Horace had now seated himself by the old man, spite of a deep growl from Grip, whose nearer approach was cut short by a backhanded slap from his master.
“Look there now, old friend,” continued the young man. At this moment the school doors were thrown open, and out poured a stream of boys and girls, tumbling one over another in their excitement, and singing gaily as they began to disperse over the green. But all suddenly stopped, for the schoolmaster made his appearance, and all clustered round him. School was over, and what was going to happen now? In former days the sight of the master would have been a signal for every boy and girl to slink out of reach of his observation; but now the master’s coming was hailed with a happy shout, and the young ones vied with one another in getting near him, while the youngest clung to his dress, and all looked up at him with bright and happy smiles. Horace turned towards the old man, and marked a flush on his worn and weather-beaten features. “That’s a sight worth seeing, my friend,” he added; “I think it used not to be so.”
Reuben made no answer. His eye seemed to be gazing at something beyond the busy scene before him.
“You’ve never had any children of your own, it may be,” said Horace, noticing his absent look.
Slowly the old man turned towards his companion, his face was now quite pale, and tears began to steal down its deep furrows. “I’ve never a child now,” he said in a hoarse and troubled voice, “but I had once—a blessed little ’un she were, but she died.”
“It may be, friend,” said the young man gently, “that the Lord took her in mercy from the evil to come. Did she die very young?”
Reuben Gregson seemed unable to reply for a while, then he said slowly, and apparently with a great effort, “Ay, sir, very young, and she were all the boys and girls I ever had. She were but five year old when she died, but she died happy, poor thing. It’s more nor thirty years now since she left us.”
“And she died happy, you say?” asked Horace, deeply touched. “Did she know anything of her Saviour?”
“I believe you,” replied the other earnestly, “yes. There were a good young lady—she ain’t living now—as seed her playing about by the roadside one day, and gave her this book.” Ruby drew out from his breast-pocket a large faded leathern case, and from its inmost depths brought out a small picture-book full of coloured Scripture prints. The frontispiece represented our Saviour hanging on the cross, and was much worn, as with the pressure of little fingers. “There, sir,” continued the old man, “the young lady showed her them pictures, and talked to her about ’em, and particular about Him as was nailed to the cross. We was staying on a common near her house for a week or more, and each day that young lady came and had a talk to our little Bessy. And she never forgot what the lady said to her. And so, when she were took with the fever, some weeks arter that, when we was far-off from where the lady lived, her last words was, ‘Daddy, I’m going to Jesus, ’cos he said, “Suffer the little children to come to me.”’ There, sir, I’ve told you now what I haven’t spoken to nobody else these thirty years.”
“And won’t you follow your dear child to the better land?” asked Horace kindly; “there’s room in our Saviour’s heart and home for you too.”