[CHAPTER XV.]
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."