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STARVING.
"HOR," said little Lettie meditatively, on the afternoon of the following day, "don't you wonder what's become of Ailie?"
Hor had just returned from his daily ramble in search of employment. Little hope had he now of finding regular work—he had tried so long in vain; but still he contrived to earn a few pence in various ways, and those who had once employed him did not soon forget his honest look. To-day he had returned earlier than usual, and, after depositing his earnings with his mother, went out into the yard. There he found Lettie, seated on a corner of the broken-down wall, overlooking the three little ones, who made high glee with a mud puddle near at hand.
"Mother says nothin' more ain't been seen of her," said Hor. "Queerest thing I ever heard of. Seems as if some'at wrong must have happened to the poor little lass."
"Father was askin' about her this mornin'," said Lettie. "He says he can't do no more. Mother thinks some one must ha' taken her off."
"Don't seem much sense in that, neither," said Hor. "She hadn't on a scrap o' clothes as would fetch sixpence. More likely—well, I don't know—but maybe it's a fancy o' the little thing herself. P'raps she's gone off, thinkin' she'll find her mother. I shouldn't wonder."
"Hor," said Lettie deliberately, "Ailie wasn't asleep, but only pretendin', when father talked o' the work'us for her."
"Wasn't she?" cried Hor.
"I'm sure I see her open one eye, an' shut it up again tight; an' she was cryin' after, when you all thought she was a-sleepin'."
"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Hor.
"I didn't like. Poor Ailie! Hor, I wouldn't like the work'us," said Lettie. "Isn't it a dreadful cruel place?"
Hor whistled. "Not as I knows on. Folks say we'd ought to think ourselves well off, to have it to go to. But 'tain't pleasant to be a-livin' on charity."
"What's charity?" asked Lettie, with wondering eyes. "Is it some sort o' nasty victuals?"
"Victuals—no. Livin' on charity means—means—why, it's same thing as being a beggar."
"You ain't a beggar, nor Ailie wasn't, neither."
"She's one now, poor little lass, if I ain't much mistaken," said Hor. "'Tain't likely she'll get much to eat by any other means, except a-begging, wherever she be."
"Is mother a beggar?" asked Lettie.
"Mother! No!" cried Hor. "What's put into your head to ask such a question?"
"Nor father, neither?" inquired Lettie.
"No, nor none of us, nor never will be, so long as father 'n I have an arm to work."
"Nor isn't I a beggar?" asked Lettie, reaching the climax towards which she had been ascending.
"No more than the rest on us," said Hor.
Lettie nestled up a little closer to Hor's ragged jacket. "Hor," she whispered softly, "didn't ye hear what father said yesterday—?"
"Well?" said Horatio.
"About other folks' children," said Lettie, with an effort. "If father got tired o' me, an' wasn't to want to have me no longer, I'd have to be a beggar, then, wouldn't I?"
"Likely he'll get tired o' you!" cried Hor. "I'd work for ye then! He didn't say nought o' the kind, though."
"He did say some'at about never doin' it again, an' he said he'd give way to mother once, but he wasn't goin' to twice," said Lettie. It was strange to hear that tiny fair-haired child discussing the matter so calmly. "An' he did say once, when mother gave a bit to Ailie, that 'twas taken out o' his own children's mouths."
"You're one of us. 'Tain't like Ailie. She's a stranger, an' you're every inch our sister. Don't think o' that again! Father didn't mean nothing; he's only bothered an' worried, an' don't hardly know what he's about. I say, that ain't Ailie, sure!"
A little figure, crouching in the shadow of the wall, attracted his attention, and he made a sudden bound forward, but before he could reach the spot, it had vanished, and after-searching proved useless. He gave up at length, and almost ascribed the whole to fancy.
Yet it was Ailie herself that he had seen—Ailie, after a second long day of concealment and fasting, venturing at length to creep out in search of food. She felt very weak and craving, but she had not dared to appear earlier, lest John Forsyth should find her and take her off to the workhouse that night. The more feeble grew her little frame, the stronger waxed her dread of going thither—unreasoning childish dread, but none the less real for that.
Hearing Horatio's exclamation, and seeing him run towards her, she had fled with all speed, and rushed round the side of the house, and into the street, before he saw the direction she had taken.
