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PICTURES.
LYING still upon the mattress of his garret bed, with only one thin blanket over him, his brown wasted hands clasped across his broad chest, and some flakes of silvery hair straying over the wide sunburnt brow, on which the very peace of God seemed stamped as with God's own signet-stone,—so lay Job Kippis, as he had lain and never yet arisen since the day when "daily bread," but not "daily comfort," had failed him. Ailie sat on the foot of the bed, and Hor had taken up his station near on the broken chair, with his face towards the back, and his chin bent down upon his hands.
"'Tis very well, all that," he said discontentedly, "an' I dare say it's a deal better for her. I don't say 'tisn't; but I says I'd rather ha' kep' her with ourselves, I would."
"Aye, we're selfish mortals, the best among us," said Job. "Talk o' lovin' our friends, an' then when God wants to take 'em home to glory—oh, no, we're all for prayin', an' weepin', an' wantin' to keep them among their troubles an' away from happiness, just as long as we can. It's a selfish love at the best, it is, lad."
"I'm not a-talkin' of dyin'. I'm a-talkin' of Lettie," said Hor.
"And I'm a seein' pictures, lad, as I loves to do. Ain't the world full o' pictures, an' people won't see 'em with their blind eyes? Ain't it all a picture about little Lettie now, if we'll see it?"
Hor made an inarticulate sound, which might have meant anything.
"A pictur' of what, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Why, deary, here she was a-livin' in this poor part, all among the mire an' mud as one may say, half-starved, an' ill-clothed, an' knowing nothin' better,—an' never dreamin' she had a happy home awaitin' her, an' them that loved her elsewhere."
"We loved her," said Hor.
"True for you, boy,—an' much your love could do for her! Weren't she half-starved, an' half-frozen, an' a poor little thin object, wantin' all sorts o' things she couldn't get. 'Happy,' was it, you think her,—aye, maybe she was in her blindness, never knowin' what 'twas to be better off. An' then her brother—a lovin' kind elder brother—" Job smiled as he spoke the words,—"comes an' seeks her out, an' hunts for her and finds her at last. He wants to take her off home, where she'll have all she needs,—food, an' dress, an' play, an' learnin', an' love, an' everything. He loves her, and he's good to her, an' she don't like to go with him. Don't like it a bit. Wants to stay all among the rags, and the dirt, and the starvin'. But he won't leave her. He don't carry her off against her will, but he pleads, an' he begs, an' he wins her in love, and at last she goes. Then as they're agoin', he lifts her up in his arms an' carries her, for Mrs. Forsyth says she see him doing it herself. Ah, it's a lovin' elder brother little Lettie's found. But maybe now it seems hard to leave all she's knowed an' loved, and she don't understand how all she's agoin' to have will more than make up for what she 've lost,—ever so much more. Ah, she don't know that yet, Ailie."
"Yes, gran'father," said Ailie, as Job paused.
"Well, now, deary, ain't that a picture,—a beautiful picture o' somethin' else. Don't we read in God's Word of another Brother—a kind lovin' elder Brother,—who comes seekin' an' searchin' after the poor little lost brothers and sisters, living down among the mire of earth. Then when He finds 'em, it's oftentimes they won't go with Him. No, they'd rather stay where they be, an' they can't leave the things they love, an' they're quite content as they are,—poor starvin' souls. An' then He pleads, an' He begs, an' He commands, an' sometimes they'll go at last. An' when He sees how weak they be, an' how the sharp stones cuts the poor feet, He takes 'em right up, an' carries 'em along on their way. It's all a beautiful picture, what's happened to little Lettie—a beautiful picture o' somethin' better an' greater, an' yet like to it. Ain't it now?
"But all the love an' the care she'll get in her new home, is just nothin' at all, beside what the Lord Himself gives to them He seeks an' finds, when they go along with Him. For all things are ours then,—all things in heaven an' earth."
"Seems to me you'd work most everythin' into a pictur'," said Hor.
"And so I would, boy, sure enough. There's meanin' to be worked out o' most things, if we'd see it. Ain't the whole world a lookin' glass, made for nothin' but to reflect God's love, an' power, an' glory? Ain't a lookin' glass full o' pictures, an' all o' them a-changin' too. There's nothin' in the world that don't picture forth God's love, save sin, and that's the one great blemish over everythin'. See ye fight against sin, boy, an' ye'll be doin' work for God. If ye're not workin' for God, ye're pretty sure workin' for Satan. There's only the choice between them two kinds o' work, an' ye must do one or t'other. There ain't no neutral ground in that war,—leastways those who thinks themselves neutral are always found, sooner or later, to be Satan's spies an' secret workers, and it'll be worst of all for them."
