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LETTIE'S FRIGHT.
AILIE walked home slowly after her interview with Josie Therlock,—slowly, and with failing limbs, though her heart felt lightened and more hopeful. Only a few more hours, and then—
Job was lying on the bed when she went in. The little garret looked desolate, stripped of all its belongings, save the one bed, the one chair, and the carefully kept print over the fireplace. Everything else had gone in the struggle for subsistence. And though unruffled in expression, Job had a shrunken appearance.
Ailie did not bound into the room as she had once been wont to do. She came in with a dragging step, and sat down on the floor, saying merely—
"I think we'll have some'at to eat to-morrow."
"So do I, deary,—at the work'us. It's come to that now, an' nothin' else."
"Not the work'us, gran'father. I've seen the little lady again, as spoke to me once before, an' she's telled me to go to her in the mornin',—an' she'll help us, if I've told her truth."
Job's smile was pleasant to see.
"Didn't I say the Lord 'ud not forsake us?"
"Only it's hard to wait so long," whispered sinking her voice. "I feels so bad."
"Ah, it's hard to bear,—hunger—ain't it?" said Job pityingly. "Poor little dear! Wish I'd anythin' to give ye, I do."
"There ain't nothin'—" and Ailie sobbed as she leant against the wall.
"Poor little 'un,—an' I can't get up to help ye. Get yer coverlid, an' wrap it round ye, Ailie, an' have some sleep. It'll make the mornin' come faster."
Ailie brought it slowly, and coiled herself up on the floor, like a little dormouse. She did not feel inclined yet to go to her closet, and once settled down on the floor, she did not move again. They kept their clothes on for warmth, both of them, these bitter nights, and Job lay patiently on his straw mattress, beneath the scanty covering.
"If 'twasn't for the thought o' the mornin', I'd be fain to give up, an' get some'un to apply to the work'us for us. Can ye hold out, Ailie?"
"I'll hold out," said Ailie, with an attempt at cheeriness.
"It's very cold," said Job, for something worse than the chill of winter's cold was upon him. Ailie did not know how he had denied himself day after day all but the barest pittance of food, that he might have more to give her. "It's very cold," he murmured. "'Lord, give us this day our daily bread.' But the day 'll soon be over."
"Yes," said Ailie, with a sob. "An' it's the second day we ain't had no daily bread."
"He'd give it us sure, if 'twas good for us. I did think maybe He was a-thinkin' of calling me Home in that way,—but the little lady's promised to help us now, eh?"
"Yes, gran'father," said Ailie.
"Poor little deary maybe I've done wrong in consentin' to wait so long," said Job anxiously. "It's nigh too much for us both. But I can't do nothin' more to-night. Wall have to wait till mornin'."
The garret room grew still after that. They did not move or speak again for a while,—a long while. Darkness came on slowly, and they had no light, no fire. Utter darkness crept into the little garret. Yet upon one heart there, a ray of heaven's brightness was streaming, unseen by mortal eye,—unseen by little Ailie, as she crouched, weak and shivering, near the foot of the bed.
Morning broke at last, and as the light began to show through the room, there came a tap at the door. No answer was returned, and the tap was repeated, but with the same result. Then it creaked slightly, and Lettie's little face appeared inside, having vainly awaited an invitation to enter. After one glance, Lettie's eyes opened wide with fear, and she vanished. Two minutes later she reappeared, following Esther Forsyth.
"Why, I say, Mr. Kippis—are ye ill, both of ye?"
No answer came from Job when she bent over him, save a mutter, and the dim eyes were fixed. Ailie moaned, when Esther touched her.
"They're downright starved, both of 'em. An' I haven't a morsel left. Last scraps we had was eaten up last night. What'll we do?"
"I can't walk," said Ailie, rousing herself so far as to speak. "An' the little lady said she'd help us."
"What little lady? Sure the child's wanderin' in her head," said Esther.
"I ain't. 'Twas the little lady as spoke to me before; an' she telled me to go this mornin' an' she'd give me food, an' help us."
Ailie attempted to stand up, but in vain. "It's no manner o' use your tryin' to walk without victuals," said Esther. "I'll go an' beg a scrap from some o' the neighbours."
She went off, and soon came back with a good lump of dry bread, which Ailie attacked eagerly, while Mrs. Forsyth endeavoured to force a little through the closed teeth of the old man. It was a vain attempt.
She desisted, and shook her head. "I doubt me but it's too late."
"No, no, he ain't goin' to die," cried Ailie. "O I wish I could get off an' tell the little lady."
Again she started up, but fell back like an infant, and she began to sob.