There, without delaying a moment, though with shaking limbs and heaving breath, she hurried along, and never stopped till she found herself at the entrance of the broad neighbouring thoroughfare, with its handsome shops; its plate glass windows, full of dresses, bonnets, and ribbons; its bakers and confectioners, more tempting still; its strings of cabs and carriages; and its crowds of well-dressed foot-passengers on the pavement.
Ailie had never yet known what it was to beg. But now she felt so hungry and weak and faint, that she longed to ask the passers-by to give her something, as she stood in a little sheltered corner, close to a shop-window. Sometimes she tried to begin to say, "Please give me a penny," but each time the words seemed to stick and swell in her throat, and no sound came.
If only she could rest somewhere; she was so tired—oh, so tired and thirsty. There was a drinking-fountain not far distant, and she dragged her failing limbs there, and drank some of the fresh water out of the tin cup, but that made her feel more hungry than ever. If poor mother could but come to help her! Ailie felt so utterly alone. Nobody in all the world to care for her, except mother, away for two months in jail—nobody else except the Forsyths, and she dared not go near them, for they would only send her to the workhouse. Ailie was so desolate that she wanted to cry, but somehow tears would not come, and the dry sobs which she could not check made her feel worse and worse.
A baker's shop stood just across the way with such tempting beautiful wonderful loaves in the window Ailie thought that to have one of those loaves would be perfect happiness. She would care for nothing else in all the world then. Such an unhappy-looking child passed at that moment, dressed in white muslin, and with two great buns in her hand. How could she look unhappy when she had two whole buns of her own? Ailie did wonder at the sight. Not that she wanted buns herself. She only wanted some bread—ever so dry, ever so hard, ever so little—just to check this burning terrible hunger. And, leaning against the wall, Ailie sobbed again tearless sobs of anguish.
"What's the matter?" asked a voice, and Ailie looked up. A little girl of about her own age stood in front of her, dressed in a pretty pink frock, with a straw hat and one long black feather across it, and delicately-gloved hands, which were folded over a tiny terrier lying asleep in her arms. She gazed wonderingly at Ailie. "What's the matter?" she repeated. "Have you had a beating?"
"No," said Ailie.
"Or have you spilt some milk, or broken a jug? That's like the poor little girls in story-books," added the child to herself.
"I'm so hungry," whispered Ailie, hanging her head.
"Why don't you go home to tea?" asked the little girl.
"I've nowhere to go," said Ailie, in a choked voice.
"Why, where do you live?"
"I've been under the stairs all night, an' they wants to send me to the work'us—and, oh! I don't want to go," sobbed Ailie, with catches in her breath.
"Won't they give you anything to eat?" asked the other child, gravely.
"There's nobody. Father's dead, an' mother—an' mother—"
"Is your mother dead too?"
"They've put her in jail."
"Jail! Is that prison? Why she must be very wicked if they put her there," said the little girl. "What did she do?"
The shame of her mother's disgrace came over Ailie, as she noted the little girl's dainty boots draw back a pace.
"Mother was starvin', an' father dyin' for want; an' she took-she took a loaf," said Ailie.
"That was stealing," said the little girl decisively. "It's very wicked indeed to steal, and I don't wonder they put her in jail. Everybody's punished that steals, you know. But who takes care of you?"
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"What's the matter?" she repeated. "Have you had a beating?"
"Miss Josie! Now I never!" exclaimed a respectably-dressed attendant, coming up, hot and breathless, from a gossip with an acquaintance. "As sure as I turn my eyes, you're in mischief. Talking to a dirty little street girl, coming from no one knows where."
"She's starving, nurse," said Josie.
"They're every man, woman, and child of them starving all the year round, if you'll believe them," said nurse contemptuously. "Miss Josie, come on this minute."
"I wish I had my penny," sighed Josie. "I do wish I hadn't bought that doll. Nurse, couldn't the little girl come home for my other penny—and wouldn't that buy her a roll, and keep her from starving?"
"No, indeed," said nurse wrathfully. "Telling strange beggar-children to come to our house, indeed! How d'ye know she isn't just getting over the scarlet fever, or small-pox, or anything else?"
"Are you, little girl?" asked Josie, in straightforward style.
"I ain't been ill—I'm only a-starving," said Ailie.
"Then you'd better go home and get your parents to feed you," said nurse. "Miss Josie, come on this minute."
"She hasn't got any parents—at least, one's dead and her mother's in prison," cried Josie, getting into a passion. "Nurse, do lend me a penny."
