TRANSPLANTED DAISIES.
MONTH soon passed away, and old Mr. Smith had become quite one of the household. He was very kind in his manner to the children, though sometimes blunt and abrupt, but he seemed constantly to be watching their mother, with a suspicion which she could not understand. However, he was out a great deal, and she did not find him at all in the way, and she was glad the children had made friends with him.
"Mother, I like Mr. Smith; he's very good to us; but isn't he a funny man?" said Ellen one evening, and she looked up from her work as she spoke.
"I think he's very kind to you, my dear, and you are quite right to like him," replied Mrs. Shipton slowly, for there was something about her lodger which she could not understand; and she was not quite sure whether she liked him or not.
"He goes out to see London, doesn't he, mother?"
"Yes; he has never been here before, and there is plenty for a stranger to see."
"But, mother."
"Well, Ellen?"
"I think he's very kind, and all that; but I don't think he's happy: often and often when I look up, I see him looking at me with his eyes full of tears. Isn't it odd and queer for a man to cry. Father never cried."
Mrs. Shipton did not answer; why should the child know of all the bitter tears which her father had shed?
"Perhaps Mr. Smith has some trouble that we do not know of, dear."
"I think he has, mother; but wasn't it kind of him to get that bottle of wine for Maurice?"
"Yes; poor little Maurice! Ellen, I sometimes think—," and the mother's voice trembled.
"What, mother?"
"I think he's going from me too;" and the poor woman put down her work, and bowed her head in her hands.
Little Ellen came up close to her mother, and slipping her arm round her neck, laid her face close to hers, and whispered, "Mother, mother, don't cry—God will take care of Maurice; he won't let him die."
"I think sometimes that he will, he is so like poor father, and he seems so delicate and weakly, and I have no means of getting him the strengthening things he needs."
"But, mother, he is better than he was."
"Not much, dear; he has never got over that illness, and sometimes I think that he will not live much longer; but I cannot let him go—my boy—my youngest—my little Maurice."
"Mother, we will pray to God to make him well; and you say God always hears us when we pray."
"Yes, dear, yes, he does; pray to him, dear Nellie; we will all pray to him to spare little Maurice."
The mother and daughter had not perceived that Mr. Smith had entered the room, and was standing opposite to them.
"What's the matter, eh? what's the matter?" said the old man, as Ellen looked up, and he caught sight of the tears on her cheeks. Mrs. Shipton got up quickly and hurried out of the room; and Ellen dried her eyes, and busied herself in putting the work away.
Just then Janet came in with Maurice, and they eagerly claimed a story from Mr. Smith. The old man looked earnestly at them for a minute, and then said, "I don't know any story to-night, little ones."
"Then tell us something about the country," said Maurice.
"You should see a corn-field, children; that's the sight," said Mr. Smith. "Oh, how you'd like to see them binding up the sheaves, and how quickly the sickles cut down the ripe grain!"
"But don't the men cut down beautiful flowers at the same time?" said Janet. "Father used to tell us about the flowers."
The old man was silent for a moment, and then said quickly, "Flowers—ah! poor children, you don't know what flowers are here, in your smoky, dirty town."
"What kind of flowers grow in the country?" said Ellen.
"Why, there's primroses, and violets, and roses, and honeysuckle, and poppies, and a hundred things."
"Well, we've got flowers in the town too," said Janet.
"Indeed," said Mr. Smith incredulously. "I haven't discovered them yet, except a few things, stunted and withered, and all boxed up in smoky gardens."
Janet smiled to herself, and determined that she would show the country stranger the truth of her words.
The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Smith went to the nearest church with Ellen and Janet, while Mrs. Shipton stayed at home with Maurice.
Janet did not return with the others, but when they had been in a few minutes, her bounding footstep was heard on the stairs, and she entered with a whole handful of daisies, which she held out triumphantly to Mr. Smith.
"There!" she cried, "there are flowers in the town!"
Mr. Smith laughed. "Where did these come from, little one?"
"Out of the churchyard, from off father's grave," said Janet, dropping her voice.
Mr. Smith took up the flowers and looked at them as if he was trying to discover how they were made, so intently were his eyes bent upon them.
"Mother says we are like daisies, sometimes," said Janet merrily.
"How?" asked the old man.
The child coloured, and did not answer; but Mrs. Shipton replied for her,—"Because whenever I am gloomy and unhappy, these children brighten me and cheer me by looking up to the sun; they always find out a sunny side to my troubles."
Mr. Smith laid his hand lightly on Janet's head, and said, "I have learnt many things since I came to London, but I did not know that I should find country flowers in this large, wicked place."
"We value them more because they are not plenty, and because we have not many other things," said Mrs. Shipton.
"Ay, ay—well, can town daisies be transplanted, think you?"
Ellen looked wonderingly at the old man, for she saw that his eyes were fixed on Janet with a meaning smile, but the little girl herself seemed quite unconscious of it, and answered quickly, "If you have plenty of flowers in the country, you don't want them."
The strange lodger laughed, but it was a rather sad laugh. "I do want them," he answered; and then, after pausing for a minute or two, he went on abruptly, "Mrs. Shipton, I've been a month with you, haven't I?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I must go home to-morrow; now, I've got something to say to you. You're not rich, and there's no nonsense about you to pretend you are."
The widow's colour was heightened, but she had grown accustomed to her lodger's abrupt manner of speaking, so she took no notice of his remark, and he went on,—
"I'm a lonely old man, and have neither chick nor child to care for me. I didn't believe anything pure and innocent could be found in this place; but I've discovered some daisies, and I want to dig up one and take it back to my home."
