She did not divulge her plan to Grant till Miss Prosser was fairly gone, and then she brought all her coaxing artillery to bear on the maid, who at last reluctantly yielded to her self-willed little mistress.
It was quite a new experience for Blanche to find herself out walking after dark. As she linked her arm into her maid's, and they began to thread their way along the lamp-lit streets, Blanche felt somewhat of the feeling of adventure which she had on that autumn morning at Glen Eagle, when she found herself alone in the fir-forest. And there was a strange resemblance between the occasions in another way, though Blanche did not know it. On that morning she went, unconscious of it though she was, to bring life and love and hope into the heart of the lonely little maiden who leant against one of the old fir-trees. And, to-night, she was going on a similar mission—not along the pleasant roads of Stratheagle in a sunshiny morning, but through a dreary November drizzle to a wretched haunt of misery, where a poor little desolate heart sorely needed some ministry of love.
Strange to say, the wretched cellar in the narrow court was not so far distant from Mr. Clifford's stately mansion as might have been expected, so Blanche and her guide were not long in reaching the fairy's home.
After going down a flight of steps, Grant led the way to a dreary room. Opening the door quietly, Blanche peeped cautiously in. The poor child lay on a heap of straw. When the door opened, she raised her head and eagerly scanned the visitors. Evidently recognizing Blanche, she fixed her sharp, unchildlike eyes on her, saying, in her shrill voice, "Have you been to it again? Aren't it a pretty pantomime? You seemed much 'appier than that t'other 'un. We noticed you. I wish I was there,—I do. It's wery dull a-lyin' here. Tim's never looked near, neither." Then, turning to the maid, she said, in her sharp, querulous tone, "Well, s'pose you've brought me a bit of somethink to eat. You said you would, mind!"
Morag.
Blanche felt rather repulsed, but she hastened to uncover a dish of fruit which Grant had placed upon a stool near her, and handed some to the little girl, who seized it eagerly, saying, "I haven't tasted nothink since last night—seen nobody—she's been at it again, drinkin' dreadful. And what made a pretty, fine lady like you come to see me?" she asked, turning to survey Blanche more closely when her hunger was somewhat appeased. "'Ave you got anythink else for 'un?"
"O poor fairy! I'm so sorry for you, I came to see you because I was. I have thought so much about you since that evening at the pantomime, and I was so very glad when Grant told me she had found your home," said Blanche, kneeling down beside the child and taking the little thin fingers into her hand. The little girl glanced rather suspiciously at Blanche, who, while Grant went to unfold a warm blanket she had brought, came closer and whispered in a low, nervous tone, "And I came to see you besides, fairy, because I wanted so very much to tell you about a good Lord Jesus, who, I'm sure, loves you, and will be very kind to you. Indeed it's only quite lately I've come really to know Him, myself. But I'm sure He loves you very much even now, and would be such a kind Friend for you to have."
"Don't b'lieve it," replied the fairy, as she drew her hand away, which Blanche had been stroking. "We see lots on 'em—Tim and me—at the pantomime. Most likely seed this 'un. They never give us a fardin, though we sometimes beg for somethink when they're a-comin' out of the play. But we're forbid to, you know," she added, nodding and winking as she glanced at Blanche's earnest face.
"Oh! but indeed, fairy, you are quite mistaken. You couldn't possibly see him at the pantomime. He is not to be seen anywhere at all in the world now. But though we can't see Him, He lives still, and hears us when we speak to Him and loves us so much,—indeed He does."