"I'm not going to encourage them beggars," said nurse resolutely. "Mother in prison! I dare say she is, and the child's likely enough to follow her there. Miss Josie, if you don't come on this moment—"
A strong hand on Josie's wrist spoke more forcibly than words could do. Sobbing and struggling, the little girl was drawn away, and Ailie saw her last hope disappear.
She gave up after that, and leant against the wall, watching the passers-by, as in a dream, no longer looking for help. And presently, as the dusk gathered round her, she turned homewards, staggering feebly in the gray shadows close to the walls, and thus escaping observation.
She had formed no plans where to go, and she was past all power of thought. Only in her suffering she shrank from the lonely misery of her retreat under the staircase, and when she entered the house, she went slowly upward, step by step, until she reached the landing where Esther Forsyth had discovered her three nights before. There again, in the same spot, she crouched down, sheltered as before from observation by the increasing darkness.
No one would be likely to remark her presence in passing. But, whether discovered or not, Ailie knew nothing of it, for she sank into insensibility, and lay there—a mere little heap of rags, covering a small bony form—in the corner of the landing.
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JOSIE'S HOME.
NOT very far from the aged mansion in Ansty Court, where Ailie Carter's home had been so long, another old-fashioned house stood, in another old-fashioned street—narrow, but clean, fresh, and airy. This, too, was a large building, with numberless small windows, but each was furnished with white curtains or blinds, and on the lower window-ledges were long wooden boxes, filled with summer flowers.
All up the wide stairs lay Brussels carpeting, and the oil-cloth in the hall, of alternate dark-brown and red diamonds, had a pleasant effect. At about six o'clock Josie stood there, waiting for the sound of the tea-bell, which was usually rung to summon her from the play-room. She whiled away the time by stepping slowly from one diamond-shape to another, with all possible care to avoid treading on the light brown ground intervening. With a grave face, and hands folded loosely together, she went through her self-appointed exercise, pacing cautiously across the hall and back again, while her tiny terrier pattered daintily in her rear. Evidently Snap thought his mistress must be about some very important occupation, by the exceeding pains he took not to hinder her.
Then a side-door opened, and a gentleman, coming out, remarked in a pleasant voice—well matched by the pleasant face to which it belonged—"Josie, I did not know you were here."
"I'm waiting for the tea-bell."
"Five minutes since it rang, and mother and I have been looking out for you ever since."
"Why, Leveson, I never heard it."
"Absent state of mind, I am afraid! Come along, dear."
Josie went in with a rush, and seated herself at the oval table, upon which was a bunch of flowers in a tall white vase, a blue glass snake being twisted round it. At the head of the table sat a lady in a widow's cap, with a very sweet sad face. She had not passed middle life, but trouble had drawn lines upon her brow, and set a stamp of mournful resignation upon the lips.
"Mother, only think, I never heard the bell," said Josie.
"What were you thinking about, I wonder?"
"Ever so many things. Oh, what beauties of flowers. Did Leveson get them for you? Ah, I thought so. Oh, what beauties!"
Josie buried nose and eyes in the bunch, and then sat up to feast the latter on white moss rose-buds, pink tea-roses, fragrant heliotropes, variegated geraniums, and drooping fuchsias, while busied with a slice of bread and butter.
"Are they not lovely, mother? If only we had a garden, and I could have some flowers like those growing."
Mrs. Therlock sighed, but merely said: "Did you have a nice walk to-day?"
"I suppose it was," said Josie. "I'm tired of the streets. I do wish we could be in the country. Oh, I saw such a poor ragged little girl to-day."
"Where was she?" asked Leveson, thinking what numbers of such little ones were to be seen in all directions.
"Among the shops," said Josie vaguely. "And she was starving."
"How do you know, dear?" asked Mrs. Therlock.
"Why, she told me! I had run on from nurse, and she told me."
"But, my dear Josie, I cannot have you leave nurse when you are out walking in the streets," said Mrs. Therlock, with a nervous flush. "You don't know what might happen to you. I must speak to nurse. What could she have been thinking of?"
"She was quite near," said Josie. "But I saw the little girl crying, and I asked her what was the matter, and she said she was starving, and I'm sure she looked, oh, so hungry! Her frock was all rags, and not at all clean, and her arms were as thin—as thin as sticks."
"What was she like?" asked Mrs. Therlock, seeming anxious still.