He had spoken with growing energy, but he paused here, and lay silent for a while, looking towards the small window, where a gleam of blue sky and wintry sunshine, seen through a smoky atmosphere, were visible. "Will you have some'at to eat, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
"Thank'ee, deary, I don't seem to want it. The cravin's gone now we've a plenty."
For Mrs. Forsyth had shared her gifts of the previous evening with her neighbours, and a good half-loaf and a tiny piece of meat might have been seen on the corner of the mantel-shelf.
"Gran'father, d'ye think we'll see Lettie here again?" asked Ailie presently.
"No," said Hor. "They'll take precious good care she don't come among us poor folk no more."
"Ye're unjust, boy," said Job. "'Twas only yester' mornin' she were taken home. D'ye think she'd ha' come or could ha' come before this?"
"I don't think as she'll come at all," said Hor, doggedly. "I tells mother she's lost to us, she be. An' much the gentlefolk 'll care for what we feels about her."
"Aye, you an' she was mighty close friends. 'Tis hard on ye, boy, to lose her so sudden," said Job. "But 'tis all for her good, an' ye must think o' that. I don't reckon, somehow, ye'll be a loser neither in the end."
"O I don't count, not I, on gentlefolks' gratitude," said Hor. "They've got her now, an' what 'll they care for else?"
"Ye're wrong, boy,—wrong altogether," said Job. "But wait an' see,—that 'll be worth more 'n all I could say to persuade ye."
"I'm sure 'twas a beautiful lot o' things they sent ye all yesterday evening," said Ailie. "An' wasn't Mrs. Forsyth good, gran'father, to be a-givin' us so much!"
"Maybe they thinks a good supper 'll pay back all the five years we've taken charge o' little Lettie," said Hor.
"Maybe they don't think nothin' o' the kind," said Job. "What's come over ye, lad, to be so cantank'rous,—'cept that ye've lost a little sister as you've had awhile, an' she's got a deal happier home than you'd ever ha' give her? Well, well, 'tis hard for ye, but ye'd best take it brave an' patient. Grumblin' don't do nobody any good,—eh?" as he smiled at Ailie.
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VISITORS.
"AIN'T that somebody at the door, gran'father?" exclaimed Ailie, jumping up.
"See if it be, deary."
And Ailie opened without delay. But there she turned shy, for before her stood a strange gentleman, and on one side of him was the very same little girl who had twice spoken to her in the street, and on the other side of him was Lettie herself, dressed in a warm blue frock, and fur-trimmed jacket, and pretty hat.
"Well, my little woman, is your name Ailie Carter?" asked the gentleman kindly. "Lettie, I think this is an old friend of yours."
Ailie looked very much afraid of Lettie, and Lettie looked hardly less afraid of Ailie, while the gentleman went on, "How is your grandfather?"
"Please, sir, he can't get up."
"Will he let me come in and see him, do you think?"
"Please, sir," repeated Ailie under her breath.
Leveson entered the room, and took a seat on the old rickety chair near the bed. Josie stood close beside him, and Lettie slipped away to Hor, while Job remarked—
"You be mighty welcome, sir."
"Mrs. Forsyth tells me you have not been well of late, Mr. Kippis."
Job shook his head. "Seems to me some'at of a breakin' up, sir. I'm an old man, as you may say,—can look right back to the wars, an' went through Battle o' Waterloo, an' I've had a harder life than some. Not as I've nought to complain of."
"And now there comes a little warning, a little failing, to remind you that the last call may not be far distant," said Leveson.
"Aye, sir. I'm noways loath to go."
"Those are solemn words for all of us, 'Prepare to meet thy God.' To meet Him eye to eye, and face to face. But I trust you know something of that which can lighten even the valley of death," said Leveson, reading the source of that "noways loath" in the calm upraised eyes. "If you have learnt the secret of the Lord's love and fear—"
"Sure an' that I have, sir," said Job, unable to wait. "Haven't I been His humble servant twenty years an' more?"
"But it is no service of your own which can bear you heavenwards. The Blood of the Lamb and that alone can save us from our sins. Our love and service are but the fruit and not the root of our salvation."