"Maybe I'd do," said Lettie. "Would I be frightened to go an' speak for ye, Ailie?"
"No, no, there ain't nothin' to frighten ye," said Ailie. "She's ever so kind, is the little lady, an' she'll give ye lots to eat. Only do save a bit for gran'father."
Lettie evidently thought that entreaty superfluous, but she listened to Ailie's instructions, as to where she should go, and how she should act. Mrs. Forsyth proposed that Hor should undertake the errand; but Ailie scouted the idea. "It was little girls as the lady liked to help—it wasn't boys—and Hor wasn't a girl."
So Lettie went off alone, starting at once. The chill air pierced the scanty rags which formed her dress, and her little chilblained hands and feet were painful. But Lettie never cried about pain. She only went on steadily, growing more timid and also more hungry every pace of her way, until she reached the house to which Ailie had directed her.
Her first ring was very feeble; and after waiting a long while, shivering from head to foot in the icy wind, she ventured to give a second pull. This time she was heard. The door opened, and a tall servant looked down impatiently on the small child.
"A beggar—we don't want beggars here," she said shortly.
"Please," entreated Lettie, "the little lady said—"
"Are you the child Miss Josie told to come for some food?"
Lettie hardly knew what to say; and at that moment a voice called down the stairs—
"Harrison, if it is my poor little girl, she is to wait in the hall, and I'll be down in a few minutes. Give her that basket of things on the sideboard, and tell her she may eat what she likes, and take the rest home."
Every word of the message reached Lettie. "Well," said the tall servant, "are you the child?"
"Please, she's sent me," whispered Lettie. "She's ill, and can't walk."
"Fever?" asked the servant, drawing back.
"No—starvin'," said Lettie.
"Oh!" said the servant, as if that were a matter of secondary importance. "Well, come in and take the basket, and eat what you like, till Miss Josie comes down."
Lettie took the basket obediently, and stood close to the door, which was left merely on the latch. She peeped inside, and wondered at the nice rolls and the pat of beautiful butter which met her gaze; but she was far too timid to venture to take any.
Suddenly a lady came down the stairs and passed towards the door of a room. She paused a moment, turning with a sweet sad smile to look at the little ragged figure standing there. But it was a smile that changed all at once—changed suddenly and strangely—changed to something that Lettie could not understand. A livid whiteness came over the lady's face; a hoarse shriek echoed wildly through the house; and throwing up her hands convulsively in the air, she fell senseless to the ground.
Lettie could not stand that! Without a moment's consideration, and before she knew what she was doing, she had rushed out of the house, and fled at full speed down the street—quite unconsciously grasping still her basket of eatables. Nor did she once slacken speed, or dream of turning back, till she again reached home.
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LITTLE VI.
"LEVESON!" and with a cry of joy Josie sprang to meet her brother. "Oh, how glad I am that you have come at last!"
"Why, Josie, my dear little Josie, I am sorry I said anything to you of my secret, if it has agitated you like this," said Leveson. "And I have nothing but disappointment for you."
"About Vi—then you know it wasn't her?"
"No, the story has come to nothing. I have seen the child, and inquired thoroughly into her history, and—"
"Oh, only think," exclaimed Josie, patience failing her—"only think, there came a little girl to the house this morning—not my little beggar girl, because she was ill, and sent this one in her stead—and oh, Leveson, mother saw her and she says it is Vi."
"Vi! Impossible!"
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She paused a moment to look at the little figure standing there.
"She says so. She goes on saying it over and over again. She saw the little girl in the passage, and she screamed and fell down as if she were dead. It was so dreadful. And the little girl must have been frightened away, for we found her gone. Mother gave such a shriek that I heard it up in my room—so loud!"
"Poor mother!" murmured Leveson. "She has been heart-broken about that child."
"And we don't know in the least where the little girl lives. Oh, how we have wanted you! Nurse doesn't know what to do, and I was sure that, if we sent, you would be out, so it would not bring you any sooner than you meant to come this evening. Mother has been ill all day—crying and laughing and talking so fast, and calling out, 'It's my Vi—my own little Vi!' She frightens me so. I am glad you have come!" Josie's clinging hands and catching sobs told of the shock she had herself received.
Leveson held her in his arms, kissing the flushed face. "What makes mother think it is Vi, Josie?"
"Oh, her face. Mother says it is just the same as when she was a baby,—not altered in the least."
"Ah, my mother always declared she should recognize her anywhere by her eyes."
"Blue, were they not?" said Josie.