"Why, she was like that, mamma—as thin as thin could be, and not a bit of colour in her face, and such great black eyes, they almost frightened me. She told me her father was dead, and her mother was in prison—jail, I mean, but that's the same thing, isn't it?—was in jail for stealing a loaf. She had stolen it because she was hungry, but I told the little girl how wicked it was to steal, and she did look so ashamed, you can't think. I am sure she wouldn't steal, though nurse was so unkind, and said right before her that she would follow her mother to jail. I'm sure the little girl won't, for she looked as honest as honest could be; and I hadn't a penny in my pocket, and I wanted her to come here for my other penny, but nurse said she wasn't to come. Should you have minded, mother?"
"I like you to help those in trouble, dear, but of course you must do as nurse tells you. Only I will say to her, that if you see the little girl again, you may give her something, or send her here for some bread."
"Where does she live, Josie?" asked Leveson.
"Somewhere about, I suppose," said Josie. "I wish I had asked her. I never thought of that. You couldn't find her out, could you?"
"What is her name?"
"I didn't ask. She was just my size."
"I am afraid I might find hundreds of half-starved little girls about your size, without falling in with the right one."
"I wish I had remembered," said Josie. "If only I knew her name, or where she lives. I liked the poor little girl's face so much. I am sure it would be quite pretty if it were clean,—but she did look so very very miserable. Oh, now I remember, she said she had no home, and she had slept under the stairs last night, but she didn't say what stairs. Leveson, wasn't it very wicked of her mother to steal? Are people always put in prison when they steal?"
"When they are found out, and it can be proved against them."
"And isn't it very wicked?"
"Yes. Very wrong," said Leveson, resting his arm on the back of Josie's chair. "It is wrong to steal, and wrong to tell lies, and wrong to covet, and wrong to give way to temper. None of us are perfect."
"But it isn't so bad to get into a passion, as it would be to steal," said Josie, with a guilty look up from under her eyelashes.
"How do you feel when you are in a passion?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you feel loving and affectionate to all the world—especially the person who has offended you?"
"I know what you want me to say, and what you will tell me after, so I won't say it," responded Josie.
"What do I want you to say?" asked Leveson.
"Why, that I hate everybody at those times," said Josie unguardedly.
"And is it true?"
"Of course. Now, Leveson, you've made me say it after all."
"And what was I going to say in answer?"
"You may say it if you like."
"I would rather you should."
"'He that hateth his brother is a murderer,'" said Josie. "But nurse isn't my brother, so when I hated her this afternoon, because she wouldn't let me help the little girl, it wasn't like that."
"I fancy the term may be taken generally, and all mankind are brethren in a sense. But do you never hate any one except nurse?"
"N—o," said Josie.
"Not me, for instance?"
"Leveson, I wish you wouldn't ask. I did once last week for half an hour, when you shut me up in my room alone one day. It wasn't that, though," said Josie, bursting into tears. "I wasn't a murderer at all."
Leveson leant forward, and kissed away the tears affectionately. "You know what the Bible says, Josie, so I won't press that point. Of course it means in spirit, not in deed. I only wanted you to see that we may commit sins ourselves, quite as black in the sight of God, as those which may seem worst in the eyes of men. I'm not excusing the sin of stealing—don't think that. Sin is sin, in whatever shape it comes, only I sometimes think that our little failings, as we call them, and our careless yielding to slight temptation, may wear as dark a dye in God's sight as the sudden desperate act of a poor half-famished creature, who is driven to it by utter want and misery."
"And wasn't it right to put her in prison?" asked Josie.
"Perfectly right. Crime must be punished; but we must not be like the Pharisee, Josie—'I thank Thee that I am not as other men are.' Better one and all of us to say humbly before God—'Be merciful to me a sinner.'"
Josie sat thoughtfully for a minute, and then finished her bread and preserve without a word.
"I know what," she said, getting up after tea. "I'll get nurse to take me that very same walk every day for a week, and look out for the little girl."
"A good plan," said Leveson, and he heard no more till Mrs. Therlock had left the room, when Josie came to his side.
"I wish—I do wish we could go to the sea or to the country."
"I wish you could, dear."
"It would be good for mother too. Why don't you persuade her?"
"I have tried in vain. You know as well as I do why she cannot bear to be away from London."
"And I suppose she means to stay here all her life, and I'll never see anything but dirty London streets," said Josie pettishly. "I didn't mean to be cross, Leveson, so don't look grave, but I do so want a change, and I'm tired of always going the old old round, and never having anything fresh."
"It is hard for you, Josie, but you must try to bear it patiently, for mother's sake."
