.
"That was a stupid thing to do," said Josie, "because he couldn't have the moon, but I can have you."
"You mean he was stupid to cry, because crying wouldn't bring the moon to him."
"No, I don't mean that," said Josie, not choosing to be caught in a trap. "You want me to say that I was just as stupid to cry for you, because crying wouldn't bring you either. But if I cried so as to make myself ill—wouldn't you come then?"
"I think I should send the doctor," said Leveson. He sat down and took Josie within his arm. "I have been very busy, Josie; still I have not forgotten my promise to my pet."
"You always are busy," said Josie. "I don't see why all the poor children in London are always to come before me."
"Which stands in the most need of help?"
"I think I do," said Josie decidedly, "because I haven't one single little girl to play games with me, and the poor children have hundreds."
"And not having a single little girl, you want a big brother instead."
"I'd rather have you than all the little girls in the world," said Josie. "But you see now, Leveson, I really do want you very much. It isn't only fancy."
"No, I see,—it is a question of health," said Leveson.
"Now, you needn't laugh at me."
"Was I laughing?"
"Yes, you know you were, down in your thoughts."
Leveson laughed now, at all events.
"But I don't know what promise you meant a minute ago," said Josie.
"Did I not once say I would take a certain little girl for a trip down the river?"
"Oh, you don't mean that!"
"You shall go to-day if you like. Perhaps it would be chilly on the water, but you shall take your choice. Down the river, or else over the Tower, or else off to Hampton Court."
Josie gave a little shriek at the third proposal, which showed what she thought of it.
"What, you would prefer the last?"
"Hampton Court! A real palace! I should think so!"
"Better than the river or the Tower?"
"I've been on the river before, and the Tower is in London. I want to get away. Does the Queen live at Hampton Court?"
"No, the last king that lived there was the Queen's great-great-grandfather, King George the Second."
"At all events, it's a real palace, because my history-book says so," observed Josie. "You don't really mean we are going?"
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"You always are busy," said Josie.
"Directly. Run away and dress. If we don't start at once, we shall miss our train. It would not be worth while going later, for the place is closed to visitors at four."
"But, mother," said Josie, making a spring towards the door, "won't you come too?"
Mrs. Therlock shook her head.
"I cannot stand sight-seeing, darling," she said gently. "Go and enjoy yourself as much as possible. I shall love to think how happy you are."
"Only it seems too bad to take Leveson from you."
"Leveson will sleep here to-night, so I shall see him all the evening. Run and dress, Josie."
"Make haste, or we shall be too late," said Leveson; and Josie flew off in overpowering excitement.
She would have flung on anything that came to hand, in her dread of being too late; but nurse had her own ideas as to propriety, and undertook the task of dressing her eager little charge. It was of no use for Josie to fume and struggle. She had to submit to being brushed and smoothed, arranged and patted, till frock, ribbons, hair, and feathers were all in proper order. Then, and not till then, Josie was released, almost in tears with repressed impatience. However, the final rush down-stairs dissipated all annoyance, and Leveson, who was engaged in a conversation with Mrs. Therlock, apparently sorrowful in its nature, rose at once.
"Come, we have no time to lose."
A hansom cab was Josie's special delight, so one was procured near at hand, and off they went at full speed—Josie's brown hair tossing to and fro in the wind, and her hand clasping Leveson's in grateful ecstasy.
"Oh, it is so delicious—so very delicious!" she said. "How good you are to take me." Then, after a minute or two,—"Do you know, Leveson, it was just there I saw that poor little starving girl—the very day you promised to take me on the river."
"Poor little girl," said Leveson.
"I wonder if she did starve?" remarked Josie. "I made nurse bring me a great many times along here, until I was tired of the walk; but I never saw her again. I am so afraid she must have starved to death."
"I trust not. It would be a terrible thing."
"Yes, it must be very dreadful to be so hungry. How fast we are going!"
"You were rather long dressing, little woman, so we have barely time to catch our train."
"Oh!—Oh, Leveson! There she is!" cried Josie. "The little girl that was starved—at least, starving. O dear!"
Leveson looked back, and caught a glimpse of a small figure on the pavement.
"We can stop, and ask her where she lives, if you like," he said. "Only I fear we shall lose our train."
"Oh, I don't want to miss the train," said Josie, and they went on. But she said uneasily the next moment—"Do you think we ought?"
"I cannot decide for you. I have been to Hampton Court before, so it would not be the same disappointment to me as to you to miss it. Do as you wish."
"You see she isn't starved," said Josie.
"No, so I perceive."
"Perhaps she was trying to take me in that day, after all," said Josie, anxious to feel herself in the right.
