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WAITING.
THE two months' imprisonment was over at last, and Ailie knew that on the evening of this frosty November day, with its slippery pavements and misty air, she might expect to meet her mother once more.
She had divided feelings on the subject. She wanted to see her mother again, but she did not want to leave her adopted grandfather. The one would bring about the other, and whether to be most glad or most sorry was a puzzle to Ailie. She wavered to and fro between the two feelings, but as evening drew near the sorrow rather predominated. It was very cold, and Job Kippis had lighted a good fire. Little Lettie had crept up there for warmth, knowing herself to be welcome, for the Forsyths had almost no fire that day, and as Ailie crouched down by the small grate with her tiny companion, she wondered much, in the thoughtful fashion of a child who has seen little of careless childhood, where she would be at that time on the morrow, for "mother" would be penniless and friendless, without work and without a home. What was to become of them she did not know.
"'Tis a bitter night for her, ain't it?" said old Job presently, breaking a long silence. He was working hard by the waning light, and a candle stood beside him ready for use when necessary, for Ailie's presence had indented on his little savings, and made needful harder toil than usual on his part. "The frost in the streets is that bad, ye can't hardly get along. We'll give her supper, an' warm her up, Ailie?"
"Where'll she sleep, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Mother said somebody 'd lend her a bed for one night," said Lettie. "Don't you think she'll live here, Ailie?"
"I dunno one bit," said Ailie; "'cause mother hadn't no work for ever so long, an' she'd ha' moved, she said, if father hadn't been too ill. Dunno where she'll go, though."
"All big London afore her, an' ne'er a home for her, poor thing," sighed Job. "It's a great babel of a place, ain't it? To think o' thousands o' houses, an' not a spot as she can call her own. Ah me, if she had but a Home above, it'd matter little then."
"Gran'father, I'll tell to mother all you've teached me," said Ailie, looking up at him, "an' I'll say my texes every day, an' 'Our Father' too, an' 'Please wash away my sins for Jesus Christ's sake.' Will that do?"
"Sure, deary, if you says it from your heart," said Job, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. "It's sorely I'll miss ye; but sure I'm glad I didn't send ye off to the work'us."
"'Cause you wouldn't ha' been my gran'father then," said Ailie. "An' mother 'd ha' come, an' found nobody waitin' for her. Will she go to the old place first, gran'father, down in the cellar?"
"Maybe not. More like she'd know well enough ye couldn't have lived on alone, an' she'd ask what's become of ye, an' the neighbours 'd tell, 'Up with old Job Kippis,' an' she'd come an' tap an' walk in. Sure isn't that a noise outside now?"
Ailie sprang to open it, but a rush of cold air was all that entered, and she shut it again.
"'Tisn't nobody, gran'father. I wonders when she'll come."
"What'll I tell ye, to make the time go faster?" asked Job. "I'll have to stop work soon; my old eyes don't stand it by this light, as if they was young."
"Tell us about when you used to wear a coat all o' scarlet," said Ailie. "Was it ever so bright a red, gran'father?"
"That it was, deary, just this colour."
"An' did ye like wearing it?" asked Ailie.
"Just think I did!" said old Job emphatically. "Didn't I march along wi' my comrades, as proud as proud could be, an' the band a-playin' away in front."
"I'd like to hear it," said Ailie. "And how did ye get hurt, gran'father."
"'Twas a musket-ball wounded me, in the middle o' the battle. The French and English was fightin', deary, 'cause there was a man as we called Boney-party, who wanted for to rule all over Europe like, an' nobody wasn't to do nothin' without his leave. A reg'lar tyrant he was, an' the English couldn't let that be at all, so the Duke goes to meet him, an' 'twas a long battle. But we got the day, for sure the Duke never knowed what it was to turn his back, nor his men didn't neither. That's the sort o' soldier I'd have you be, Ailie, under the great Captain; never to know what 'tis to be beaten, nor runnin' away, but always a' lookin' at your Captain, an' obeyin' His orders."
"Did you used to be lookin' at the Duke, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Sure an' I did, deary, an' if anybody was a bit down, or afraid, only let the Duke come ridin' up, with his face as brave an' quiet as if he was sittin' in his chair in his home, an' we was all up in a moment, an' ready for anythin'. Afraid when the Duke was by! Never such a thing for a moment."
"An' when he wasn't by?" asked Ailie.
"Why, then we all knowed he wasn't far, an' we was obeyin' his orders, an' we knowed he was seein' or hearin' all as went on. He was certain sure to come just when he was most wanted."
