“Come, Matty, you and I will go with this little one and see grandfather. What is your name, child?”
“Martha Burns, sir.”
“Well, Martha, give me your hand, and come along.”
They were soon in the shabby little room,—for Martha was eager to give the food to the old man. Of course Jack Frost and Sons were still in possession, but there had come another visitor during the child’s absence, whom they were scarce prepared to meet.
Death sat beside the lowly bed. He had not yet laid his hand on his victim, but his chill presence was evidently felt.
“Darling, I’m glad you’ve come,” said the old man, faintly. “I’ve been longing so for you. Give me your hand, dear. I’m so cold—so cold.”
He shivered as he spoke until the miserable bed shook. Poor Martha forgot the food in her anxiety, for a striking change had come over gran’father—such as she had never seen before. She took his thin hand in hers, and began to weep softly.
But Matilda Westlake did not forget the food. She took up the tin can in which it had been brought there, and poured some of the still warm contents into a cracked soup plate that stood on the table. Finding a pewter spoon, she at once put her hand under the pillow, and raising the old man’s head gently, began to feed him like a child. Meanwhile Tom Westlake took off his thick overcoat and spread it over the bed. Then he went out, bought some sticks and coal from a neighbour, and, returning, soon kindled a fire in the rusty grate.
The old man did not seem surprised. His face wore a dazed, yet thoroughly pleased, look as he quietly accepted these attentions. All the time he kept fast hold of Martha’s hand, and smiled to her once or twice. It was evident that he relished the soup. Only once he broke silence to thank them and say, “Jesus sent you, I suppose?”
“Yes, Jesus sent us,” replied Matty, thoroughly meaning what she said.