"Yes, blue of a very peculiar tint and peculiar shape, and there was a curious deep dimple in each of her cheeks. It was not a face likely to change much."
"Wasn't she like mother?"
"As like as you are to our father. The very image of her. But come, you must take me in now. Is she down-stairs?"
"No, she is in her room, and nurse wanted her to go to bed, but she will only lie on the sofa. How glad she will be to see you!"
They went up-stairs, and Leveson's cheerful voice had a soothing sound, as he entered the room.
"How do you do, mother? Josie has told me your good news."
Josie drew back, frightened at the burst of weeping which followed his entrance; but Leveson held her hand, with an encouraging glance, and presently Mrs. Therlock raised her face, all tears and smiles.
"This is very weak, very ungrateful; but oh—to think that my child is found, and that I should have driven her from home again."
"Not driven far at all events," said Leveson. "Now suppose you tell me all that happened, and why you think it is Vi, so that I may know how to act."
"Think! I know it is Vi," sobbed Mrs. Therlock. "My own little darling. So shivering, and poorly clad, and half-starved; but I knew her—I knew her—I should know her anywhere."
"Know her by what?"
"Her face, her eyes, her mouth, her dimples,—the very manner—that quaint timid manner. She is the most perfect image of the old likeness taken of me when I was eight years old. And you know how like to me Vi was always considered. She has hardly changed in the least—only so thin and white, my poor little precious one. To think she should have been living near, and I to know nothing about it! But there is no possibility of a mistake. I know—I am certain it is her. Vi! Vi! How am I to get my child?"
"Mother, if you excite yourself so much, I shall not dare to talk to you on the subject," said Leveson. "I am afraid you will make yourself ill. Try to be quiet, while Josie tells me how it came about. Tell me all you know about the little girl, dear."
"Why, you know that starving child I saw once," said Josie. "And the day before yesterday—no, yesterday evening—afternoon I mean—"
"Tell me gently. Don't be in a hurry—" For Josie hardly seemed to know what she was saying.
"Yesterday I met her, just in the same place as before, and close to the same fountain. I have shown you the place, you know. Nurse was a little way behind, but I stopped and spoke to her, and she said she was starving again. She had been living with an old man up in a garret, she said, and she called him 'grandfather,' because he was so good to her. And I asked after her mother, but she never came back at all, after she was set free from jail.
"I had spent my shilling, and I had no money, so I told her to come to-day for some food. And this morning I was up in my room, when I heard the front door opened, and Harrison saying something about not wanting beggars. So I called out that the little girl wasn't to go away, but was to have the basket of food, which I had put out for her before breakfast, and was to wait in the hall till I came down, because nurse was mending my frock just then."
"And you thought it was the child you had seen before?"
"Yes, but Harrison says that she said she was not, but had been sent, because that little girl was ill from starving and couldn't come. And then just as I was going down-stairs, I heard mother call out, and nurse and I rushed down and found her fainting. And we were so frightened that no one remembered anything more about the little girl, until mother began to ask for her, and then we found that she was gone."
"Josie, don't call her 'the little girl!' She is Vi—your own little sister Vi," said Mrs. Therlock feverishly.
"Did she leave the basket?" asked Leveson.
"No, that was taken," said Josie. "I suppose she was so hungry that she didn't forget it in her fright. Do you think she really can be Vi?"
"It is," said Mrs. Therlock. "I cannot bear any doubts. I can't bear them, Leveson. Only find her for me."
"You cannot tell me anything more about her?" said Leveson. "A friend of the other child's, did you say, Josie?"
"I only know she was sent by her," said Josie. "That is all. But if you could find the other child, you could find her—Vi, I mean," she added, with a frightened glance at her mother.
"What is the other's name?"
"I don't know. I never thought of asking. It was so stupid, but nurse scolded, and that put it out of my head. Oh, Leveson, only think, if I had stopped that day we were going to Hampton Court, I might—"
"Hush, never mind now," said Leveson in a low voice, with a look which Josie understood. "Did you ask where she lived?"
"I think I said something about it, because she told me it was up in a garret of a house, not far from where she was then," said Josie.
"Come, that is not so bad. 'Not far' in London means a great deal. And she lives with an old man, you say?"
"Yes. I can't remember his name exactly, but it was Job something—Job Kips, or Job Kippers. Nurse says it was Job Klips, but I don't think there was any 'l' in it."
"That is quite a clue. There are not likely to be two men with such a singular name. I hope I shall hunt him out with no great difficulty. And we must remember too, that even if I could not easily discover him, it is pretty certain that you will see something more of the little granddaughter. If they are in want, they will probably apply again for assistance, though of course I have no intention of waiting for the chance."