Job smiled to himself as he made mental application of these ideas to another warfare and another Captain.
"An' 'twas enough to see his face. We didn't want nothin' else, to make us feel like as if no power on earth 'd be able to conquer us. All we needed, deary, was just to know we was obeyin' his orders, an' doin' what'd please him, an' then 'twas sure to be right. I wasn't but only a young soldier then, an' hadn't but just listed six months afore; but there was some old soldiers as had gone through all the war with him, and if you'd seen what they thought o' him! It wasn't no wonder I caught it from them, an' felt the same. As for bein' beaten under the Duke, wouldn't they have called 'un a coward, only to speak o' such a thing?"
"Was he like that picture?" asked Lettie, and old Job made his involuntary salute, with raised hand, in memory of his chief.
"Sure enough, deary, so he was, when he was old, ye know. I see him once ridin' through the streets, an' everybody a-lookin' after him. He didn't know me, poor old Job Kippis livin' up in a garret, but I knowed him, an' it did my heart good to look on him too, it just did."
"I do wonder mother don't come," said Ailie.
"So do I, deary; but mayhap she's loitered somewhere, an' it's a good way she has to walk, an' there's the fog hinderin' of her. It'll be hard to pick her way through it."
The twilight deepened, and the evening waned, and Ailie's mother did not come. No tap at the door; no sound of approaching footsteps, save those passing to other rooms. Ailie wondered and waited, and waited and wondered, and grew somewhat sad in her suspense; for that forlorn and tempted woman had been a tender mother to her in the past.
"Maybe she's ashamed to show her face," murmured Job. "Fresh out of jail—no wonder. I'll go an' take a look for her."
Telling the children to remain where they were, he went down the staircase, and out into the street. It was almost deserted. Job peered about through the darkness, walked up and down the pavement once or twice, and made inquiries as to whether aught had been seen or heard of Mrs. Carter; but it was all in vain. He went up-stairs again, and told Ailie her mother had not come, nor was she likely now to do so before next day.
"Maybe some'at has hindered her," said Ailie hopefully. "I dare say we'll see her in the mornin'."
The morning was fine, and wonderfully clear for November; but no mother came. All through the long day Ailie watched, and waited, and vainly hoped; but still no Mrs. Carter made her appearance.
They could not think what might be the reason. Job in his anxiety went to the Forsyths,' and John Forsyth, having a day unhappily free from work, as was too often the case now, went off to the prison itself, undertaking the long walk out of simple kindness. He learnt there that she had been set free at the time expected, and one person, who had spoken some kind words to her on her leaving, believed she had talked of returning to her old quarters, to inquire after the whereabouts of her child. Beyond that, John Forsyth failed to meet with any traces of the poor woman's movements.
All the next day they did not give up hope; but that day passed, and the next also, and others after, and she did not come. Job Kippis and John Forsyth ceased to hope for news of her. Whatever was the cause of her absence, and whether it were through choice or compulsion, they had no means of learning any more. To all intents and purposes, little Ailie was an orphan, cast adrift upon the wide world, utterly dependent upon charity.
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JOB'S DUTY.
"LOOK ye here," said John Forsyth, having found his way into Job Kippis' garret, "it's ten days gone by, an' nothin' heard o' Mrs. Carter. Now I don't want to be interferin', nor givin' of unwelcome advice, an' ye wouldn't take the last I offered ye—worse for yerself, it may be—but I've a mind to speak to ye again on the subject."
Job nodded.
"About that there child," said John.
"Just so," responded Job.
"What be you goin' to do with her?"
"Question I've asked myself many a time. I don't see my way clear."
"It's clear enough, if ye'll open yer eyes," said John. "Send her to the work'us."
Ailie was absent from the room, or this suggestion would hardly have been received in such silence.
"Well, I don't know," said Job slowly at length. "Seems to me that don't make the way clear at all."
"I tell ye there's nothin' else to be done. You ain't young no longer, an' for you to burden yourself with a great growin' girl—it'll mayhap bring you to the work'us one day."
"Mayhap," said Job.
"You're not thinkin' in earnest of doin' it, eh?"
"Can't just tell," said Job.
"You've kept her nigh a fortnight on, in hopes o' her mother's comin' back. 'Tain't likely we'll see her now. If she haven't met with foul play o' some kind, it's like her heart failed her, an' she was 'shamed to face the neighbours, just out o' jail. She prided herself a deal on her good name. But if she don't choose to come an' take charge of her own child, what's left to Ailie but the work'us?"
"True," said Job.
"An' ye'll send her there?"
