Transcriber’s note

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

MOTHER-MEG

OR,

THE STORY OF DICKIE'S ATTIC

BY

CATHARINE SHAW

AUTHOR OF "ONLY A COUSIN," "ALICK'S HERO," "NELLIE ARUNDEL," "THE GALLED FARM," ETC., ETC.

New Edition

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

SHAW'S NEW GIFT SERIES.

Forming most attractive Presentation Volumes.

SERIES A

In bevelled boards, gilt edges, price Half-a-crown each.
Also issued in cloth, plain edges.

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, Paternoster Row, E.C.
And all Booksellers.

1806.

"Well, yer can 'ave him: the worst on't is the gal; she'll take on if I say yes, awful."--p. 109.

CONTENTS.

MOTHER-MEG:

THE STORY OF DICKIE'S ATTIC.

CHAPTER I.

PITILESS.

UT 'im down, 'e can walk as well as anythink."

It was a cold day in May, when the sun was hidden behind leaden clouds, and the wind swept along the streets as if determined to clear them of every loiterer who should venture to assure himself that it was not March, and could not be so cold.

The few people who had ventured out in spring clothing bid fair to "repent it many a day," and those who were happy enough to have winter wraps drew them closer, and hurried along, the sooner to get into some shelter. The omnibus men dashed their arms across their breasts for warmth, and everybody, gentle or simple, looked nipped up with the strong east wind.

"Put 'im down," said a hard-featured woman, who was walking slowly along by the side of the road; "it won't matter 'is walkin' now."

The man thus addressed was a thin, brow-beaten looking individual, who was carrying a child of some three years old in his arms. His clothes were threadbare, his knees peeped through his worn trousers, and his whole appearance was most deplorable. The woman by his side was as poorly clad as himself, outwardly at least, but seemed to suffer less from it. She was not thin, and if looked at closely, appeared to be well fed, and perhaps to have no lack of drink either. She carried a small infant in her arms, wrapped in a large dirty shawl.

The three-year-old child had a pale, suffering little face, which looked as if tears were often very near. His eyes were terribly weak, and when he was set down by the man he looked as if he would have fallen. But the woman disengaged one of her hands, and said impatiently, dragging him towards her, "Come along, Dickie, none o' yer nonsense; walk on like a good boy."

The child gave one glance at her stern face, and then tottered on silently, occasionally rubbing his poor little eyes with the back of his tiny hand.

The wind met them round the corners; it seemed to be everywhere, and at every gust the miserable-looking party looked more miserable still.

"How much 'ave yer took?" asked the man, as if he could turn and run home.

The woman felt for her pocket, and after some fumbling she said in a low voice, "Two-and-eight, I should think."

"Won't that do?" said the man, shivering. Then glancing sideways at the child, he went on, "'E'll not walk many more steps, and if you don't take care 'e'll not be hout to-morrer, nor next day neither; 'e's most done, 'e is."

The woman turned round and was going to speak, when a respectable couple, dressed in warm cloth, silks, and furs, came in sight.

In a moment her manner changed. "Take 'im up," she said in a wheedling tone, "'e's tired, 'e is, and cold; carry 'im a bit, George."

The child, too cold and weary to care, was taken resistlessly into the man's arms, and laid his head on his shoulder, and the party paused, looking expectantly at the lady and gentleman who were fast approaching.

"My good woman, this is a bitter day for such little ones to be out," said the gentleman kindly; "have you far to go?"

"Over London Bridge, sir, down that way."

"That's a long distance," he exclaimed; "and you all look perished with the cold."

"That we are, sir," answered the woman, sniffing, "and my good man, sir, just now was a-saying that though we hadn't took a ha'penny, sir, this day, we must give it up. But it's hard to see 'em suffer, sir, and have no bread nor firing to give 'em."

The man shook his head dolorously at each sentence, and the weak little child shut his eyes, as a fresh gust of wind seemed ready to blind him altogether.

"That child ought not to be out on such a day as this at all," said the lady almost severely.

"What is poor folk to do, my lady?" asked the woman, "there's no work, and there's no food; and surely we'd be better to get a bit of broken victuals or a copper from some Christian gentleman than to starve at home, like rats in a hole!"

"Well, well," said the gentleman with a ponderous sigh, "it makes one's heart ache, Clarissa. Here, my good woman, go home now and buy some food and coals, and get that poor child warm."

He gave her a shilling and passed on, and the woman, catching sight of a policeman whom she recognized bearing down upon them, they hastily turned the other way and set off in the direction of London Bridge as fast as they could go.

The man knew it was useless to put Dickie down to walk, for he had seen all day that the child was very ill. His light weight, however, was not a great trouble, for he was very small for his age, and now was so thin and emaciated with hardship that the man doubted if he should ever carry him again.

"I wish yer'd git some one else," he exclaimed at last, for some remnants of humanity were left in his heart, and he had not carried that tender little mite for six months without some feeling as near akin to love as he was capable of.

