The door into the other room was half open, and he could see John Shafto's head lying on his pillow, silent and still, yet with a smile about his lips. And here was little Gip's round and rosy face, with the eyelashes quivering as If she were just about to open her bright eyes, resting peacefully on his mother's pillow!
It was a trying time for Sandy until the body of his friend was buried out of his sight. To see little Gip playing about Mrs. Shafto, whilst she was stitching John's shroud, was such a mingling of great pleasure and great pain to him, that he could scarcely bear it. To hear Gip's voice calling him from the dull grave-yard, and to find her watching for him, and running to meet him, instead of John, with his pale face and slow tread upon his crutches, made the coming home each evening a moment of tangled trouble and delight.
But after the funeral was over, when the deaf and dumb and blind corpse had vanished from the house, by little and little, he grew accustomed to John's absence, and could take a pleasure in the merry presence of Gip, with her pretty tricks and funny little ways, which often won a smile into Mrs. Shafto's sad eyes. Mr. Shafto himself learned to play with Gip, after his own grave and solemn fashion, and even taught her to call him father. As for little Gip, she had altogether forgotten her drunken mother, and knew of no other parents than these who had adopted her.
But it was very disheartening to Mr. Shafto to be quite unable to find any work for which he was fit. He had so long allowed younger men to push him out of his place, that now he really wished to exert himself, there seemed no room for him in the bustling city. He had grown rusty through long indulgence in selfishness and indolence; and a hard fight would it be to thrust his way into the crowded ranks of busy men. Sandy could not yet gain more than his own living; and it seemed as if Mrs. Shafto must continue to work hard, from early in the morning until late into the night, to earn food for her husband and little Gip.
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[CHAPTER XVIII.]
LEAVING THE OLD HOME.
IT was a little sooner than usual one evening when Sandy returned from the wood-yard, with a bundle of wood under his arm, which Mr. Mason had sent for Mrs. Shafto. Gip was not yet waiting for him at the street corner, ready to jump about him gleefully along the narrow pavement which led across the grave-yard; and Sandy loitered for a minute to give her time to see him.
The place had grown into a dear home for him. He knew every blackened tombstone, and could read all the English words on the tablet in memory of Mr. Shafto's grandfather. What a quiet spot it was! how little Gip's laugh echoed round the high walls! And the fleeting beam of sunshine that peeped round the angle of the tallest chimney, just about the time when he reached the house, how bright it always seemed! He had ceased to think that he had ever lived anywhere else. The small house, too, looked more cheerful than it used to do; for the hatchment was gone, and the plumes, and the child's coffin, which had so much distressed little Gip that it had been disposed of immediately. The shop window was quite empty now, except for the single announcement of "Pinking done here."
Sandy was looking wistfully at this home of his, when Gip caught sight of him, and ran to meet him with merry shouts and laughter.