"I'll think first," said Job.
"You'll think yerself into a mighty unprudent action, if you don't look sharp," said John.
"Soon's I'm sure o' my duty, I'll act upon it," said Job.
"Your duty's to do what's prudent an' in common sense, I take it," said John.
"Maybe I've a higher rule than that," responded Job. "Maybe I've a wish to please my Master first, an' then to think o' prudence."
"You're not a-going to let any wild notions o' religion lead you to 'dopt that little 'un as your own?" expostulated John.
"No wild notions at all, I can tell ye. Simply I've a Master, an' I'm His servant, an' ye knows well enough a servant ain't free to do his own will, but only accordin' to his master's will."
"But I say ye must be practical," said John.
"Just as I means to be," responded Job. "I'm awaitin' to know my Master's will. Maybe I'll mistake it at first, an' then no fear but He'll set me right in time. Once afore 'twas you as helped me to a clearer understandin', an' I thought ye might once again too."
"I don't know nothin' about it," said John testily. "Hope I'm a honest man, an' tries to do my duty. Don't want to go beyond that."
"Beyond doin' your duty. Why, it's a wonderful man ye'd be to do that," said Job, smiling. "Don't the Bible say how the best of us is only 'unprofitable servants,' doin' never a bit more than we're told to do? An' don't it say, 'Fear God, an' keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man'?"
John was silent—a little uneasy. The duty he had set himself hardly reached so far.
"That's duty, ain't it?" said Job, looking at him with pleasant eyes. "Maybe ye haven't feared God yet as ye might ha' done, nor kept all His commandments neither."
"Never stole in my life," said John.
"Nor never took God's Holy Name in vain neither?"
"Well, I ain't never been a downright swearer as many be," said John.
"If ye've done it once, John Forsyth, the Lord 'll not hold ye guiltless," said Job.
John fidgeted.
"Maybe ye haven't never felt any envy for your richer neighbours," said Job. "Them as drives about a carriage, an' wears silk, an' jingles their money."
"Don't know why I shouldn't have as good," said John shortly.
"Then ye broke the tenth commandment too. Ye've come short o' your whole duty before God, an' no doubt about it."
"Dare say you've done the same, for all you're so hard a-condemning of me," said John.
"Sure enough—as if I didn't know that. Come short o' His commandments! Don't I come short o' them every hour o' my life? Don't I kneel down in church on Sunday, every week, an' pray the Lord to have mercy on a miserable sinner? An He's had mercy too, an' I've His promised pardon; but for all that I goes on sinning yet, for isn't my very nature full o' sin, an' will be till I go to heaven? Do my whole duty? Why, man, there's nobody ever lived on earth as did it yet, save one, an' that's the Master Himself."
"Don't see the good of expectin' of it then," said John.
"Just so," responded Job. "An' God don't expect it neither, 'cause He knows better than we ourselves, that 'tain't in our power. But He does expect one thing, an' that is that we'll give our hearts to Him. He 've given His Son to die for us, an' He wants our love back again, you see. That's it. He commands us to come to Him, an' pray, an' trust Him, an' serve Him; an' ye can't do your duty without you obeys these commands! There ain't no other way, for He commands us to be saved, an' there's no way to be saved but through the blood o' the Lamb; and so long's we neglect that, we're not a-doin' our duty. Ye'll find one day that all your duty-doin' apart from Him 'll serve ye little at the last."
"I didn't come here for a sermon," said John curtly, "but only to give ye some friendly advice."
"An' I've give ye some o' the same in return. Hope you'll follow it better than I'm like to follow yours to me."
"About that child—" said John.
"Aye, I'm thinkin' over matters. Seems to me as the Master has put her in my way, an' telled me to take her up an' do for her, poor little stray lamb as she be."
"Never saw such madness in all my life, I didn't," said John.
"Sure, no ye didn't," said Job, with a twinkle in his eye, "when ye took up a poor little orphan yourself!"
"I wasn't a man past seventy years, nor so poor as now by a long way," said John.
"Nor I haven't five children o' my own to begin with," responded Job, and the other laughed.
"Well, ye beat me there, I don't deny. But 'twasn't prudent—I sees it now."
"Maybe ye didn't do it for the Master's sake," said Job. "That'd make a mighty difference. I've a mind now to put it this way. I don't make no promises. Maybe I'll send her by and by to the work'us, an' maybe not. Maybe it's the Master's will as I should keep her. Sure, then, He'll give me the means. I'll keep the little deary so long's I've the power, an' when I haven't—why then, sure enough, I'll let her go."