"It doesn't do her any good. I wouldn't mind if it did. She only keeps just as melancholy. It isn't as if we could do any good—to Vi, I mean—by staying."
"Mother lives upon hope, Josie, and we must not try to destroy that hope, however small its foundation. Come, be a brave little woman, and make the best of things. I'll take you a run down the river to Margate one of these days."
"Oh, do. I shouldn't mind anything if you were always at home. If only you were curate here, or if we could go and live where you are, I wouldn't mind, then, being in London all the year round; or even if you weren't so busy, and could come and see me often."
"Or if you could have any single thing that you have not now," said Leveson, shaking his head. "No, no, Josie, that isn't being brave and contented. Your business is to be poor mother's little comforter, and it ought to be your happiness as well."
"And so it is," murmured Josie. "Only—only—if—"
"Only you want a little dash of river and sea-water to freshen you up. You shall manage it some day soon, or I will manage it for you. A sprinkling of spray is a capital remedy for discontent, and I'll take care that you try it before long. Will that do?"
"Oh, you are such a nice kind Leveson," said Josie.
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OLD JOB KIPPIS.
THE floor on which the Forsyths lived was immediately below the garrets, and they too were inhabited. One sheltered a father, mother, and six children. In another a sickly shoemaker lived with his four little ones. The third was rented by old Job Kippis.
It was a small room, and it had not been his home long, for he had only moved into this locality a week or two earlier, so as to be near a fresh opening in the way of work. But already it had a home-like appearance. Not that Job Kippis was otherwise than poor—very poor. The room contained but a scanty supply of furniture. There was an old iron bedstead in one corner, with a patched coverlid laid over it; a square table, standing against the wall; a chair, supported rather insecurely upon three legs; and the board in the window, upon which Job Kippis did his tailoring work. But the floor had been well scrubbed, and the walls were clean, though bare; the small window-panes were free from cobwebs, and the table and chair showed signs of many a rubbing. A couple of common china ornaments stood upon the narrow mantel-shelf, and over it was pinned up a large "Illustrated News" likeness of the Duke of Wellington.
Seated in the window, close under the sloping roof, sat Job Kippis, striving to catch the last beams of departing daylight. Judging from his appearance, he must have been close upon seventy—a tall man in past years, though age and long stooping over his work had rounded his shoulders and diminished his height. His clothes, albeit old and threadbare, were clean and carefully mended. And the man himself, with his broad deeply-furrowed forehead, and thoughtful eyes, and thick silvery hair, had something about him of calm purpose and trust and peace combined, not often to be seen among the unhappy crowds of neglected beings who peopled this district.
Increasing darkness at length compelled him to cease his toil, and to lay aside the red cloth, the brilliant colouring of which formed such a contrast to his own faded clothing. He took a look across at the opposite garret-windows, where two or three consumptive-looking men, hitherto engaged in the same occupation as himself, were likewise laying it aside, or resuming their stitching by the dim light of tallow candles.
Job Kippis folded up his work carefully, then went to a square closet, almost as large as a tiny room, whence he brought some bread and cheese. These occupied him for some time. After that he went opposite the fireplace, and took a good look at the likeness.
"He was a man, was the Duke," muttered Job. "I'll never see his like again, nor England won't neither, I fancy. I'd give a deal to see him once more—just to look on his face. Well, there's many a thing I'd like, maybe, but I've got no reason to complain. Good eyesight, and steady hands, free from rheumatiz, is a thing to be thankful for at my age. I'm getting old now, and I can't expect not to be a-breaking down some day. Well, if that day comes, I've my savings, and when they're gone—"
Job paused, looked towards the strip of blue sky visible through a mist of smoke, and a smile broke over his face.
"Why, then I've a Father as 'll take care o' me, to be sure. Maybe He'll let me go to workhouse. I hopes not, sure enough. But maybe it'll be good for old Job's pride. Then I'll have to go cheerful, an' bear it without grumblin', if so be 'tis His will. Sure the Lord's as present in the workhouse as He is up here this minute. Isn't He just everywhere?"
Smiling still, and rubbing his brown firm hands together, Job gazed up for a moment, then moved towards the door.
"Think I'll get a taste o' fresh air this evening. I must begin to save my old eyes now, and let 'em rest at times. Why, just to look at those poor fellows over the way, and this side too—four children, five children, six children, all a-growing, and needing clothes and food. However they keep soul and body together, I don't know. But there's One as sees the sparrows fall. He knows it all—don't He, now?"