"I knows it, sir, but 'tis good to hear it again. Twenty years I've never missed church on Sunday, an' now I can't go to hear the Word, sure 'tis my Master Himself has sent you to cheer me up."
They went into an earnest conversation, Job speaking from time to time, but usually listening, with a smile of intense happiness. Leveson's little Bible came out next, and during the reading which followed, Josie mustered courage to steal away from her brother's side, and approach Ailie. They only stood looking at each other silently, until Leveson had ceased to read, and was speaking again; then Josie said—
"You're not starving now, I suppose?"
"No," said Ailie.
"Were you really starving that day?"
Ailie nodded.
"That was why you could not come next morning, wasn't it?"
"Lettie went 'stead of me," said Ailie.
"Yes, but you know you ought to call her Miss Lettie now, because she is my sister," said Josie. "I am Miss Therlock, and she is Miss Lettie Therlock."
Ailie looked very much impressed, not to say alarmed. They both stood silent, looking at Lettie who was seated on Hor's knee, holding him tightly. Josie felt that it was incumbent on her to keep up the conversation.
"Do you know we are all going into the country next month?"
"Be you?" said Ailie.
"Yes. We halve a house there, and now that Lettie is found, we need not stay in London any longer. Would you like the country, Ailie?"
"I dunno what country's like," said Ailie.
"Why, it's all green fields and trees, and as lovely as can be. Of course I don't mean just at this time of the year, but in spring and summer."
Another pause. "Lettie," said Leveson, turning, "suppose you come here and speak to Job Kippis."
Lettie came slowly, and stood by the bed, her small hand in Job's large one. "Aye, it's a happy little maid she be, to find a home like she has," said Job, smiling, "ain't it deary? An' ye'll love 'em all ever so."
"I likes him," said Lettie softly, with a trustful glance at Leveson.
"Aye, he be a kind elder brother, ain't he? As has sought an' found ye, an' taken ye away from the mire an' misery," said Job. "Beg your pardon, sir, 'tis a way I have o' lookin' at things as pictures like."
"I think it is the Bible way, Mr. Kippis."
"An' she be happy in her new home, eh?" said Job smilingly.
"They 's ever so kind," said Lettie, hanging her head and speaking low. "But I've got to be a lady, an' tis so hard, an' I don't know how."
"Hard to be a lady, ain't it?" said Job. "'Cause ye wasn't bred up to it, no more ye wasn't. An' yon parson, for all his love to ye, can't change your nature sudden-like. Ye'll fit in by and by. Don't I mean that when I says sometimes the Lord 'ud put me in a palace, if 'twas good for me, but I wouldn't be over happy in it. Sure I haven't got palace tastes, nor palace ways,—an' little Lettie's in a grand house, and she haven't got grand house tastes, nor ways neither, eh?"
"She will learn all that by and by," said Leveson, stroking her head. "But I think Lettie's difficulty makes another picture for you if you want one. Do you see it?"
"Sure an' I do, sir. Why, if a man was took right to heaven, without learnin' to have heaven's tastes, he wouldn't be a bit happier nor fitter nor better off than old Job Kippis in the Queen's palace. What'd he care for the singin' praises to God, and livin' for His service, and lookin' into His glory, an' doin' His will? It's dull work he'd find it all,—lest he had the love of God in his heart, sir, an' his sinful nature washed an' fitted for heaven. Ain't it that you meant?"
"Just that," said Leveson. "But very few men realize it, or know that to be taken to heaven, unfitted for heaven's work and glory, would be no boon. As well take a blind man to see beautiful scenery, or a deaf man to hear sweet music, as talk of a man who is deaf and blind to God's love and beauty, finding any happiness in heaven. But you—" Leveson went on after a moment's break,—"you, I trust, are no longer deaf and blind. Heaven will not be to you what our home, with all our efforts, must for a time be to little Lettie."
"Aye, sir, an' I don't think that the river Jordan's far distant neither," said Job. "No, I'm noways loath to go,—save for leavin' little Ailie tossin' about with no one to take pity on her. But I think ye'll be a friend to the poor little lamb, sir."
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THROUGH THE WATERS.
LETTIE settled down into her new home, slowly learning to love those around her, and gradually becoming accustomed to the strange restraints as to manner, behaviour, and speech, which at first were most irksome, after her past life of freedom in such matters. The little neglected mind was opening now to the enjoyment of beauty and happiness, where at first all had seemed a blank. Leveson Therlock knew by this time how much more ignorant and neglected they would have found her, but for the simple efforts of old Job Kippis during many months.