"You did not think so at the time."
"But she told me she was starving—and she's alive now," said Josie, inclined for an argument.
"No doubt some one gave her food."
"I dare say I shall see her again some day," said Josie. "I'll walk there every morning for some days, and then I'm pretty nearly sure to do it."
"Very well, dear."
"And it may not have been the same little girl, after all," said Josie. "Her frock looked cleaner."
"But how about her face?"
"That was cleaner too," said Josie.
"Yes, but was it the same face?"
"Why, I thought so; but then you know I only had the littlest bit of a glimpse, so how could I tell? And fancy if I had missed Hampton Court for nothing."
"So we will decide that it was not the little girl after all," said Leveson.
"I can't, because—I suppose it was," said Josie, with a cloudy look. "Leveson, I know you think I ought to have wanted to stop to speak to her. But it would be so very very hard to bear, if I couldn't go to Hampton Court. And I hardly ever get any pleasure. It is very unkind of you."
Leveson put a kind hand under her chin, and made her look up into his face.
"My dear little woman, that is all fancy. You have talked so much of the poor child, that I thought you had a very particular interest in her—"
"And so I have,—but she isn't Hampton Court," murmured Josie.
"So that was why I put the question about speaking to her. But I dare say you will meet her again some day, as she seems to frequent that road. No doubt her home is near."
"She hasn't any home," said Josie.
"She had not, perhaps; but probably she has found friends of some description—or her mother may be out of jail before now.
"Why, so she may," said Josie, brightening. "I didn't think of that. And you don't think I was very wrong to want to go on?"
Josie's tender conscience was not easily set at rest, but Leveson was anxious that her day should be one of thorough pleasure, and he exerted himself to draw her attention to other matters. They soon reached the station, and, by the time she was seated in the train, her spirits had arisen to their usual pitch.
It was a very happy time that Josie spent. She walked through the galleries of beautiful paintings, wondering much why Leveson admired so many which she thought ugly, and why he spoke so slightingly of those which she thought lovely.
"Wait till you are older," he said, smiling, when she asked an explanation. "Your taste in pictures has to be trained and taught, like every other part of your mind. It seldom comes naturally."
Josie had no objection to waiting, though secretly she felt sure that some of his favourites she should esteem frightful all her life long. After the pictures, they went into the garden, and Josie raced about the terraces, and lost herself in the maze so completely, that Leveson had to follow her in and lead her out. Then she admired the great vine, belonging to the Queen, and wondered at the thought of its two thousand bunches of grapes, borne every year.
After that, Leveson took her into a refreshment-house for some lunch, and a long ramble in Bushey Park followed. How Josie skipped, and danced, and rushed about under the fine chestnut and lime trees, wearing their autumn tints. And, finally, a military band gave them some lively tunes, in the garden.
Josie was tired by this time, and sat listening on a bench by her brother's side, with the country breeze playing round her, and the sunlight kissing her round cheeks, and catching a reflection in her happy eyes. It was delightful to sit there and listen to the band, her feet pattering softly on the greensward in time with the tunes, while merry groups of children played near, and the lofty walls of the fine old palace rose behind.
Only it was all over too soon; and sadly Josie said, when Leveson intimated that they must think of returning—
"So it's done now—and, oh! Dear, dear, I shall have to go on with the old round again, in those dismal old streets. And all the while we might be living in the dear beautiful country. I do think it is very hard."
"Do you think this discontent is right?" asked Leveson, as he rose to take her away.
"No," said Josie.
"I have done what I can to make a happy day for you. Cannot you let mother and me have a bright face in return?"
"I didn't mean to be nasty and ungrateful," whispered Josie.
"I am sure you did not, and you will not be."
"Only you don't know how tired I do get of London, and having nobody to play with," said Josie.
"You have had no one to play with to-day."
"I've had you."
Leveson was silent a moment.
"Josie," he said at length, "many a poor little child in the streets of London cannot obtain such a sweet glimpse of beauty and freshness as you have had now to carry away with you."
"They don't know what country is, so they don't miss it," said Josie.
"I think that makes the matter only more grievous."
"But I have lived in the country, and I don't forget, though it was so long ago," said Josie.
"Many a poor little one may remember it too, without a hope of even a glimpse of it again," said Leveson.
And Josie knew from the sound of his saddened voice what was the subject of his thoughts just then.
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WHAT HOR WANTED.
THAT same afternoon, the last ray of the setting sun, which shone brightly on Josie Therlock during her happy homeward journey, crept lazily, half-veiled by smoke, through the window of Job Kippis' garret.