Down the old creaking stairs passed Job, keeping close to the wall. And, as Esther Forsyth had done, he came upon a small bundle, in the corner of the landing. But no movement answered his exclamation—
"Hallo, who is it? A child, I do believe. Poor little 'un! Asleep!"
Job gave her a slight push, and she fell helplessly upon the ground, the thin arms trailing by her side. Job bent down and felt her.
"Why, she be cold as ice—poor little 'un,—nothing left of her but skin and bone. Who'll she belong to, I wonder?" Job raised a shout—"Ho! Hallo! Here's a child ill, or somethin' wrong with her."
Several faces appeared through several opening doors at this appeal, and two or three women came forward—Esther Forsyth among them, having been in the act of coming up-stairs at that moment. The little figure was lifted from the dark corner where it lay, and the moment it was possible to obtain a view of the face, Esther exclaimed—
"'Tis little Ailie herself."
"Sure, so it be," echoed one or two others. "Wherever can she ha' been all this while?"
"What, poor Carter's little girl, as I was asked about yesterday, and nobody knowed where she was gone?" inquired old Job, with interest.
"Yes, 'tis Ailie Carter," repeated Esther. "An' I'm glad enough the little thing is found, too. She's half-starved, by the look of her."
"Poor little 'un!" said Job compassionately, and lifting the light weight in his arms—strong arms still, despite his seventy years—he bore her upward towards his own room, followed by Esther. But as they passed the door of her room, Job's burden attracted attention, and Hor and Lettie ran out.
"Mother, it's Ailie! It's Ailie! I'm so glad!" cried Lettie.
"Where did you find her?" asked Hor, much interested.
"Down on the stairs, lyin' curled up in a corner," said Job.
"Oh, is she dead?" asked Lettie fearfully, as she looked at the sunken face, lying across Job Kippis's arm.
But Ailie opened her eyes.
"Not she,—and ain't going to die, please God," said Job reverently. "It's something to eat she wants, an' I've plenty up in my house. Come along, and see her feed, if ye like."
Not Esther alone, but Hor and Lettie too accepted this invitation. Job went up, taking the lead, till he reached his room, when he sat down on the three-legged chair, the place of the absent leg being supplied by the corner of the bedstead.
"Now we'll give her some bread, to rouse her up," said Job, glancing at the loaf on the table. "That's it—a mouthful at a time. Why I thought she'd eat it, so I did," went on the old man encouragingly, as the black eyes brightened and begged for more. "Not too fast, deary—it's bad, after fastin', to eat too much an' too quick. Poor little 'un! No one to look after her, was there?"
"I wonder where she's been?" said Hor, and his mother took up the inquiry, while putting another piece of bread between the parched lips—
"Where did ye make away wi' yourself, Ailie?"
"I was down under the stairs for ever so long," said Ailie feebly, letting her head drop on Job Kippis's arm. "An' I was so hungry—and I went out in the streets—"
"And nobody gave you nothin'?" asked Lettie, pityingly.
"Nobody—nothin'," echoed Ailie.
"What made ye hide?" asked Hor.
Ailie looked confused, then suddenly sat up, tears filling her eyes.
"It was the work'us. Oh, don't take me to the work'us! Oh, please don't let them!" And, turning towards Job, as if for protection, she clung to him with all her strength, catching her breath in helpless sobs. "Oh, don't, please. I don't want to go to the work'us."
"Nobody 'll take ye nowhere to-night, deary," said Job, delighted at the confidence she showed in him.
"And not to-morrow neither!" entreated Ailie, squeezing his hand with both hers in terror. "Oh, don't! Mother 'll come back, an' I don't want to go away! Oh, please!"
"Well, well, we'll do all we can," said Job, completely melted; "poor little starved morsel as ye are. Maybe I can make up a bed for you to-night in my closet yonder, and ye'll sleep there as snug as a bird in a nest—eh? Will that do?"
Ailie's head went back on his arm, and Job would not put her down.
"Poor little deary! Little wanderin' lamb!" he muttered once or twice, as he looked about the room, and then with his disengaged hand pulled the coverlid from his own bed.
Esther, following his directions, opened the cupboard door, cleared a vacant space on the floor, and, with the slight materials at her disposal, made as good a bed as was possible under the circumstances. Job watched the operation gravely.