The next few weeks were busy ones, for Mrs. Therlock had all sorts of plans for helping the Forsyths, and Lettie's greatest delight was in seeing those plans carried out. Hor's long-standing wish to go to sea was at last to be fulfilled, and when the boy, in a fervour of excitement on hearing the good news, rushed off to Job Kippis, he listened patiently to the old man's grave rebuke.
"Will ye say now, boy, that God don't care for ye,—aye, though ye don't deserve He should? Kind to the unthankful and evil He be, but take care ye don't tempt Him too far, or maybe He'll see fit to withdraw His mercies from you."
The Forsyths were no longer to live on in their miserable home. Two or three airy rooms were found for them in an airy street, at a short distance, and were simply furnished by Mrs. Therlock, who undertook also to pay a portion of the rent. Through Leveson's efforts, regular work was procured for John Forsyth, and the next move was, by dint of much exertion and great correspondence, to place the half-witted boy, Roger, in an idiot asylum.
Things began, as Esther said, to "look up" with them once more. She was able again to take a pleasure in neatness and respectability, and her careworn look gave place to health and cheerfulness. The measure dealt out to little Lettie in her friendless days was amply repaid—"good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over."
There were plans also for Job Kippis and Ailie. Mrs. Therlock was going soon with her two little girls to live in her country house, and a tiny lodge close to the garden gate would just do for Job. Ailie should go to the village school, and learn to read and write and work, and when at home should take her share in opening the gate, and should be her grandfather's little housekeeper. For a while it seemed as if the plan might come to pass, and how eagerly the three children discussed it in all its bearings need scarcely be told.
Job did not seem to count upon it much himself, however. He had rallied slightly from his weakness, but never enough to be moved from the old garret. He liked to hear the little ones talking of their country home, and would listen to their anticipations, but he did not join in them for himself.
"No, deary, I thinks not," he would say, when Ailie wanted him to look forward as they were doing. "We'll wait an' see, but somehow I've a thought that 'tain't that sort o' country I'll be going to."
And gradually the truth broke upon them all, that it was even so. Job Kippis, the brave old soldier, who had battled so cheerily through his long troubled life, was going to another and farther Land.
They did not think the change so near as it was. But one rough February evening, a message came to Leveson Therlock, home on a brief visit,—a message sent by Ailie.
"Grandfather was worse."
Nothing but those three words, implying the need of Leveson's presence,—and he went.
Job lay there quietly, in his narrow garret, with brown hands clasped across his chest, as often of late, and a look of wondrous rest upon his furrowed brow, while Ailie crouched, trembling, beside the bed. He glanced up cheerily as Leveson came in.
"It's a stormy night," he said. "I scarce thought I'd see you, sir, but Ailie she said you was at home, an' she knowed you'd wish we should send."
"Ailie was right," said Leveson. "It must have been a storm indeed that could have kept me back if you needed me. How are you to-night?"
He looked downwards, smiling still, with a little motion of his hand towards the floor. "Waters of Jordan washin' all round me, sir, but I ain't out o' my depth yet."
"And you will not be," said Leveson, "so long as you lean on your Guide. Don't look at the water like Peter, but look to His Face."
"I'll see it soon,—as plain as I see yours," said Job.
"Would you like me to pray with you?"
"Sure an' I would, sir, if 'tain't troublin' you,—not as that's likely," he added. "I'm not feared. But if 'tis all the same to you, sir, I'd rather have the prayers I knows, an' not the Visitation of the Sick, nor no new one. My head's a bit weak, an' I'll follow the old words easiest."
So the old-grand sweet words, offered up by tens of thousands before him through hundreds of years past, now sounded reverently in Leveson's deep voice. They seemed to fill the little garret with an atmosphere of peace, and to bring a ray of measureless trust upon Job's face, as he lay again with his clasped hands.
"Aye, that be it," he said at the close in an undertone. "Strayed an' wanderin',—leavin' undone things I ought to ha' done, an' doin' things I ought to ha' left undone,—a poor miserable offender first to last. But He 've forgiven me,—blessed be His Name."
Then Job was quiet awhile,—as if asleep. Presently looking up, he said, "He 've been a good Master,—a good Master,—lovin' right to the end."