"Yes, I have been hoping all day that the little girl—Vi, I mean—might come back, when she got over her fright; but she hasn't. And they have the food."
"But you will find them soon," said Mrs. Therlock. "Leveson, tell me you will."
"At least I can promise to do all in my power," said Leveson gently. "Trust,—only trust, mother, and all will turn out well. I believe we shall find our darling has been guarded all these years—that our prayers for her have been answered. She may have been in a rough school, but a rough school is sometimes the best in the end."
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THE SEARCH ENDED.
TWO days of incessant inquiry passed by, leading to no result. Hour after hour Leveson wandered from street to street, from house to house, from shop to shop, asking the same questions over and over again, but always with the same result. Nobody could tell him anything of Job Kips, Klips, or Kippers,—and as for motherless and fatherless children, he might find them by the score. But he came upon no little Vi.
Not till the third afternoon did he meet with a clue. Asking an old vegetable vendor, at the corner of a dirty back street, the oft reiterated question, and at the same time making a slight purchase to secure a civil answer, she looked him in the face with a shrill laugh.
"Job Kips,—an' what if I does know a old man, as is named Job Kippis? Mayhap 'tisn't the same."
"Probably it is," said Leveson. "At all events I should be glad to know where Job Kippis lives."
"Ain't a 'tective, eh?" said the old woman. "He's a honest man, he be."
"I am no detective. I am a clergyman," responded Leveson. "You need have no fear that the old man will gain harm from my visit."
"Nay, if yer be a parson, he'd likely be glad to see yer, for they says he be ill."
"Tell me where he lives, and I will give you a shilling," said Leveson. "Or show me the house, and you shall have half-a-crown."
The old creature's eyes twinkled. She left her barrow of vegetables in charge of a girl, and led him off at a brisk pace round the corner,—into a gloomy street, with overhanging houses, blackened and grimy to a degree which even he, in all his city work, had rarely seen surpassed.
"Them—he be up in top front garret there. He 've often dealt wi' me till work failed him, an' spoke many a civil word too, he have. Where be yer half-crown, parson?"
"One moment,—" and Leveson turned to a woman passing by with a baby in her arms. "Is there an old man named Job Kippis living here?"
"Sure enough, up in a top garret," was the answer, and the half-crown was slipped into the old woman's hand, whereupon she went off chuckling. Leveson detained the other woman for a moment.
"Can you tell me anything about Job Kippis? I suppose you know him?"
"He be ill now,—was nigh starved t'other day, an' couldn't hardly be brought round."
"Has he a grandchild?"
"None of his own kith an' kin. He 've took little Ailie Carter for his own, an' nigh come to the work'us. An old man like him weren't fit for the charge."
"Is Ailie ill?"
"Both on 'em was found nigh starved by a neighbour t'other mornin'. Ailie's a-pickin' up now."
"Has any one helped them?" asked Leveson.
"Some gentlefolks gev a basket o' food. But for them, I doubt they wouldn't ha' pulled old Job through. But likely 'tis all gone now."
"That basket—" said Leveson, hardly able to speak steadily. "Ailie, you say, was ill. She could not go to fetch the basket. Who was the little girl that went in her stead?"
"Little girl in her stead—" repeated the woman absently, being occupied in wondering how the gentleman came to know so much about the matter, and deciding that he must have sent the food himself. "I'm a poor widder, sir, and 'ud be glad of help."
"If you will answer my questions, I am willing to give you a shilling for taking up so much of your time," said Leveson, not liking the assumed whine, yet feeling that the poor thing might need assistance.
"Sure, sir, I'll answer aught I can. Little girl sent in Ailie's stead,—why 'twas Lettie Forsyth."
"Lettie Forsyth!" repeated Leveson. "Who are her parents?"
"Well, now I comes to think of it, sir, I've heard as she ain't got none. But she be for all the world like to their own child."
"Will you kindly direct me to the Forsyths' rooms?" said Leveson, and he followed her up the staircase, on which numerous children sat and crawled, played and quarrelled; one and all pausing to stare in amazement at the well-dressed stranger as he passed. Leveson looked pityingly on the little ones,—unwashed, uncombed, untaught, uncared for, unconscious of a Saviour's love, unknowing a Redeemer's story. Oh, this mighty London harvest,—how few the labourers in comparison with the work awaiting them!
"And there is room in the fold for one and all, if we could but call them in!" murmured Leveson to himself.
Reaching the upper floor but one, Leveson's guide opened a door, and called out, "I say, Mrs. Forsyth, here be a parson come to see yer." Thereupon the promised reward was given, and a kind word with it.
