"Where is the boy?" enquired Mr. Shafto.
"He's in the shop, in the dark. I'd light the gas, and give him something to eat there, if you think he's not fit company for us. But it's not pleasant to eat among coffins and plumes. And, dear! dear! how ever shall we be fit company for angels? Though my Johnny 'ill be fit for them, I know; only I'm afraid I shall never be."
"I suppose you'll have your own way," grumbled Mr. Shafto.
"But I want it to be your way too, my dear, fully and freely," she continued, patiently. "I want you to feel, when Sandy's eating our morsel of bread, that he's here in the place of the Lord Jesus. I'm sorry I never thought to say my husband was an undertaker, and would bury the baby reasonably. I know I'd have made it a pretty shroud, poor thing! But that's past and gone; and you must forgive me, John. Why, that's rhyme I've made, you hear. Ah! you're a great scholar, and I don't mind your laughing at me. I may call Sandy in, and put him in a corner where you needn't see him, if you like, for Johnny's sake, you know?"
"Well, he may come in," said Mr. Shafto, dropping his head down again, and stretching out his legs still farther across the warm hearth.
Mrs. Shafto opened the door quietly, and called Sandy in a whisper, placing a chair for him in a corner, as much as possible out of sight of her husband, who did not appear to take any notice of the boy. But he groaned aloud several times, causing Sandy to start nervously, for his mind had been over-strained, and his body was faint with excitement and fatigue. Mr. Shafto's groans seemed to betoken some new and dreadful calamity, and Sandy could scarcely keep himself from bursting into a vehement fit of crying.
But it was not long before tea was ready, and Mrs. Shafto went to the foot of a staircase, which wound like a corkscrew up to the two low rooms in the roof. She called "Johnny!"
And the next moment the tap, tap of a pair of crutches sounded on the floor; and John Shafto came down the crooked staircase slowly and laboriously, till he reached the last step, and his pale face and dazzling eyes peered in at them from the darkness. It was a radiant face, unlike any that Sandy had ever seen, with a happy smile upon it, as though he had learned some great secret, and could never more be overwhelmed by sorrow.
"Where is Sandy?" he asked, for his eyes could not see him in the sudden light. "Have you found little Gip, mother?"
"Not yet, Johnny," she answered, cheerfully; "there's Sandy. Go and sit by him, dear heart; and he'll tell you about what we've been doing."