"Doubt but ye won't," muttered John. "Ye've a strong will o' your own."
However, he saw that argument only tended to confirm the old man in his resolution, and he gave it up. Soon after his departure from the room, Ailie came bounding in, with a face of anxiety and suspense, amounting to terror.
"Gran'father, Lettie telled me Mr. Forsyth was come for a talk with you, 'cause he was a-sayin' I ought to be sent to the work'us. Oh, gran'father, please—" and Ailie's black eyes looked unutterably entreating.
"Do ye want for to go, deary?" asked Job.
"I don't want it!" cried Ailie. "Only to wait here till mother comes, an' to keep with you. Won't she come, gran'father?"
"Please God, one day," said Job. "We don't know nought about her. D'ye think I'll get along without my little lamb, an' be happy to think o' her away in the work'us?"
"I think ye'd want me," said Ailie wistfully. "'Cause I do cleanin' up, an'—an'—oh, gran'father, don't ye think—"
"Well, deary?"
Ailie began to cry in good earnest, and Job could not stand that.
"There now, little one, don't ye be feared. I'll keep ye so long's I've a crust to spare ye. 'Tain't much I have o' my own, but ye shall share it, sure enough. We'll wait awhile an' see. I don't make no promises, but we'll just see."
"An' maybe mother 'll come back," said Ailie. "I do love you ever so much. I don't want never to go."
There was no more talk of Ailie leaving. Quietly as before she lived on in old Job's room, sleeping in the closet at night, playing about the house and courtyard during the day. Many a half-hour would Job Kippis win her away from her ragged little playmates, to sit by him as he worked, and learn more and more of the "sweet story of old."
Lettie, too, used to creep in and listen with silent interest to the wondrous tale. Sometimes Job taught them both a short text, but this was hard work to both teacher and scholars, and the Bible stories were preferred. Ailie was always the first to grow restless. Quiet Lettie, with her shrinking from rough and boisterous games, and her love of retired corners, would often sit on and listen when Ailie had rushed away. A silent useful little maiden she was, unlike the children around her, and the one comfort of her careworn adopted mother.
Time passed thus, but nothing more was seen or heard of Mary Carter. November came to an end, and December dragged its slow length along, and still Ailie was motherless. She had almost ceased by this time to expect or hope for any change.
But a change of another kind was threatening, and a cloud was drawing near. The winter was severe, and the frost was sharp, and employment of all kinds was slack. Many men were out of work. John Forsyth's failed, or was only to be obtained by fitful snatches. Job Kippis' wavered, grew uncertain, and finally came to an end.
He could obtain no more. There Was none to be had, seemingly. He was old, and younger men were preferred. His sight had begun to fail of late, perhaps from over-toil on Ailie's account. The little stock of savings, already deeply dipped into, melted away, and want—stern want—stared them in the face.
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CLOUDED.
THE last crust was eaten; the last farthing was expended; the last piece of firing was burnt; and Job Kippis sat, with his sinewy hands lying idle upon his knees, and his eyes gazing into the empty grate.
It was a cold day—bitterly cold. The wind wailed and howled round the old building, sending piercing gusts through every cranny. Snow had been falling off and on for hours, in small flakes, and every housetop bore a white covering. What a contrast between it and the grimy walls around!
Old Job Kippis was alone. He did not know what had become of Ailie during the last hour, but he was glad she was not present to see him in his despair. For a tide of woe and mistrust had crept over Job, and in very heart he was alone. A cloud had veiled his Heavenly Father's face. Heaven itself seemed far away. He only felt utter desolation.
So hard as he had worked and striven, to come to this! Was it his own fault? Had he indeed acted with weak imprudence in sheltering the homeless orphan beneath his roof? John Forsyth had warned him that one day he would rue it—that she might even bring him to the workhouse. It seemed so now.
Did he regret doing it? Hardly. He loved his little Ailie—this tender-hearted old man. But he was sorely bowed down and perplexed. So strange it seemed to him. He had brought the little one into his home to please his Master, and his Master showed no pleasure. He had trusted in his Lord, and his Lord had forsaken him.
"Leastways, I can't see Him now," said Job, lifting his gaze to the little window, where falling snowflakes and low clouds blotted out all of heaven's blue. "I can't see Him, nor feel Him, nor hear Him. Don't seem as if I could pray to Him. Ain't that bein' forsaken?"