The next moment Leveson stood in an ill-furnished room, where two infants sat on the floor, and a woman was busy at a loom. No one else was present. She rose and placed a rickety chair for the gentleman,—then waited, with no lightening up of her tired look.
"May I have a few words with you?" said Leveson, and his gentle manner won her confidence at once. He entered without delay upon the subject in his mind, for suspense was becoming unbearable. "I am anxious to hear something about the little girl under your charge."
"Under our charge—Lettie, ye'd say," returned Esther, as his meaning dawned on her.
"Yes. I believe she is not your own child."
"Seems like as if she was," said Esther. "It don't make no difference. John and I loves her as if she was our own."
"May I ask who were her parents?"
Esther shook her head. "I don't know nothin' about 'em, sir. She were a poor little starvelin' a-wanderin' alone, an' like to drop. An' we took her in out o' pity, an' she were that pretty an' clinging in her ways, we couldn't part with her. John, he did talk o' the work'us, but we couldn't send her,—we couldn't. We wasn't so poor then as we be now."
"How long ago was this?"
"Five years agone, sir,—over that."
"Five—" repeated Leveson.
"An' she were a mite of a child then, an' couldn't speak plain."
"Did you make no effort to discover her home?"
"'Twasn't much we could do, sir. We didn't live in this part then," and Esther sighed. "We'd plenty o' work, an' was well off. But John, he wanted to get on, an' he heard o' higher wages elsewhere, an' he couldn't be content to stay on where he was."
"Where were you then?"
"Some way off o' this, sir—a good hour's walk. We was starting the very next day after we found Lettie, an' we took the child with us. John did ask about her, but nobody couldn't tell nothin', an' he left word with a neighbour to let it be known, if there was any inquiries. But we never heard nothin' more. There's many a little one forsook by its parents, an' that's what we thought with Lettie—only sometimes at first I'd a fancy she wasn't a poor child born, for all her rags an' tatters. But that's all I knows about her, an' she was too young to tell us more. She'd cry for her mammy—not as I think she called her that, she spoke her words so queer—but she was easy comforted, an' Hor an' she took together wonderful. 'Twas only two years ago we came back to London, an' since then we've been goin' down an' down, till I don't know where it's to end."
"What made you call the child 'Lettie'?" inquired Leveson.
"'Twas the best it seemed to us. She couldn't speak plain; but she telled us her name was Wilet, or Wiletta, or somethin' like; but it sounded queer, so we just called her Lettie. 'Twas most times, 'Baby wants this,' when she asked for anythin'; an' sometimes she'd say, 'Wi wants it.' But we couldn't call a child Wi, sir, an' she soon forgot."
"Violetta—little Vi," said Leveson, with pale and trembling lips, at which Mrs. Forsyth gazed in amazement. "Little Wi—the old baby name. How we used to laugh at her for saying it! Little Vi—O God, I thank Thee—found at last!"
And then raising his face, which he had bent in deep and wondering gratitude, he told Esther of the little lost one, over whom they had mourned, and for whom they had vainly sought, these five years past.
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LETTIE'S RECOLLECTIONS.
"NOW ain't it just wonderful?" said Esther Forsyth, in overwhelming astonishment. "To think o' that! Little Lettie as has lived with us all this while—an' for a gentleman like yerself, sir, to be her brother."
"But how to thank you enough for all your tender care of our little lost one, I do not know," said Leveson, with moist eyes and unsteady voice. "When I think of what might have become of her, but that you took pity—"
"Twasn't no praise to me, sir," said Esther. "It's a dear child she 've been; so good an' handy with the boys; an' never giving a scrap of trouble. I don't know what I'll do without her."
"You are a mother, Mrs. Forsyth. Think what her mother has suffered all these years. And she has only one child beside."
"Lettie 'll be a deal better off," said Esther unselfishly. "It's many a day an' night she's knowed cold an' hunger, when we hadn't victuals nor fire to give her."
"I have a great deal more to say to you—much that I wish to do as a proof of our gratitude," said Leveson. "But I must leave that now till another day. I long to take the dear child to her mother. What do you think she will feel herself when she hears it?"
"Lettie? I'll call her in. She'll be main glad, if she 've sense to know her own interests. She be down now in the court, a-keeping watch over Roger—that's our half-witted boy, sir. Dear, dear, how the boys 'll ever get along without her.—But I'll go an' bring her in."
"And do not tell her anything by the way, if you please. Only say a gentleman wants to see her."