"And how in the day of trouble, and failure, and almost starvation?" asked Leveson. "Had He forsaken you then? Did your faith stand out then?"
"Sure an' if it didn't, 'twas I that failed, an' not He. Trust Him!—Aye, don't I? Little Ailie—"
She came closer, sobbing, and he put his hand over hers.
"Don't ye ever forget that. Trust Him whatever He do to ye—whatever. Don't ye ever question an' doubt. His dealings with ye are all love, an' faithfulness, an' tenderness, from beginning to end. Maybe He'll let ye wander alone, and be half-starved again as He's done afore. It's all love, I tell ye. Just cling to Him, an' He'll be with ye through all. He'll never leave ye. He's never left me,—an' never will."
Once more there came an interval of silence, as Job lay with that same smile upon his face, and no fear at his heart, no words of doubt upon his lips. He knew his Master. Through long years he had proved His love. And now that the last trial of life had come, he was troubled by no dread.
"Aye, I'll die here," he said, speaking when they thought him past speech. "Up in the old garret. Didn't think somehow all along that I'd be let go to the country. I'd learn to love this world then maybe, an' that 'ud be a pity, wouldn't it? I don't love it now, nor want nothin' more."
Nothing more on earth. He had nothing more,—except peace at the last. Slowly, as night crept by, he grew weaker. Jordan's waters were around him, playing over him, dashing about him, rising higher and higher as he went deeper into the flood. But he never sank, never wavered, never struggled. Passing calmly through their midst, with his Master by his side, he forded all the waves, and never lost his footing. And as the first gray tint of dawn was shining in the east, over the house-tops across the way, Job reached the Other Side.
He was only a poor old tailor, living up in a garret, in London's dreariest quarter! But from the midst of squalor and misery, rags and dirt, sounds of contention and anger, voices of sorrow and pain,—he passed to glory and joy unending, to be a king and a priest for ever before the throne of God.
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THE LAST OF THE OLD GARRET.
AND as the light of dawn came into the garret, which for so many months had formed Job's home,—came resting in dull shades of gray upon the wall, and upon the face that lay so calm in death, and upon the outlines of the old warrior's face, still to be seen over the fireplace,—as the light increased, Leveson rose to leave. He would take little Ailie, twice-orphaned child, home with him. Where else could she go?
But the door creaked slowly open, and a woman stood there,—a haggard faded woman, walking with difficulty, dressed in rags, footsore and poverty-stricken.
"They telled me I'd find her here," she said. "They telled me I'd find Ailie."
And a cry broke from Ailie's lips, ringing through the stillness of the death-chamber, but never disturbing the repose of old Job Kippis, lying in his last long sleep,—a cry of "Mother! Mother!"
"Ailie! Why sure it can't be Ailie," said Mary Carter, almost putting the child from her at first, as she scanned her face with trembling eagerness. "Ailie,—why, so it is, but I scarce knowed ye, child,—ye've that grown an' altered."
"O mother, if you had but come home a little earlier—just a little," sobbed Ailie. "He's dead now—gran'father's dead—an' ye'll never be able to thank him."
"Gran'father!" repeated Mary Carter.
"He made me call him so, an' he was more to me nor any real gran'father. Mother, why did ye never come sooner?"
"I couldn't help it. 'Twas no choice o' mine. Who's took care o' ye all these months?"
"Gran'father—old Job Kippis he was," said Ailie sorrowfully, pointing towards the bed. "He's lyin' there. He ain't dead long. Oh, I wish ye'd come sooner, an' could ha' spoken to him."
"Maybe ye haven't a bit of somethin' to give me. I'm famished."
She looked ready to drop, and Leveson, coming forwards, told her to sit down on the chair, and desired Ailie to bring food from the cupboard. She ate eagerly, holding Ailie all the while, as if fearing to lose her again, and Leveson said, "It must be almost more than you expected, to find your little girl safe in the old house."
"Indeed, sir, an' I've wondered what could ha' become of her, not a soul to look after her, an' her poor father a-dying the night I went." She heaved a sigh at the recollection.
"Have you been in any trouble since leaving jail?" asked Leveson gravely.
She did not answer the question, but flushed with burning shame at the last word, and hung her head heavily. "What Jem would ha' said—I doubt but it helped to kill him. An' my poor mother as brought me up so respectable; but I didn't know what I was a-doin' that day, I didn't."
"It was the first time you ever gave way to such temptation, was it not?"