"Maybe it's hard," he said. "I'd give her a better place if I could, but I hasn't a better. Why, if she ain't asleep already! Well, 'twill be better for her there than down on the stairs landin'. Will ye take off the bit of a ragged frock from the poor lamb, Mrs. Forsyth?"
Esther willingly lifted the child from his arms, and carried her to the tiny closet, where there was just room for the small improvised bed, and one person to stand beside it. In a minute or two she opened the door again, and beckoned Job.
"There! She'll sleep as peaceful as peaceful can be," said Esther. "It's a kind man ye are to help the poor little thing, Mr. Kippis. We haven't a corner ourselves to offer her, or we'd do it."
"Sure enough you would, but you've all them children, and I not a chick o' my own," Job said. "Aye, she'll sleep sound enough. Don't she look happy?"
"I'm so glad it was you as found her," murmured Lettie. "Ain't you, Hor?"
"Ain't I just?" responded Hor. "To think of her starvin' under the stairs all that while. What 'll ye do with her to-morrow, Mr. Kippis?"
"Come 'n ask me that question on the morrow, boy," responded Job. "I'll be glad to see any of ye. I'm sleepy now myself. Thank ye for your help, Mrs. Forsyth."
They took the hint and withdrew.
Job had one more look at the placid face of the sleeper, and then prepared to go to bed himself; but he lay awake a good while, thinking over the question proposed by Hor.
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AILIE FINDING HERSELF USEFUL.
AILIE woke up slowly, wondering at first where she could be. Under the stairs was her first impression, but then she felt the quilt wrapped round her, and the little bundle under her head, and she saw the light coming through the half-open door. She jumped up in a great hurry, pulled on her ragged frock, and peeped out.
There sat old Job Kippis near the window, with a worn volume upon his knee, from which he was slowly reading aloud. Ailie hesitated until he looked up; then, as a smile broke over his face, she came towards him.
"Had a good night, little deary?" asked Job.
"I've slept ever so sound," said Ailie.
"And ever so hungry this mornin', eh?" inquired Job.
Ailie nodded.
"Have some breakfast d'rectly, won't ye? I've a little cleanin' up to do first, but 'twon't take long. And—well, I'd like to see you doin' the same thing, Ailie," added Job, with a glance at Ailie's dusky face and fingers. "I'll give you some water, an' a piece of soap."
"Mother liked me to wash," said Ailie, and Job carried the old tin basin to her closet, well pleased at her answer. There he left her, and thence she emerged in a few minutes, a very different-looking child, with fresh skin, and hair smoothed back as neatly as was possible without the aid of a brush. Ailie had tried the effect of water instead, which gave it a plastered appearance, but added to its smoothness.
"That's a deal better," said Job. "And now we'll come to breakfast."
He propped up the broken chair with a piece of wood kept on purpose, and balanced himself upon it, while Ailie took her seat on the foot of the bedstead, and the table stood between them. There was a stale half-loaf upon it, and a tiny piece of butter, and a small battered teapot containing some weak tea. Ailie was sure she had never tasted so delicious a meal in all her life, and Job would not stint her, though he took less than usual himself, to make up for her ravenous appetite. She asked for nothing, and would have left off uncomplainingly, but the hungry eyes were too much for his fortitude, and he gave her as much as he thought good for her.
"Mayn't I wash up?" asked Ailie, seeing him begin to do so. "Mother used to let me help her, ever so long ago—afore we had to pawn everything."
"Why, ye don't know how," said Job, looking down at the child.
"I'd soon learn," responded Ailie, and Job Kippis nodded his head.
"So ye shall, deary, sure enough. Never does nobody no harm to learn. I'm all for learnin', ain't I, when we've means to do it? So there now, I'll get to my work, an' you'll tidy up the room for me, like as useful a maid as ever I see."
Ailie smiled acquiescence, and Job Kippis settled himself to his tailoring, casting an occasional side-glance at the little maid's movements. She did not seem at a loss. First the chair was pulled back against the wall, and the table was with some difficulty restored to its usual place. Then Ailie set to work to re-make the bed. Job had made it already that morning, but he said nothing to disturb Ailie's pleasure in being useful; he only gave one or two furtive looks, a smile twitching his lips.