Mrs. Forsyth nodded assent, and hurried off, her silent nature for once aroused to excitement. Leveson waited with all the patience he could muster, till Esther reappeared with a slight child, in ill-mended rags, following after her. But the little face that looked up shyly into his—Leveson did not wonder at his mother's instant recognition, so marvellous was the resemblance in feature and expression, not only to the lost infant of five years earlier, but to Mrs. Therlock herself.
Very tenderly, he lifted her upon his knee, for he was anxious not to startle the little one, and in his gentlest voice he said, "You don't know who I am, do you, Lettie?"
"Mother telled me a parson was come," said Lettie's shy deliberate tones.
"What do you think the parson has come for?"
"Dunno," whispered Lettie.
"Lettie, you are very fond of Mrs. Forsyth, are you not?"
Lettie nodded, and corrected him with the word "Mother."
"But she's not your own real mother, you know."
"Yes, she be," said Lettie unexpectedly.
"No, no, I ain't," said Esther, disposed to be tearful.
"'Cause Hor says you is, and I'm every bit his sister, an' he won't have nobody say 'tain't," responded Lettie, with decision.
"But, Lettie, though Mrs. Forsyth has been very very kind and good to you for a great many years, yet she is not your own mother," said Leveson. "Would you not like to see your own real dear mother?"
Lettie looked dubious.
"I say, Lettie, don't ye remember anythin' of the days afore ye lived with us?" said Mrs. Forsyth.
"Dunno," murmured Lettie.
"Don't you remember a kind gentle lady, who used to kiss little Lettie, and hold her in her arms, and give her nice presents?" asked Leveson.
"No," said Lettie.
"Don't you remember nursie, whom you loved so much? One day she put such a pretty frock on Lettie, and took her out to walk; and then there was a great crowd, and somebody carried off Lettie, and stole her nice clothes. Don't you remember all that?"
Lettie shook her head.
"She were such a mite," said Esther.
"I does 'member one big white flower," said Lettie.
"What, a tall flower, in a pot, with long green leaves, standing in a window?"
Lettie nodded this time.
"That was called a calla, and it used to be in my room. Strange that she should remember the flower, and forget all else," added Leveson.
"She 've no recollection, sir, of havin' been lost," said Esther.
"Was it parson's big white flower?" asked Lettie, evidently interested.
"Yes, it was my flower. Lettie, we used to call you, Little Vi, in those days. And you used to cry, and say, 'Little Wi wants that f'ower.'"
"An' did little Vi have it?" asked Lettie, not clear as to who the said child might be.
"No, but she was going to have it as soon as it began to fade, and just before then something very sad happened. Shall I tell you a story?"
Lettie nodded with some energy.
"Once there was a lady who had two little girls. One was called Josie, and one was called Vi. She was very very fond of them both, and they used to live with her in the beautiful country, among the grass, and the trees, and the flowers. But they came up to London sometimes, to an old house that belonged to the lady, though they never stayed long.
"And one day, while they were there, the two little girls were going out to tea with another kind lady. So nurse dressed them up, and Vi had on a very beautiful frock, which had been given her as a present. Then nurse took them out to walk to the lady's house; but on the way, there was a great crowd of people, and in the crowd, nurse all at once lost sight of little Vi. She looked for her, and hunted for her, but it was of no use. I think some wicked man, when he saw little Vi alone, must have carried her off for the sake of her pretty frock.
"Then nurse went home, and she cried a great deal, and the other little girl cried a great deal, and the poor mother cried most of all—oh, so much and so sadly. But no one could find little Vi. The lady said she could never leave London and go into the country again, until her little Vi was found, so she went on waiting, and hoping, and grieving, and no one could find her little Vi. And more than five long years passed away, and still the poor mother was sorrowful at the thought of her little lost child."
"Didn't she never be happy again?" asked Lettie.
"I think she will be happy soon. When I take home her little lost Vi to her this afternoon, I think she will be quite happy."
"And won't cry no more?"
"No,—no more, because she will be too glad to cry."
Then, after a pause, "Lettie, will you come home with me?"
Lettie shook her head.
"Wouldn't you like to live in a pretty house, and have plenty to eat, and all sorts of lovely flowers and nice playthings?"
"I'd like to bring 'em to mother," said Lettie.
"So you shall—all sorts of things. But you must come home with me first."
Another sign of dissent.
"And we will go into a shop by the way, and order in a good supper for Hor and all of them," whispered Leveson.
"Will we?"
"To be sure we will."
"I'll come," said Lettie.
At all events she trusted him. "I don't see as she understands yet," said Mrs. Forsyth.