She gave a mute sign of assent.
"And I trust it may be the last. Poor woman, you have suffered for your sin," he said compassionately. "But there is One—One of purer eyes than to behold iniquity, and One whose law you have broken—who well knows the strength of your temptation. He offers you free pardon for the past, if you will seek it at His feet."
"I dunno much about such things," said Mary Carter despondingly. "An' what I'm to do now, no home, an' no work, an' the child dependin' on me!"
"Mother, we'll be took care of," said Ailie. "Why didn't you come back straight when you was set free?"
"I couldn't, child. I've been in hospital since. I was run over that day, an' 'twas weeks afore I knowed where I was, an' longer afore I could speak sense."
"Run over!" repeated Leveson and Ailie together.
"Aye, 'twas that same day," repeated Mary Carter. "I've but a half remembrance of it all. I was walkin' along, an' looking forward to hear where Ailie was, an' thinkin' to find she'd been sent off to the work'us. I s'pose I wasn't heedin' much where I was goin', an' in crossin' a road, I heard a shriekin', and I see a great 'bus comin' down right upon me, an' somehow my foot slipped. After that I knowed nothin'—for weeks they telled me. I'd a broken leg, an' a blow on the head, as took away all my senses. It's left me that weak now, that I don't scarce know how to walk nor stand, but they says I'm as well as I'm like to be for many a year. I'll never be the same woman again, an' I can't take a needle for half an hour, but I turns giddy. But I'll have to work, for we ain't got nothin' to live on."
"We will not leave you to starve," said Leveson. "I think we shall find some means of helping you. Now, what will you do first? I would rather see you in another room before I go. Is there any vacant in the house, Ailie?"
"Please, sir, next door garret. Mr. Sloane went away yesterday," said Ailie, "an' nobody hasn't took it yet."
"Then I think that had better be your home for a few days, until we can arrange something more definite."
He placed five shillings in Mary Carter's hand as he spoke, and she faltered tearful thanks. There were a few words more about arrangements. Then he walked to the bedside, and stood looking down—not sadly. It was not a sight to look upon sadly—that face of happy rest.
"Fought a good fight, kept the faith, finished the course," he murmured. "Poor old Kippis! Oh, what a change to step from such a spot as this into the infinite glory! Ailie,—" and he laid his hand on the little girl's head,—"never forget all that he taught you. Never forget to pray that your last end may be like his."
And Leveson went home. But all the way he had ringing in his head the words of a hymn, which seemed strangely applicable to old Job:—
"Safe home, safe home in port!Rent cordage, shattered deck,Torn sails, provisions short,And only not a wreck.But oh! the joy upon the shore,To tell our voyage perils o'er."The prize, the prize secure,The athlete nearly fell,Bare all he could endure,And bare not always well;But he may smile at troubles goneWho sets the victor garland on."
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A NEW HOME.
IT was a lovely day, out in the fair country, far away from the smoke and dust, the noise and turmoil, which had surrounded Ailie from earliest babyhood. Through the drive from the station, Ailie sat beside her mother in the farmer's cart which had been sent to meet them, wondering till words failed her at all she saw.
The green early grass stretching into the far distance, the purple horizon tints, the budding richness of hedges near at hand, the glee of birds overhead, the lowing of cows in the meadows, the gay frisking of tiny lambs beside their staid old mothers, the harsh cawing of rooks in old elm trees—what a marvellous world it was!
Ailie's pent-up delight broke forth in one eager cry: "O mother! Just think o' livin' here!"
"Seems a dream to me, to be seeing a green field again, it do," said Mary Carter.
"O mother, don't it look as if there was room here?" said Ailie. "An' not every one a-crowdin' an' pushin' everybody! Why, it looks most as if the world was gettin' empty."
"Ah, you be come from London parts," said the stout driver in his smock frock, who had been whistling a nameless tune, and letting his plump horse jog along quietly at any pace it chose. "Lots o' folks in London, ain't there, an' not much o' green fields?"
"I never see a green field in all my life afore," said Ailie, upon which the worthy man ejaculated—
"Think o' that now! Never see a green field!" and gazed at Ailie with compassion.
"O mother,—see, there be a brown field too!" cried Ailie. "What's it for?"
"That be sown with wheat," said the man. "Ye'll see it all a-comin' up by an' by. An' there, over among the trees, is the house I'm a-takin' ye to—Mrs. Therlock's."
"An' she lives there?" said Ailie.
