“You are going to Wandsworth in the morning—may I come with you?”
At the word Wandsworth, Mrs Jenks’ face flushed crimson, the tears, so close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over her head.
“Oh! Miss Mary, don’t mind me, ma’am—I’m a poor weak creature, but indeed my heart misgives me sore. Suppose the lad should refuse to come back?”
“Suppose the Lord hath forgotten to be gracious?” replied Miss Mary, softly.
“Oh! no, ma’am, it ain’t that. He’s gracious any way, anyhow. No, Miss Mary dear, I feels your kindness, but I’ll go alone. It will daunt the poor boy less if I ’ave no one beside me. Down on my bended knees, if need be, I’ll beg of him to turn from ’is evil ways, and perhaps the Lord will hear me.”
“Yes, Mrs Jenks, the Lord will hear you, and give you back your lost son.”
Miss Mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the fire.
“Yes,” she said after a pause. “I were a fool to misdoubt God. Don’t his heavenly Father and his blessed Saviour care more fur the lad than I do?
“’Twill be all right for ’im, and if Flo was here to-night, she’d say, sweet lamb,—
”‘Mrs Jenks, ma’am, ain’t you about ready to get hout that jacket, and trousers, and vest, to hair ’em, ma’am?’