Yes, surely he thought his Lord had forsaken him. He was entirely alone. He had no strong Arm to depend upon, or he could feel none. He had no loving Eye to guide him, or he could see none. His means were at an end. He had no more money. He had no more food. He had no more work. He was weak with fasting and weary with searching, and his limbs had refused to carry him further. He had pawned already such trifling articles as could be spared from among his scanty possessions.
"It'll come to nothin' but the work'us," said Job, in low tones. "An' I did hope the Lord 'ud keep me out o' that, for the little o' my life that's left. I'll have to send the child, an' go myself too."
Stooping more heavily forwards, he sat with his hands together, and his eyes bent on the ground. He could almost have broken forth with little Ailie's cry, "Oh, I don't want to go to the work'us—I don't want to go!" But there was no one to hear him, and he only drooped in silence beneath the dread of what he saw ahead.
So respectable and independent as he had been all his life, to come to this in his old age! It was a sore trial. Yet Job thought he could have borne it, but for the cloud of distrust which had gathered over him. Was it all in love? Had his Master indeed marked the deed done to please Him? Would the "cup of cold water" given to Ailie meet with a reward?
"Not as I did it for a reward," muttered Job; "but I did think He'd ha' helped me to get along. An' He hasn't. Ever since, I've been just goin' down an' down, an' now the money's all used. There's nothin' left."
Mechanically he drew his Bible towards him, and with trembling hands turned over a page or two.
But his eyes were dim, and his heart was heavy. The words of life that he read seemed to drop like lead, one by one, as if they had no hope, no meaning in them. He shut the volume at length with a groan.
"It's all over, an' I can't do nothin' more. I did think He wouldn't ha' forsaken me in my old age. But sure my Lord knows best."
Those last words came to him unbidden, following upon the others by mere force of habit. He had so often said them before from a full and joyful heart. Job said them now without design; but somehow they returned upon himself with singular force. "Sure He knows best. Why, don't He now? Don't He always know best? Wouldn't He show me His Face an' His glory this minute, if 'twas good for me?"
It was a little opening in the cloud, resulting from the mechanical utterance of those few words, "My Lord knows best." Job felt certain that it must be so. Down in his heart he knew it. But still the cloud did not vanish.
He took up his Bible again, and turned slowly to the story of his namesake in the early ages of the world,—of another Job bowed down beneath God's chastening hand. He had often pondered in his simple fashion over Job's conflicting faith in God, and confidence in self; over his mingled strength and weakness; over his friends' harsh yet perhaps not altogether untrue judgments passed upon him; and over God's gracious teaching and condescension at the close.
He did not read on steadily now, but turned from one page to another, gathering a verse here and there.
"'Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?' * * *"'For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet, yet trouble came.'
"So it has," said Job. "Nor I wasn't safe nor quiet neither, but I did trust the Lord 'ud keep me.
"'Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth: therefore despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty.'"
Job shook his head. "It don't seem to make me happy. Ain't I wrong there? Seems like as if I must be. I'll see how it goes on.
"'For He maketh sore and bindeth up. He woundeth and His hands make whole. He shall deliver thee in six troubles, yea, in seven there shall no evil touch thee.'"'He shall deliver thee!'
"That's sayin' a deal," commented Job, falling into his usual habit. "Sure, there's a true promise. An' no evil shall touch me! No evil at all? Ain't it evil to be driven to the work'us? Why, no; not if 'tis His will. Don't the Lord know best? Don't all things work together for good, if I loves Him? Sure, there's no evil in that."
He was growing calmer now, though heavy-hearted still. The next verse that caught his eye struck to his conscience.
"'Know, therefore, that God exacteth of thee less than thine iniquity deserveth.'
"An' that's true, too, though 'twas one o' Job's three friends as said it, an' they was none o' the wisest; but 'tis true. Who be I, a poor sinful old man, to dare to complain o' the Lord Almighty's dealin's with me?"
The next came very near his feelings, and caused a throbbing in his heart. * * *
"'He hath stripped me of my glory and taken the crown from my head.'"'Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my friends; for the hand of God hath touched me.'
"Seems to me Job had forgot there about bein' happy when God correcteth. No—'twasn't him as said that, neither, 'twas one o' his friends—but tis true, for the Bible puts just the same in other parts too, don't it? Where it says:
"'The Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy.'
"Ain't that the place? Well, I'll look on here, now, an' see how soon Job gets up again from bein' in the depths. Why, sure!—
"'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"
Job stopped short. Coming almost immediately after that desponding appeal for pity, it struck straight to his heart, with a glow of triumphant confidence.