"I'll dig up one for you to-morrow," said Janet eagerly; but Mrs. Shipton saw his meaning, and she became very pale, and looked anxiously at her child.
"Thank you, my dear," said the old man, putting his arm round her. "Now, I want you to come and be my own little girl, and live with me in the country."
"And go away from mother?" said Janet, lifting her eyes to his face.
"Yes; come and be mine, and perhaps I'd bring you to see your mother sometimes."
Janet looked away to her mother, and saw that her eyes were full of tears; then she sprang into her mother's arms and hid her face on her shoulder.
"I will promise to take all care of her," said the old man; "and the country would do her all the good in the world."
"I can't leave mother! no, no, no!" sobbed little Janet.
"I would adopt her for my own, and provide for her liberally," said Mr. Smith. "Come, Mrs. Shipton, you're a sensible woman, you know how much better it would be for your child."
"I cannot give her up, sir," said the mother anxiously; "she is too young to leave me."
"Well, then, may I have Ellen?"
Ellen shrank to her mother's side. "No, no!" she whispered. A disappointed look crossed the old man's face. "Come, Mrs. Shipton, you are slaving your life away for these children, will you lose so good a chance of providing for one of them?"
"I'll go if I ought, mother, if it would be better for you and the others," said Ellen bravely; but she put her hands over her face, that her mother might not see how much those words cost her.
"No, sir," said the widow firmly, as she drew her children closely to her; "God has given me these children, and he will give me the means of keeping them."
Mr. Smith cleared his throat violently.
"Well, then," he muttered, "I suppose I must live and die—lonely—lonely."
Mrs. Shipton's eye wandered wistfully to Maurice, who was looking on with eyes full of wonder.
"Sir, you are very, very kind," she said, and then paused.
"Don't talk of it—I can't get what I want," said the old man.
"I cannot bear giving up one of them," said the widow; "but there's Maurice,—the child is ill, I believe he will die here in the town, but he might live in the country; will you take him, sir?" and then, having said thus much, Mrs. Shipton quite broke down, and hid her face among Janet's curls.
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a scream from Maurice, as the door was opened, and a boy in a sailor's dress stood amongst them.
"Alan!"
"My boy, my boy!" and Mrs. Shipton held out her arms to him.
ALAN'S RETURN.
Mr. Smith looked at him for a minute, and then putting his hand to his head, he hastily left the room. It seemed as if he saw his own Alan again, in all the strength and beauty of his boyhood. Before the lodger returned to the sitting-room, Alan had been told who he was, and what he wanted to do; and though he thought for Maurice's sake it was best, the way in which his arm was twisted round his little brother's neck, told how sore a trial it would be to part with him. Maurice alone was unmoved; the thought of the country seemed to have great attractions for him, and Mr. Smith's stories and general kindness had quite won his heart. Mr. Smith lifted him on to his knee, but did not speak a word, for he was looking intently at Alan all the time.
"Do you like being at sea, Alan?" asked Janet.
Alan shook his head, but said quickly, "Janet, it doesn't matter what one likes; it's what's best;" and a brave courageous smile came upon the boy's handsome face.
"Isn't he like his father?" whispered Mrs. Shipton to Ellen.
"Yes; he smiles just like him," said Ellen.
"Just like him," said Mr. Smith, in a low, deep voice, that startled them all. Maurice was frightened, and slipped down off his knee, and Ellen looked in her mother's face in silent astonishment. "Alan, Alan, my son!" and the old man rose up and came over to the sailor-boy's side. Alan stood up, and his grandfather put one hand on his shoulder, passed his hand over his dark curly hair, and then drawing him closely into his arms, said, while the tears ran down his cheeks, "Alan, be my son, instead of him that's gone."
"Who is it, mother?" asked Maurice fearfully.
But Mr. Smith, or, as we may now call him again by his rightful name, old Farmer Shipton, answered, "I am the grandfather whom you have been taught to pray for! Ellen, my daughter, my own Alan's wife, forgive me; I am your father now!"
Then Mrs. Shipton came to him, knelt down beside him, and laying her hand in his, said, "Alan always said you would come! Father, have you forgiven him?"
"Ay," said the old man; "may God forgive me as freely. And now, daughter Ellen, you must never leave me; and your children must be mine, and I must have you all. Alan will leave the sea and become my eldest son, and there's room in the old house for you all. Will you come, little daisy?" and Janet smiled gladly as she answered, "Yes, grandfather."
"God be thanked for all he has taught me in this room," said Farmer Shipton. "Ellen, my little one, will you love me too?"
"I'll try," said Ellen shyly; "but why did you want us to leave mother?"
"I don't know," said the old man gravely. "I came to London for the purpose of finding out if there was any good in any of you; and then I could not make up my mind to telling you who I was, until I had watched you and tried you to the utmost; but when I saw Alan, I could wait no longer.—Alan, will you be my son? I'm an old man, and all alone."
The sailor-boy went to his mother's side, and looking into her tearful face fondly, he said, "Mother, what do you say?"
A smile crossed her lips as she looked at him proudly, and answered, "Be as good a son to your grandfather as you are to me, Alan, for that would have pleased your father. Oh, if he could but know this!"
Then Alan shook hands with his grandfather, and said, "Will you teach me to be a farmer, sir? We'll all like to live with you very much."
A few evenings after, the whole party were comfortably established in the old farmhouse at Dilbury, to Betty's great delight and astonishment.
The anxious mother soon had the pleasure of seeing the colour brought back into the cheeks of her little Maurice; and Janet and Ellen made acquaintance with the delights of country life. They often came home from woodland rambles laden with wild-flowers, which they exhibited with pride and delight; but their grandfather always declared that no flowers would ever appear so beautiful to him as his own little Town Daisies!