"Better not too quickly. It will all come in time. Now, Mrs. Forsyth, I will ask you just to wash her hands and face for me, and then I will take her away. Don't think it is good-bye. I shall soon bring her round to see you all."
But Esther took the child to the corner of the room, and washed and cried over her together. "It's but ragged an' shabby she be, sir, but I couldn't do no better—not even for my own," she said.
"I am sure of it," said Leveson kindly; and as he rose he held out his hand for a hearty grasp. "We owe you a heavy debt, Mrs. Forsyth, and I will take care it is not forgotten."
With Lettie's hand clasped in his own, and her little feet pattering by his side, he went down the broad staircase, and out into the gloomy street. What a place! To think that his little sister could have lived here so long! He looked down on the small grave face, and then, as they came to some sharp stones, he lifted her up in his arms, pitying the tiny feet. Lettie submitted in silence. A gentleman to be carrying her! It was something unusual, certainly, in her experience, and she waited to see what would happen next.
To Leveson it mattered nothing at all that people stared at the sight of the well-dressed young clergyman carrying such a ragged little object through the streets. What signified rags to him? He only pressed her the closer in his arms, with a rush of love, and Lettie looked up in wonder to say:
"Is you glad?"
"Glad! My dear little sister!" was the response.
And Lettie's serious face showed that some comprehension of the truth was gaining entrance into her mind.
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BROUGHT HOME.
THEY stopped at a baker's shop—Lettie still borne in the arms which could not weary of their burden—and there Leveson ordered loaves and rolls sufficient to supply the Forsyth family for a week at least. At another shop, he desired that a goodly pat of butter and a quart of milk should be despatched to the same quarter; from another, he sent tea and sugar; and finally a joint of meat was ordered to follow in the morning. After which he hailed a cab, and stepped into it, sitting with Lettie on his knee, not making her talk, but watching the bewildered gravity of the little face, and tracing more strongly every moment the likeness to little Vi of old.
Home at last. Leveson paid and dismissed the cabman, then lifted Lettie up the steps and into the hall. Josie came rushing to meet him, but stopped short at the sight of the ragged little stranger.
"Yes, Josie, it is Vi herself," said Leveson.
Josie looked extremely perplexed what to do.
Lettie made no move, of course; and Josie was much more sensitive to the rags than Leveson had been.
But a quick "Josie, have you no welcome to offer?" recalled her to herself, and taking Lettie's hand, she kissed her shyly, letting the hand drop again the next moment. It felt very uncomfortable. Somehow this was not at all like the rapturous and enthusiastic re-union that she had always imagined for Vi's return; and that silent timid poor child did not seem in the least like her own sister. There was something unreal about the whole matter, and Josie looked distressfully at her brother.
"Patience, dear; it will all come right in time," said Leveson comprehendingly. "Where is my mother?"
"Up-stairs. She heard you come, and she said she was sure, by the way you shut the door, that you had some good news."
"Come, then, she is prepared," said Leveson. "We will go to her at once."
Leading the passive little Lettie by the hand, he took her to the door of the room, and entered alone. But he had no need to break the good news. One look at his face told all. "Vi!—She is found!" were the only words heard, broken by a stifled cry; and then Lettie was folded in such a passionate embrace, that it seemed as if she could never again be set free. Words failed here. Even sobs were silent in that first five minutes of unutterable joy, and only the pressure of the mother's arms spoke of what was passing in the mother's heart.
But she regained self-command. For the sake of her child, she sat up, and smiled, and looked into the little strange yet familiar face, and stroked back the uncombed hair, and kissed the thin though dimpled cheeks. "Vi, my little pet—my little darling—have they told you who I am? Do you know me, sweet one? Do you love me, precious Vi?"
"Call her Lettie—that is the name she knows," whispered Leveson.
"I wants mother," murmured Lettie, who was growing alarmed at such vehement caressing; and seeing this, Mrs. Therlock forced herself to be calm.
"You shall have her again another day," said Leveson, laying his hand on Lettie's head. "But this is mother, Lettie, and you are going to learn to love dear mother very much. Do you remember that story I told you?"
Lettie nodded.
"This is the poor mother who was so unhappy; but now she is happy, because she has her lost child back again."
"She ain't happy—she's a cryin'," said Lettie.
"Only because she is so very glad that she doesn't know what to do. Isn't Lettie glad to come to her own dear mother?"
"I wants—mother," said Lettie, with trembling lips.
"And won't you have me for a mother, sweet one?" asked Mrs. Therlock.
