Next time Mrs. Tourtel stopped to take breath he went and stood by the poor girl, and said,—
"Miss Crawford is ill too and cannot come to see you, but she often thinks of you. Perhaps this will buy you a small loaf of white bread, as your mother says you cannot eat brown."
She only said, "Mercie, monsieur;" but the bright colour, which spread itself over her pale face at the mention of Ellen's thought of her, told Edward that he had said the right thing; and with a gentle "Good-by, I hope you will soon be better," he left the cottage. He walked fast with his head bent, as if to hide his face; but we must run after him, and have a peep at it. He is smiling, and—can it be?—he is blushing! Captain Crawford, who never turned pale before the Russians at Alma or Inkermann, is now blushing scarlet before his own approving conscience and the gratitude of a sick girl. The smile and blush were not gone when he reached home, and Ellen saw both and smiled too, but wisely said nothing. The ice on Edward's heart was broken; a few "kind words" had flowed out and melted it. He went to sleep that night, and dreamed that angels were saying "kind words" to him; Ellen went to sleep, too, and dreamed of her brother reading the Bible to the dying on a battle-field; and the sick girl lay awake all night, thinking how good it was of Miss Crawford to think of her, and how good of the Captain to tell her so.
The Sixpence had done a good day's work; had a shilling been in its place, it would probably have failed in accomplishing it; and Captain Crawford, thinking money the best way to the heart of the poor, would never have tasted the joy of soothing sad hearts by kindness. Alas! little Sixpence, that you who have been such a blessing to-day, should become a curse to-morrow; that you who have gone forth on errands of mercy to-day, should dwell in scenes of drunkenness and theft to-morrow!
Early next morning Mrs. Tourtel went to market, and left the Sixpence at a baker's shop in payment for a white loaf for her daughter. There it spent the day—a quiet day—broken by few events. It might have seen the fresh bread taken out of the oven, and packed in the cart which waited at the door to receive it; and it might have seen many people bustle in and out of the shop, from the little child to buy a penny loaf, to the gentleman's housekeeper to pay the week's bill; but it remained undisturbed till the shutters were taken down on the following morning, when a man came to buy a small loaf for his breakfast, and received the Sixpence in change. Appearances were far more against it this time than they had been before. John Barker had an unshaved beard, a scowling eye, and a red face; his dress consisted of a blue woollen shirt, coarse blue trousers grimed in mud, and a low-crowned black hat; on his shoulder he carried a spade and pickaxe. As he walked along he was joined by others of an equally unprepossessing appearance, and found many more already assembled at the scene of their labours—the new harbour.
The sun was not yet risen, and a mist hung over the sea, through which the signal-post at Castle Cornet, and the masts of the vessels in the roads, were the only objects visible; but there was a faint red streak in the sky, which grew brighter and brighter every moment, till the sunrise gun fired; and then the mist changed into a golden veil, which floated insensibly away, leaving every geranium-leaf outside the windows white with hoar-frost, just to tantalise the townsfolk more distant islands became just visible, mingling the blue of the sea and the violet of the sky so mysteriously in their delicate colouring, that they were scarcely distinguishable from either. And then the carts began to roll along the quay, and work commenced on board the ships in the harbour, and the sailors' cry as they hoisted the sails, mingled with the rattling of chains and the creaking of the cranes outside the stores. At about nine o'clock up ran the ball at the signal-post, which announced the approach of the mail-boat, and as she steamed behind the Castle, and anchored in the roads, there were hasty embraces and shakes of the hand on the pier, and the passengers were rowed out to embark. A few minutes, and the tinkling of a bell was heard from the shore; another—one more; her wheels were turning, she was off for Southampton, and the passengers from Jersey were landing at the quay.
All this, and much more, might John Barker have seen, and probably he did see it, but found nothing beautiful or exciting in it. He did not hold his breath as that cutter approached and ran between the pier-heads, her sail dipping in the wave which bore her in. He saw it a dozen times that day, and had seen it a hundred times before, but never cared to see it again. He worked sullenly on, exchanging few words with his fellow-labourers, till the twilight compelled them to shoulder their tools; and they then made their way, alas! to the many public-houses near, and one of them we must enter with John Barker, and see the Sixpence, that little messenger of good—that talent committed to his care—far worse than wasted by its responsible owner. Happily, the payment was not long delayed, and glad shall we be to hide our eyes and stop our ears from all that goes on without in the till with our little friend.
It is about midnight, the noisy guests are gone, the people of the house are in bed, and we may now venture forth from our hiding-place to look through the chink in the door. It is a clear frosty night. The moon, just rising, is brightly reflected in the water. The stars are looking silently down on the sleeping town. Castle Cornet rises gloomily out of the sea. The moonlit sky, which shows us its outline only, leaves much to the imagination. We may fancy it a frowning fortress of modern days; or we may go back two hundred years, and think we see the ruin which told of its nine-years' siege. But we would rather think of Castle Cornet as we know it now, with its old keep standing as a monument of bygone days; or better still, we would thank the rising moon for veiling it in such solemn mystery, and would let our fancy share the rest which seems to pervade all around, while we enjoy the perfect stillness. There is not a sound, except the ripple of the water. Houses, streets, ships, men, women, and children, all seem resting peacefully in the silent night. But, hark! there was a sound of cracking from the window! Again and again we hear it, and whispering too outside. A few moments more, and the window is opened, and two men have crept in. They are some of the guests of the evening come to recover thus what they and their companions have wasted here to-night, that they may have it to waste once more. The till was quickly rifled, and at a slight noise overhead the thieves beat a precipitate retreat, and, in their haste, dropped our Sixpence in the street outside. Happy little Sixpence! to have escaped such hands; better to lie on the cold, hard pavement, curtained by the freezing air, than stay to be used as the fruits of theft invariably are.
It was only just light when a little girl, whose rosy cheeks told that the country air had kissed them that morning, passed by with a basket on her arm nearly as big as herself. Her bright eyes soon spied the little piece of money, and with a dart she caught it up; but, like an honest girl, looked round to see if any one had dropped it. There was nobody near but a dirty, good-tempered-looking coalheaver, who, seeing her perplexity, said, "It must have been there all night, for nobody but me has passed this morning; so you may keep it, if you like." Quite content, she tripped away with her basket to join her mother in the market, and tell of her good fortune.
Being a wise little maiden, Mary Falla did not spend her money that day, but took it home all safe and sound, to gain time for consideration on so important a subject. No selfish thoughts mingled with her calculations, and therefore she very soon came to the decision that it should go towards a pair of stockings for her grandmother; and happy in the hope of giving pleasure, she only longed for the accumulation of a little store sufficient to buy the necessary materials, and enable her to begin her work. But even sixpences are not to be picked up every day, and when a month had passed, only one penny had been added to the fund. Just at this time there was a sermon one Sunday morning for the same new church of which Miss Crawford had spoken to her brother. Mrs. Falla was one of the few who were to be found regularly in their places in church; and Mary, who was always with her mother, heard the sermon. We cannot boast of our little heroine that she always listened to the sermon; sometimes she did not understand it, sometimes she did not find it interesting; but this sermon she did find interesting, and liked very much, for it was about a church which she saw every day of her life; and it told how much the church was wanted by sick and old people who could not reach the parish church; and Mary knew she liked to go to church, and was very sorry for her old grandmother, and many others whom she had heard regret the distance. As they walked home she seemed to have something very interesting to think about, for she dropped behind, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground in a manner most unusual with this merry little maiden; at last, however, she settled the question to her own satisfaction, and ran up to her mother,—