"Why, I knows it too, don't I? I knows He lives. Poor weak old man that I be, a-doubting of His love. I knows He liveth, an' He loveth too, and 'll do the best as can be for me. I knows it all. Job Kippis, ye're an old fool, to go doubtin' your Lord, 'cause He's hid His Face from you, an' given you a taste o' trouble. What if He do? What if I goes to the work'us? Ain't there a heaven an' glory awaitin' me? I know my Redeemer liveth, that I do.
"'And that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.'"
Job read so far, and paused again, turning quickly to the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew.
"Aye, there it all be. He'll stand on the earth, an' He'll sit on His throne too, and I'll stand before Him. And wouldn't I like to hear Him say to me, 'I was an hungered and ye gave Me meat; I was thirsty and ye gave Me drink; I was a stranger and ye took Me in.' An' if I falls down at sight of His glory, an' asks when, He'll say as how I did it unto Him, in doin' it for His sake to little Ailie. Sure I couldn't have been wrong in helpin' the poor stray lamb. Sure the Lord 'll not forsake old Job."
The light had come back now. Truly Job had found the Bible "a lamp unto his path." Hungry, fasting, friendless, he might be still, but the light of heaven's peace had returned, and Job smiled brightly once more, for in the depths of his heart he could say, "I KNOW that my Redeemer liveth."
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MET AGAIN.
ONE fine frosty morning, a few days later, Josie Therlock sat sewing by her mother's side, in the morning-room, with its blazing fire.
"Mother," said Josie.
"Yes, dear."
"I don't think there's anybody in all the whole world so good as Leveson."
"At all events there is no one more dear to us, except—"
"Yes, I know," said Josie hastily, having a great dread of allusions which might end in weeping. "But I don't mean that. I mean that he is so very good—don't you think he is almost a little too good sometimes? He has been wanting to get himself a microscope for ever so long, so that he could show me things in it. He said it would make a cheese-mite look ever so big, and a needle like a great spear. And now he has gone and spent the money on beggars."
"Not beggars, I suspect. Leveson likes to hunt out the poor and needy who do not beg."
"But you know what I mean. O dear, this seam is dreadfully long."
"Poor Josie—always in some trouble."
"I don't think there's any trouble so bad as a great long seam without any end."
"If it really had no end, I half think I could agree with you."
"Well, this hasn't—hardly," said Josie. "I can't see any as I work, and my back aches, and my fingers are so cold."
"Nurse will take you out for a walk presently."
"I like that, only nurse won't take me where I wish. She is so fond of seeing all the shops, and I don't care for them unless I have something to buy. But I haven't a penny left."
"Shall I send you to the toy-shop as a little treat, if you finish your seam nicely?"
"The toy-shop?"
"Yes, to spend a shilling for me, on something that a certain little girl would like to have for her own."
"O mother! You darling!" And Josie gave her an enthusiastic hug, returning to the seam vigorously. "I'm going to work ever so hard now, and I shall soon finish."
"I should like to see you doing as much to please me, Josie, as you will do for the sake of a shilling."
"Oh, but indeed, it isn't that I don't want to please you, only—only—" Josie paused, in perplexity how to wind up,—"only it is so hard. But, mother, do you think Leveson needed to do that—about his microscope?"
"I can't judge for Leveson."
"Because he gives ever so much away. And I wanted to see the microscope."
"That is a reason which I suspect weighed more with Leveson than any wish to have it himself. But I suppose he thought his poor people needed help, even more than you needed to see a magnified needle or cheese-mite."
Josie made no answer, and worked steadily for a while. Suddenly she sprang up with a shout—
"It's done—quite done. Isn't that good? And now may I—?"
Mrs. Therlock pulled out her purse; and Josie flew off with the shilling in her hand.
No long time passed before she found herself in the shop with nurse. Such an array of toys lay before her, that it was no easy matter to choose. There were dolls in abundance, but she had plenty at home. There were boxes of toys, but Josie considered herself rather beyond them. And after all a shilling would not do very much. Josie inquired the price of half the things she saw, at first in high spirits, which grew slightly irritable, as she found how little she could purchase.
However, she satisfied herself at last with a neat white basket, which she told nurse "would just hold her smallest doll's best frocks, which were tumbling about among all the bigger things. And mother likes me to be tidy even with my toys," added Josie, anxious to prove the wisdom of her choice.
