Lost Gip

by Hesba Stretton

TWO MOTHERS.

BUT Mr. Shafto found it no easy task to shake off the chains of idleness and selfishness which he had allowed himself to be bound by so many years. One effort and one day's labour did not set him free; the habits of his life were too strong for that. Besides, he had no real business to turn to. He had taken up with the undertaker's trade out of sheer idleness; and since the grave-yard had been closed, and no funerals permitted in it, all his chance of employment in that way had gone. This he had not cared about, so long as his wife's industry had supplied him with his own comforts. The little house they lived in belonged to turn having come to him from his grandfather, the minister, whose smoky tablet still remained on the chapel wall. It was not much, he had often said in his heart, for his wife to earn the mere food and clothing.

So now there was positively no work he could do. He sauntered about looking for Gip a little; but there was no hope of success to encourage him. After he had been to a few police-stations and workhouses with Sandy, it seemed nothing but a waste of time to go on strolling about the streets enquiring after a child who had been lost so long. Even Sandy began to feel this, though he could not bring himself to give up the hope of finding her somewhere and somehow. Whenever he caught sight of a tiny ragged girl, or heard the voice of a little child, he could not help looking and listening if it were not his little Gip. But he had not much more time for the search; for Mr. Shafto found regular work for Sandy, though he could find none for himself.

This was in a wood-yard, where a number of poor friendless boys were employed in chopping wood, and tying them into bundles of chips for lighting fires. It belonged to Mr. Mason, the young gentleman whom Sandy had heard preaching that Sunday he first met with John Shafto. Fortunately for him, there was a vacant place which Mr. Mason could put him into at once. So there he was, in regular work, with small but regular wages; a night-school which he was expected to attend; and the prospect of soon gaining enough to live upon in more comfort than he had ever known.

"If it weren't for little Gip," said Sandy to John Shafto, "I'd be as happy as a king. I can't b'lieve it's me at times. But there's little Gip; she's never out of my head. I'm afeard she'll grow out of my knowledge if I don't come across her soon. It come over me sometimes, s'pose I never see her again for years and years, till she's growed up, and then I don't know as it is Gip? That scares me so I'm ready to run away from the wood-yard, and never leave off going about the streets till I find her. She can't grow out of His knowledge, though, can she?"

"Whose?" asked John Shafto.

"Him! Lord Jesus, as is lookin' for her as well as we. He'll be sure to know her, won't He? I only wish I could see Him just for once, to tell Him all about her. I'd like so to see how He looks, when He hears me tell of her. It's so drefful hard to shut my eyes, and speak to nothink like, when I talk of little Gip. If I could only look in His face, and hear Him say, 'Never you fear, Sandy, I'll find her, and keep her safe for you,' just for once, you know, I'd be content."

"But He is doing that," answered John Shafto; "wherever little Gip is, He's taking care of her for you, and will let you have her again some day. We can never, never see His face here; but I shall see it by-and-by, and perhaps tell Him about Gip myself."

"You'll have to die to do that," said Sandy, very gravely. To think that John would tell the Lord Jesus Christ about little Gip was a great comfort to him; but he could not bear to think he must lose him himself.

"Yes," said John; "but if it wasn't for mother, I shouldn't mind that. I've always been used to think of it, ever since we used to play about the graves, and learn our letters on the tombstones, me and the other children who are dead. At nights when I sit up in bed, I can see the graves through my window. I'm not afraid at all of those things, Sandy; and now you're come, you must take my place, and grow up and be a good son to poor mother."