“Well,” said Arthur, “partly, I think, it meant that I wish I had something to do.”
His aunt thought that boys were very curious things, and wondered what they could do. She felt almost inclined to echo Arthur’s sigh; but she thought a moment, and then she said—
“Would you like to have a skein of wool to wind into a ball?”
“Yes,” said Arthur. He was quite glad to have even this to do. At home it was not the occupation he generally chose; but now, as he stood with the blue wool encircling two chairs, steadily unwinding it into a ball, it seemed quite pleasant work. Mrs. Estcourt had quite made up her mind, that the skein would be spoiled, and so when her little nephew brought it to her, wound and unbroken, it was an agreeable surprise, and she began to have a higher opinion of boys in general.
The day seemed to wear very slowly on, and with the waning light Arthur’s heart seemed to sink very low. So quiet was he, that his aunt could hardly understand him, and any one who had seen the boisterous, lively boy at Ashton Grange, would hardly have known him as the same one who was sitting so quietly before the drawing-room fire in the lamplight. He was sitting there in dreamy fashion with a very sad, heavy heart, when his aunt asked him what was his bedtime. A fortnight ago, if this question had been put to Arthur, he would not have given the same answer that he did now. Then he had considered it one of the greatest hardships of his life, that a quarter before nine was the time when he was expected to disappear. But now he said, “Oh, I don’t much mind, aunt; I think I should like to go now!” for the weary, lonely feeling was making his heart so sick, that he wanted to be all alone for a while.
“Well, good night, darling,” said his aunt, and she put her arms very tenderly round his neck; for she knew that his poor little heart must be aching, and that his thoughts must be seeing things that were very far away.
She kissed him so lovingly that it was just too much for him. The tears came into his eyes, and Arthur went sobbing up the stairs, not noticing that he was holding the candle on one side, and that his way could be traced along the carpet by large white spots. Somebody else noticed it the next morning; and the housemaid thought that her mistress had done a very foolish thing when she brought that young gentleman into her orderly household.
Arthur’s little room looked very snug as he opened the door and went in. The firelight was dancing on the white curtains and on all the pretty things around. But Arthur did not see any of it for the blinding tears that were in his eyes, and fast falling down. His whole heart was longing with one deep aching to be back again at home, and all the more that he had been trying all the evening to keep back the tears. It seemed as if he would cry his heart out, as he lay on the rug, sobbing so bitterly all alone. “Oh, mamma, mamma,” he sobbed “come, come!” And this was all he said, this was what he repeated again and again; and it was very dreary that there was no answer—it seemed as if no one heard him.
But One could hear him. Jesus wept when He was on the earth, and He does not despise a child’s first bitter grief. He knows what trouble is, and He knows just how much each particular trouble is to each one; for He Himself has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.
By and by Arthur remembered the text, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” He knew that when the Lord Jesus Christ said “all” that He meant all, so he lifted up his heart to the One who alone can read hearts; and this is what he said, with the sobs coming thick and fast—what he prayed; for real prayer is a heart speaking to God, and calling to Him in need—