It was a keen day, though sunshiny. The frost had lasted long, and while most of the snow had disappeared, it still lay in thick patches on the roofs, and in sheltered corners. Nurse was lingering at a shop-window, to admire the remains of some Christmas decorations, and Josie had walked on a few yards, admiring her basket as she went. She remembered all at once that it was just about here she had seen the poor little starving girl some months back, and raising her eyes at the recollection, they unexpectedly encountered the same child. The very same—Josie had no doubt about that. Face and hands indeed were cleaner, and the ragged frock had been carefully patched; but she was just as thin, just as hollow-checked, just as miserable, just as much a picture of want, as when Josie had last come across her.
"Why," Josie exclaimed involuntarily, "you're the very same little girl that was starving that day,—ever so long ago."
"I'm starvin' now," said Ailie, speaking feebly, though with a gleam of recognition.
"But if you are always starving, how is it that you never get quite starved?" asked Josie.
"I haven't been since that day. Gran'father's kept me, an' I've had enough. But he's out o' work now, and we've sold nigh everythin', an' the money's gone," said Ailie.
"I did not know you had a grandfather," said Josie. "You told me you had no home."
"Nor I hadn't," said Ailie. "An' he only makes me call him gran'father, 'cause he's so good to me. Old Job Kippis is his name. He's give me a home all these months past."
"A home where?" asked Josie.
"Up in his garret. Top of a house, down a back street nigh to here," said Ailie.
"Up in a garret! How very dreadful," said Josie. "Why doesn't your grandfather get more work?"
"He can't. He's tried. An' he says we'll have to go to the work'us."
"Why, that's just what you were afraid of last time," said Josie, dubiously. "And yet you have never been. Where's your mother?"
"I dunno," said Ailie, gulping down a sob.
"How do you mean,—don't know?"
"She's never come. They set her loose out o' jail, an' she set off for to come back, an' she never come. Nobody don't know where she is."
"I wonder if you are really telling me the truth now," said Josie thoughtfully. "I do wish Leveson were here, for he would be sure to know, and I am sure I don't."
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LEVESON'S SECRET.
THEY stood looking each at the other,—the little daintily-dressed girl, in her warm winter clothing, with furs, and muff, and sheltering jacket; and the poor child, with wasted frame, and hollow eyes, and threadbare rags, through which every gust of wind swept piercingly.
"Now, Miss Josie!"
"Yes, I know, nurse," said Josie, turning in self-defence at the sound of reproof. "But this is the same little girl I saw once before, and you know what mother said."
"Don't believe it is the same," said nurse shortly.
"O yes, it is, because I know her face. She has been living with her grandfather ever since,—at least she says so,—and he isn't her real grandfather, but he gave her a home when she was starving. Wasn't that it, little girl?"
Ailie nodded. "An' gran'father grows weaker an' weaker, an' there ain't a morsel to give him," she said passionately. "An' it's all along of my livin' with him, that he's come to this."
"It is very dreadful," said Josie. "I wish I had my shilling back. Nurse, couldn't you lend me a penny? I'll pay you back when I have my allowance."
"'Tisn't any way to encourage beggars," said nurse decidedly. "I wash my hands of the whole concern, Miss Josie. If you go and catch a mortal fever, and get the house broken into and burned down, and all of us shot and smothered alive, like them Fenians do in Ireland, 'tain't my fault."
"I am sure this little girl wouldn't burn anybody," said Josie. "I haven't anything to give you now, little girl, but you must come to our house this evening,—no, not this evening, because I am going out with mother to tea,—but you must come to-morrow morning. Now mind."
"Thank ye, Miss," said Ailie.
"You don't know where we live though," said Josie, and with some difficulty she made the matter clear to Ailie. "Now mind you don't forget. Number Sixteen, and you are to ask for Miss Therlock." Josie looked dignified as she spoke. "If we find out that you have told me the exact truth, we will give you help."
"An' grandfather?" whispered Ailie.
"Yes, and your old grandfather too, of course. But mother likes to help little girls best, because—"
Josie paused, and looked grave, before continuing, "Yes, I know she will help you. It always makes her so unhappy to see any little girl hungry. That is the only reason I don't like you to come to the house. But you must come, and we'll give you something to eat before she sees you, and then you won't look so pinched. I wish I had a penny here, but I haven't."
"Nor I neither, so it's no good looking at me," said nurse. "Shows how much you think of your mamma's feelings, Miss Josie,—taking to her a child like that. When you know it'll make her think of Miss Vi, and she'll cry."
"I do think of her feelings," said Josie indignantly. "But I can't leave the little girl to starve. That isn't what mother would like. Mind you come, little girl, for I shall tell my mother all about you, and it would make her very unhappy, if you didn't. So mind you come."