It fell upon Job himself first, lending a sparkle to his silver hair, and a light to his steady eyes. It cast his shadow behind on the bare wall, and crept over the aquiline face of the Duke's portrait over the fireplace. And just as it was taking itself away from Job Kippis' hands, busied with some tough army-cloth, the door opened, and Ailie bounded in.
"Gran'father, I've brought Hor an' Lettie to see you," she cried.
For though the middle of October had come, there was no more talk of the workhouse for Ailie. She was domesticated in Job's garret.
"Welcome, both o' them," responded Job. "How're ye gettin' on, lad?"
Hor sat down on the foot of the bed, and leant his chin on his hand, without replying, while Lettie crept to the window, settling herself there in her quiet precise fashion, while her little fair head caught the last gleam of sunlight.
"Eh?" repeated Job.
"I'm not gettin' on at all," said Hor. "Ain't like to, neither."
"Why not?" demanded Job.
"Two places lost lately, as I might ha' had with a decent jacket to my back," said Hor gloomily. "They'd have took me for errand-boy at a shop this mornin' if I could have dressed up respectable. It ain't no use. I've tried an' tried, an' now I'll give up."
"Give up what?"
"Give up tryin'."
"Tryin' what?"
"To work, an' be respectable. 'Tain't no use. I'll give up, an' go along with the rest o' the boys. Mother's made a deal o' fuss about keepin' me honest, an' where's the good? I'll give up."
"An' begin to drink, an' steal, an' swear?" asked Job.
"Not steal," said Hor.
"T'other two, then?"
Hor's answer was a gruff: "Dunno."
"Just as well steal as swear, when you're about it," said Job. "One's breakin' of the fourth commandment, an' one's breakin' of the eighth."
"I tell ye I mean to give up tryin' to keep steady, an' to be respectable."
"Supposin' ye do," said Job, "what'll ye gain by it?"
Hor did not know what to answer.
"Think it'll make ye happier?"
Hor could not answer in the affirmative.
"Think it'll make ye more respectable?"
Hor shook his head.
"Think it'll bring money into your pocket—leastways without you takes to stealin' too?"
"I don't think nothin' about it, save that I'm tired o' tryin' to no purpose," said Hor listlessly.
Job paused a moment in his work, to glance at the boy's thin face and hollow eyes.
"Poor lad!" he muttered. "I'd like to be able to help ye."
"Nobody can't—save them as won't," said Hon
"How old are ye, boy?"
"Thirteen—nigh upon fourteen."
"An' your name? Horatio Nelson, ain't it? Lived same time as the Duke himself, didn't he? An' a brave sailor he was too. Never turned his back on an enemy! If I was you, lad, I wouldn't go for to disgrace a name like that!"
"If I'd a chance to go to sea, I wouldn't mind nought else," said Hor.
"Seems to me ye want a many things," said Job Kippis.
"Just think I do," said Hor.
"Gran'father," remarked Ailie in the pause following, "d'ye know I saw that little lady as wanted to give me a penny—an' she was drivin' past with a gentleman, an' laughin' an' talkin' as happy as happy, an' she looked at me too."
"Maybe she knowed you again," said little Lettie.
"Maybe she didn't," said Hor. "Catch a fine young lady a-knowin' a little ragged girl like you agin. Likely that."
"Why wouldn't she then?" asked Job.
"Rich folks don't care for poor uns," said Hor.
"You're out there, boy. There's many do."
"I ain't seen 'em then."
"Maybe not. There's many things you haven't seen. I've one rich Friend."
"He don't do much for ye then," said Hor, glancing round the bare apartment.
"Don't He? That's all you knows about the matter. Just all my joy an' happiness in life comes from Him."
Hor made no answer.
Job went on after a minute—
"There's many things ye wants, lad. Ye say ye've worked an' tried in vain, an' you're like to give up tryin'. I'll put one question to ye. Have ye ever asked for 'em?"
"Asked over an' over again," said Hor. "There ain't a man as 'll employ me."
"Then I'd stop askin' men, an' go higher."
"Go where, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
Job lifted one hand.
"Up there, deary."
"Like as father asked to be remembered?" asked Ailie.
"Aye, an' like as I make ye kneel down night an' morning, an' pray to 'Our Father, which art in Heaven.'"
"D'ye mean to say, if I went an' prayed for work, it'd come?" inquired Hor, with a low incredulous laugh. For thanks to old Job, the name and meaning of prayer was not unknown among those three children, as it had been but a short time back.
Job thought seriously, then said—
"No, I don't, lad."
"Then where's the good o' prayin'?" asked Hor.
Job put down his work, and opened his Bible, bending over it in the twilight.
"Look here, lad—there's many an' many a promise of answers to prayers. Will ye hear one or two?