The bed-making—such as it was—being accomplished, Ailie brought out the tin basin, and filled it with fresh water from the old tin can, which had been wont to stand in the closet till displaced by her presence. With careful fingers she washed the two little blue plates, and the two little white mugs, in imitation of her mother's custom in earlier days, before misery and want had broken in upon such habits. Then arranging them and the teapot upon the mantel-shelf—not their usual place, but Ailie asked no questions, and Job would not interfere—she finally hid away the tin basin in a corner, rubbed her fingers clean, pushed back her hair, and went to Job.
Job gave her a little nod, with the words—"Thank'ee, deary," and continued his work. Ailie watched intently, feasting her eyes on the bright red cloth, and once in a way looking out of the window at the roofs opposite, and the blue sky over them.
"It's ever so much better up here than down below," she said at length.
"Down whereabouts?" asked Job.
"Down in the cellar," said Ailie.
"Ah, 'twas there ye lived, wasn't it?"
Ailie nodded.
"And you likes this best?"
Another nod, and after it came the abrupt question, "What be you goin' to do with me?"
Job looked up at the eager face, then worked on steadily. "Why, that's the very question I was askin' myself last night. What's to be done with ye, poor little 'un, till your mother's back? Two months, ain't it?"
"Oh, not the work'us, please, please!" entreated Ailie, with passionate earnestness.
"Why, ye wouldn't be so badly off there," said Job, soothingly. "Maybe I'll come to it myself some day, I was a-thinkin' only yesterday."
"Oh, not the work'us, please!" was all Ailie could reiterate.
"What's to be done with ye, then?" asked Job, putting the puzzling question in his turn.
A pause followed, during which Ailie looked round the room, towards the closet, and back again into the kind hearty face, with its silver locks drooping over the forehead.
"I wish ever so much I was your little girl," sighed Ailie.
"Why, do ye like the old man?" asked Job, thinking how her arms had clung to him the night before.
"Lots!" said Ailie emphatically. "I'd like to be mother's still, 'cause I love her, you see, but I wish you was my—my—gran'father," concluded Ailie, with a great stretch of imagination, "so's I could get up on your knee, like as I did on father's, afore he was ill."
"Father was good to ye, wasn't he, eh?" asked Job.
Ailie nodded in her quick way.
"An' ye like a-sittin' on somebody's knee, like as you did on mine yesterday; but you was half asleep, and maybe you don't remember."
"Oh, but I do, too, an' it was as nice as nice!" repeated Ailie, with shining eyes. "And I did feel so certain sure you was a-takin' care o' me, I didn't feel afraid—not o' the work'us, even."
"Pretty, ain't it?" muttered old Job softly. "Maybe I'll learn a lesson from that, couldn't I, now? Lyin' in my arms, and never seen me before, and not feelin' a bit o' fear, 'cause she knowed I'd take care o' her! Why, how did she know it, 'cept that I picked her up, when she was a-lyin' all helpless, an' gave her food, an' cuddled her in my arms? Sure that's what the Good Shepherd does—not as I'm likenin' myself, a poor sinful old man—but, sure enough, He does pick up the poor stray lambs, and feeds 'em, an' they feels His arms round 'em, and sees His face, and trusts Him, and has no fear. Ain't that a beautiful thought now?" added Job, looking up brightly, in his usual fashion of putting questions to himself.
Ailie had listened to the indistinct soliloquy, but understood little of it. "What's a shepherd?" she asked.
"A man as takes care of the sheep," said Job. "And there's One—the Good Shepherd, Ailie, and maybe ye know who He is."
Ailie shook her head. "I've seen a shepherd," she said. "There was a lot o' sheep goin' through a street one day, and a man a-drivin' of them with a stick, an' a dog barkin' at them. Was he a good shepherd, 'cause he wouldn't let the carts run over 'em?"
"Ah, deary, the Good Shepherd ain't like that nohow. He don't drive His sheep, but He walks along in front, an' they loves Him so much they walks after Him. And don't He lead 'em to nice cool waters and green grass?" added Job, smiling.
"'Tain't in London, then," said Ailie shrewdly. "We've got no green grass here, 'cept it's away in them park places, as mother said she'd been to once."
"I'd like to tell ye a deal about it," said Job. "I'd like to see ye one o' His lambs, Ailie."
"I ain't a lamb—I'm a girl," said Ailie.
"I'd like to see ye one o' his lambs," repeated Job. "I'm one of the old sheep o' the flock, Ailie."
"You ain't a sheep neither," said Ailie.
And Job shook his head rather despondingly, wondering how he was to make her understand.
But at this moment there was a tap at the door, and John Forsyth came in.