And with a little parting nod, she marched off, followed by nurse. Suddenly remembering that Leveson had promised to look in on them that afternoon, she quickened her steps. All the way home her mind was full of the hungry child; but on reaching the house, that subject was banished by the sight of Leveson in the passage.
"Oh, how nice! I was so afraid you wouldn't come," and she flung herself into his arms.
"I was afraid too that I could not manage it, but having told you to expect me, I thought I must spare a couple of hours."
"Is mother in?" asked Josie, clinging to him, and leading him into the dining-room. "She meant to be back early from her walk."
"No, I hear she was delayed in going out by a visitor, so she has not returned yet. You and I must be content with each other's company for a while."
"And now tell me all sorts of things, and ask me a hundred questions," said Josie, establishing herself on the sofa arm, with her hand on his shoulder. "Do!"
But Leveson was provokingly absent. He smiled and talked, but his questions were few, and his answers wide of the mark.
"What are you thinking about?" she said at length.
"Not of what you were saying, I am afraid," said Leveson, rousing himself. "I beg your pardon, Josie."
"But what is it?" asked Josie.
"Never mind now. I am afraid your tongue runs a little too fast, my small woman, for you to be trusted with secrets."
"Now, Leveson—when I kept that secret about mother's birthday present for a whole six weeks!"
"Ah, that was a different thing. And hints and conscious looks will not do here."
"I am sure I shall look conscious now," said Josie. "And mother will ask me why, and I shall tell her I don't know, so she had better ask you."
"Not if I ask you to tell her no such thing!"
"Oh, but do tell me your secret, Leveson. Indeed you may trust me. Oh, do."
Leveson shook his head, and looked out of the window.
"What is it about?" asked Josie. "Nothing bad, I suppose. No, I can see that in your face. Is it very good?"
"Almost too good to be true—if true," muttered Leveson. "I hardly dare to hope, and yet—it seems more than probable—"
"Leveson! It's about Vi," exclaimed Josie, starting up with a shriek.
"Hush, hush, Josie. I am very unwise to say so much."
"Oh, won't you—oh, do tell me," implored Josie. "Have you heard the least little bit of anything about Vi?"
"It is just possible; I can say no more than that. A friend of mine has come across a child who might be—may be—but it is all uncertain. To-morrow I shall search out all particulars, and go to see her."
"And won't you tell mother?"
"On no account. The uncertainty, and the possible disappointment after all, would half kill her. Josie, for her sake, you must allow no sign of this to escape you in her presence,—not even an allusion to what you have heard."
"No, I won't—I won't," promised Josie. "But how soon shall we know?"
"You may depend upon me to look in to-morrow evening, whether I have anything certain or not to tell you."
"Is it near here that the little girl lives? Fancy, if she is Vi!" cried Josie.
"No, far away, quite in another part of London. She lives with an old charwoman."
"Vi herself! Think of that! Won't it be a change for her to come home? Don't you think it must be Vi?"
"I can't say. It may be, but that is all, though I certainly have hopes."
"Do you think she will remember us?" asked Josie.
"Hardly possible. A little creature only two and a half years old,—but her face was not one likely to change much, and she was the very image of your mother. Do you recollect her?"
"Not much. You see I was so small—only four or five; but I remember us two playing with our dolls, together. And then the day she was lost—I haven't forgotten that. Nurse had dressed her out in that lovely worked frock, which her godmamma gave her. I know that, because nurse told me I didn't look one quarter so nice in mine, and that made me angry with Vi. We were going to tea somewhere, weren't we?—And on the way, I remember a great crowd of people, and I was frightened, and clung to nurse ever so tight, and then nurse missed Vi. And I remember how wild she was, when she hunted and couldn't find her, and no one seemed to have noticed her. And then mother's crying—oh, how dreadfully she used to cry—and nurse's illness and going away, and the new nurse coming, and mother's saying she could never leave London again till Vi was found, and how I used to long for the green fields again. I remember all quite well. Oh, if you really have found her—only think!—won't it be great, great happiness?"
"We shall never be able to thank God enough, if it is so," said Leveson. "But I hardly venture yet to hope, after all this vain searching for years."
"And then we should go into the country, shouldn't we?" said Josie. "I wish I knew. I wish you had seen the little girl."
"Only a few hours to wait, I trust. It was not till I was in the act of starting to come here, that my friend told me about her, and he could not go with me to-night, but to-morrow—early—"
"O Leveson!"
"Hush, that is my mother's step."
And hard as they both found it, they talked naturally and quietly, so that she saw nothing unusual in their faces or voices—nothing to make her suspect what was going on.