"Don't you think some of my frocks and things that I have outgrown would do for Lettie?" demanded Josie suddenly. "She is so very ragged."
This was a practical turn given to affairs. "Would you like a pretty frock, Lettie?" asked Leveson. "And some shoes and stockings?"
"Hor does want a jacket ever so, 'cause he can't get no work," said Lettie.
"You darling, he shall have it," said Mrs. Therlock eagerly. "Give me a kiss, and Hor shall have a new jacket."
"And now Josie shall take her to nurse in the next room, and see what can be done in the way of dress," said Leveson, when that request was acceded to. "No, mother, you must lie quiet. I cannot have you overdo yourself, and I have a great deal to tell you. They will become better acquainted if they are alone together," he added, in a lower voice.
Mrs. Therlock submitted, though she gazed longingly after the little pair as they disappeared. She had many things to ask and hear—many particulars concerning Leveson's search—how he had found Lettie; with whom she had lived; what had been the manner of her life; and why and when the Forsyths had first taken her up.
Leveson had so much to say, that before he had finished, the door again opened, and the two little sisters entered, hand in hand—Lettie arrayed in a blue merino frock, outgrown by Josie, with her hair brushed smoothly behind her ears, and a neat pair of shoes and stockings on her feet. The pleased smile on the little face was even a greater change.
"Little pet! You like your new frock, don't you?" said Mrs. Therlock, drawing her close for another embrace. "Does it feel warm and comfortable?"
"She looks nice, doesn't she?" said Josie, as Lettie nodded. "I feel somehow as if she were really more like my sister now."
"Do you know what to call this little girl, Lettie?" asked Leveson, touching Josie's shoulder.
"Miss Josie," promptly responded Lettie.
"No, only 'Josie,' because she is your sister. And what are you to call me?"
Lettie attempted no answer.
"You must call me Leveson. It is a hard name, isn't it? But you will soon learn how. And this lady?"
"I dunno," said Lettie.
"Won't you call me 'mother,' darling?" asked Mrs. Therlock.
But Lettie thought of another, and at once said—
"No."
"'Mamma,' then, sweet one."
Lettie nodded. She was very sparing of her words that evening, grave, demure, silent, and submissive. They gave her a good tea which she heartily enjoyed, and Josie brought out numberless toys afterwards, making her presents generously of the best among them; but Lettie would only show pleasure by looks, not by words.
Mrs. Therlock could not bear to have her out of her sight, though as yet there was no return of affection, and when they put her to bed, she sobbed herself to sleep for "mother." Her own mother, sitting near, shed a good many tears in company, but she knew how time would work, and she was too happy and thankful for the great mercy of having her child restored, to dwell on minor troubles.
Josie was happy too, yet not without a cloud. Leveson saw and understood. When Lettie was gone to bed, and Mrs. Therlock had vanished to watch by her side, he took Josie on his knee, and said, "Well, little sister?"
Josie sighed.
"It has been a bright day for us, has it not?"
Josie hung her head, and said, "I'm glad she's found."
"Only that?"
"I am glad," said Josie, with a little sob. "And I don't want to be nasty and cross,—only mother does kiss her so very very much."
"Don't you think it is natural she should?"
"She hasn't remembered to give me one kiss all the evening," said Josie, another sob welling up from the depth of her heart.
"Think of the five long years that you have had all the kisses she had to give—and poor little Lettie without one."
"I know, but that makes it harder to bear," said Josie, in a choked tone. "And Lettie doesn't care. And I shall only have half of mother now, and I used to have the whole of her."
"And do you think, Josie, that all the love she gives to Lettie will take away one feather's weight from what she has always given to you?" Then putting his arm round her, he quoted, "'Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad, for this thy brother'—thy sister—'was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.'"
"But you don't think I'm like that elder brother, do you?" said Josie indignantly. "Because he didn't like to see the fatted calf killed, or the best robe given; and I am sure I liked ever so much to see Vi eating the plum-cake, and dressed in my old blue frock."
"Perhaps the old blue frock does not occupy quite the same space in your thoughts, as the best robe did in those of the elder brother. He was jealous, you see, not at his brother having the same that he had himself, but because he had better."
Josie sighed. "I don't mean to be jealous. I'm sure I shouldn't like to be."
"Then fight it in the right way, dearest, when the feeling comes, and remember that mother has to win Vi's heart, while she is sure of yours. That makes a great difference. And you will try to win her also to love you, will you not?"
"Yes, I mean to be kind," said Josie, in a low voice. "I did try this evening."
"And you succeeded too, dear. Vi will soon learn to love you dearly, if you go on as you have begun."