"'If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.' *
"See that, boy—'If ye abide in Me.' That's the Lord Himself. If ye abide in Him, trust Him, obey Him, love Him, He'll do what ye ask Him. 'Tisn't to them as don't love Him as He says that. An' here again—
"'And whatsoever we ask we receive of Him, because we keep His commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in His sight.' †
"D'you keep the commandments o' the holy Jesus, boy? D'you set yourself, heart an' soul, to do all ye can to please Him, eh? An' here again—
"'He will fulfil the desire of them that fear Him; He also will hear their cry and will save them.' ‡
"Are ye one o' them that fears Him? If ye are, He'll fulfil your desire, lad. Are ye, eh?"
"Don't see any good in prayin' at all, then," muttered Hor.
* John xv. 7. † 1 John iii. 22. ‡ Psalm cxlv. 19.
"No good! Why, if you're one that fears Him, ye may ask what ye will, an' if ye ain't making some foolish request, like to poison for your soul, He'll give it ye. Don't He love to make us happy? Don't it grieve Him at His heart when He sees one o' His poor sheep bleaten' an' sorrowful, and don't He love to smile an' comfort un? Eh, lad?"
"I don't know nothin' about that," said Hor. "I only knows He lets us live like pigs."
"Have ye ever asked Him to make it different?"
"What's the good? Don't ye say He won't answer?" demanded Hor.
"I don't say He won't, but only He's not promised He will. That's to say, lad, He's not promised to ye, 'whatsoever ye ask, ye shall receive.' He's promised to forgive your sins, an' to save ye, an' to make ye different, soon 's ever ye'll ask Him, but the 'whatsoever' promises don't belong to ye, till ye begins to serve Him. See my meanin', lad—eh?"
Hor did not answer, and Ailie said:
"He's the Shepherd, ain't He, gran'father?"
"Sure He is. The Shepherd, an' the Master, an' the Lord, an' the King, an' the Friend. Ever so many Names He's got,—picturs of Him like, so's we may understand Him better. There'll be a day, little deary—" and his firm brown hand stroked Lettie's head,—"there'll be a day when He'll have one Name, 'cause the Bible says so. 'There shall be one Lord, and His Name one.' He's one Lord now, but He's a many names. We won't need a Shepherd nor a Guide then, for we'll be at Home. Sometimes I wonders what Name He'll choose, among so many. One time I thinks it'll be Master, 'cause we'll all serve Him. Another time I thinks it'll be Father, 'cause we'll all be one family in Heaven, an' sure the Bible calls Him the Everlasting Father. Another time, I think maybe it'll be Love, 'cause the Lord is love, all love, nothin' but love. Any way it'll be beautiful—right beautiful," and the smile that shone on Job's face had a dim reflection of that far-off heavenly beauty.
"If He be all love, why don't He give us a nice place to live in?" asked Hor, though less doggedly than before.
"How many more times will I have to say it, lad—Have ye ever asked Him to make it different?"
"If I did, what then?" demanded Hor. "Don't ye be the same?"
"No," said Job decidedly. "You says ye lives like pigs, but 'tain't no pig-sty this home o' mine. It's where my Master has put me, an' I loves it for His sake. Why, lad, I tell ye, He'd put me in a palace straight,—not as I'd be happy there partic'larly,—but He'd put me there, if 'twas for my good. That's all as matters. I wouldn't ask Him to change. All I wants is,—
"'Guide me with Thy counsel, an' afterward receive me to glory.'
"Why, what matters a garret an' a scrap o' dry bread a little longer? There's Heaven waitin' for me, an' angels' food. Maybe if I'd more, I'd love this world too much. I don't love it now. It's Heaven I wants. Maybe then it'd be earth I'd want."
"It's some'at nice on earth I want," said Hor.
"An' ye might have it, if ye'd take it. Some'at nice! What's nicer than to have the Lord smilin' down on ye from heaven, an' helping you with His strong arm, an' givin' ye peace an' joy in your heart? How's it all to be got, Ailie?"
Ailie thought a moment, and said—"Ain't it by believin' Him, gran'father?"
"Sure enough, deary. Believin' and obeyin' the Lord who died for us on the Cross. He loved ye, lad—loved ye so as to die a bitter and painful death for your sake. An' He tells ye to seek Him, an' call to Him, an' do His commands, an' while ye won't do that, an' haven't a thought o' gratitude in your heart for all He's done for ye, ye'll sit there grumblin' because He don't give ye everything ye'd like. Do ye deserve to have it, boy?"
The solemn question met with no response from Hor. Little as he knew of himself, he at least knew so much that he could not answer in the affirmative.