"That she do,—an' her father an' grandfather afore her. A mighty kind lady she be, and we're main glad to have her among us again, with little Miss Vi and all."
Passing by a plantation of saplings growing close to the road, a small gate in the fence opened, and two little girls rushed out. "I knew it was them," cried Josie. "I knew it, directly I heard the cart. O stop, please—don't drive on. Let them both get down here. What do you think of the country, Ailie?"
The man pulled up slowly, threw the reins on the old horse's neck, stepped down himself first, lifted Ailie to the ground, and helped her mother to follow. Ailie gazed wonderingly round, and back at Josie.
"Well?" repeated Josie. "You look as puzzled as Vi did, when first we came. But you like it now, don't you, Vi?"
"It's just beautiful," said little Vi emphatically. "Ever so much better than the old court, ain't it, Ailie?"
Ailie nodded. Words would not come yet. "Mother will see you soon," said Josie, assuming the patronizing "Miss Therlock" air, which she sometimes put on. "And now I am going to show you your new home. Come along, Vi,—we'll lead the way."
Holding Vi's hand, as if she counted her little sister her especial charge, Josie danced along the grass borders, looking back impatiently at Mary Carter's slower footsteps.
"It's not far," she said, "only along the road,—straight on this way. After all, you might as well have kept in the cart, but it doesn't matter. We're close now. Only this one corner. There!"
They had reached the large iron gates which formed the principal entrance to the grounds. Beside them stood a fancy cottage, small and neat, overgrown by honeysuckle and clematis. One lattice window below and one above looked towards the road, and a tiny garden, stocked with early vegetables, lay on one side. Ailie's eyes went speechlessly to her mother and to Josie.
"Yes, that's it," said Josie. "That is to be your own home now. And all you've got to do is to open and shut the gate, Mrs. Carter, when a carriage passes through. But mother will tell you all that by and by. Come now,—come in and see how you like the rooms."
Following the eager child, Ailie and her mother found themselves in a neat kitchen, furnished with a strong deal table, two wooden chairs, and a small dresser which bore an ample supply of blue china and other requisites. Nothing would satisfy Josie but that they must at once climb the ladder staircase, into the upper room, and there admire the tidy bed, the chintz curtains, the painted wooden chest of drawers, and the washhand-stand, with its jug and basin. She chattered fast enough herself to make up for their bewildered silence, and as soon as she had done displaying the bedroom, she brought them down again.
"I think I have shown you all now, Mrs. Carter."
Poor Mary could do nothing but curtsey in her wordless gratitude.
"And mother has put some tea in this little box, and there's the teapot up there, and Vi and I brought some milk and bread and butter ourselves this afternoon, didn't we, Vi? So you can have your tea as soon as you like. Shall I tell mother you are pleased?"
Assurances on this point were so unnecessary, while in full view of those two faces, that Josie did not wait for them, and went springing away along the gravel pathway, the long ribbon ends of her hat floating out in the breeze. Lettie lingered behind, looking sedately at Ailie.
"It's just like a dream, so it be," said Mary Carter, slowly. "Such a place as this! Why, I don't know if I'm in my senses to think it's for us."
"It's just beautiful!" said Ailie, with one long breath.
"An' I haven't said a word o' thanks," said Mary. "I couldn't. Seemed as if none 'ud come. But Miss Vi 'll tell the lady,—won't ye, Miss? I can't say all I ought."
"I'll tell mamma you're glad," said Lettie, adding thoughtfully,—"Ailie, don't you wish ever so much that old gran'father was here?"
"He'd ha' liked the green grass, an' the trees' an' the flowers," said Ailie.
"Mamma says heaven's ever so much beautifuller than the country," said Lettie. "I don't know how, but she says it is."
"Gran'father didn't seem to want to come, 'cause he was afraid he'd learn to love it more than heaven," said Ailie. "I hope we won't,—but I do think it'll be hard not to," she added, looking through the window at the sunshine without. "It do seem pretty."
"Maybe if we try, we won't neither," said Lettie. "Josie will want me, and I'll go now."
Smiling a farewell, she too went off along the gravel path, in somewhat more sober fashion than Josie.
Ailie stood gazing after the little departing figure, thinking to herself how she would need to know and love and trust God much, even as old Job Kippis had known and loved and trusted, if she would keep the thought of Heaven first in her heart, before the thought of this her new sweet cottage-home.
THE END.