His wife turned on him sharply. "Yer know we can't! There's lots o' reasons why 'e is the best one as we can git. Look at them soft brown curls of 'is, what allers takes the ladies, and 'is small size for carryin'; and then yer know as well as I do as 'is mother's dead, and 'is father ain't of no account, and is glad to git a pint or two in return for our havin' 'im. I wish you wouldn't be such a simpleton, George."

The man sighed. Long ago he had given up contending with his imperious wife, but sometimes as now, he walked along morosely, and his thoughts were best known to himself.

"I'd save 'im from it if I could," he muttered to himself, "but I've thought that 'afore, and it ain't no use. Still I shan't forgit—though I ain't no good at anythink now."

They had now reached London Bridge, and soon after turned down one of the narrow streets leading from the main thoroughfare, and again under a long low archway running beneath the first floor rooms of one of the houses, and so emerged into a court squalid and forlorn, which contained the house they called home.

Just as they were turning in at the door a crippled child of some thirteen or fourteen years came down the stairs to meet them. She silently held out her arms for little Dickie, and without vouchsafing more than one dark look at the woman's face, and then another hopeless one at her little brother's, she slowly ascended again, step by step, till weary and panting she laid him down on an old mattress in the corner of the crowded room where she lived.

"Dickie," she moaned, burying her face in his neck, where the soft waves of his golden-brown hair felt like silk against it, "Dickie, are they goin' to kill you right out? Dickie——!"

CHAPTER II.

THE WEDDING-DAY.

MEAN to take care of you, my girl; leastways I'll do my best."

The words were spoken by a man of about twenty-five, in a workman's dress, as he led his bride in at the door of her future home.

"I know that," she answered, looking up almost wistfully, for there had been a different tone in the ending of his sentence to that in which it had begun.

"It's not such a place as I should like to ha' brought you to, Meg; but work's been slack, and—there, you know all that!"

Meg stepped in and looked around; her glance was shy and somewhat fearful. Should she be afraid to see what her young husband had prepared for her?

She clasped his hand tightly, and the firm pressure in return reassured her. Whatever it might be, love had done it from beginning to end.

For Meg had come out of the sweet country with its sunny meadows, and cowslips and buttercups. She had left, fifty miles away, the dear fragrant garden, where only this morning her mother had gathered such a posie as had never been seen before; she had left the cottage where every china mug and shepherdess was like a bit of her life; she had left the situation in the grand house at the end of her mother's garden, where she had lived for four years in the midst of every luxury. And this is what she had come to: two small rooms in a high London house, in one of the streets turning out of a wide but gone-down thoroughfare near London Bridge.

The rooms were on the second floor, and looked out front and back, and as her husband ushered her in and closed the door, she knew she had come home.

He led her to the fire, where already a kettle was singing blithely, placed there in readiness by some one as yet unknown to Meg, and then he put his arm round her and whispered,

"Does it all seem very different to what you thought, my dear?"

"Oh, no," said Meg, leaning against his shoulder and looking round; "it's ever so nice. And how could you think of all these things by yourself, Jem?"

He laughed nervously, and her glance continued to take in all the things one by one. The little chiffonier which he had bought at a second-hand shop with such pride, because Meg's mother had one just like it; the bright-burning grate, with its little oven and boiler; the two American arm-chairs, looking so inviting by it; the large rag hearthrug, the strips of clean carpet on each side of the table, the red table-cloth, the freshly-scrubbed shelves, on which quite an array of pretty new crockery was set out.

Yes, it was home. Meg looked up in her husband's face with a satisfied glance.

"It is beautiful," she said, taking possession of it all with her heart. Hers and his, their home, for as long as God willed it.

Perhaps something of that thought shone in the man's eyes as he stooped to kiss her upturned face.

So Meg put down her bunch of home flowers, and looked round for something to put them in.

"They are too many for a vase," she said, "or a jug either. I wonder if there's a basin?"

Jem went to a cupboard in the corner and produced a nice-sized one, neither too large nor too small.

"Oh!" said Meg, gratified; "what a lot of basins and things, Jem; I shall make you some puddings in those."

"I reckon you will," he answered smiling.

She bent over her flowers, touching them with soft tender touch, for she loved each one, and he stood looking on.

Could this sweet girl really belong to him? Then a thought came over him with a pang, of what the women grew into around them—the toiling, hard-working, ill-fed, sometimes ill-used women.

"But Meg will never grow like that," he thought; "not while I love her, and God loves her; and His love is a never-ending love."

"Ain't you going in t'other room to take off yer bonnet, my dear?" he asked; "or are the flowers too precious?"

"Don't you see," she answered, smiling, "my bonnet won't fade, and these will; so I thought I would do them first."

"I told mother to come and take a cup o' tea with us at five o'clock; it must be near that now."

He drew out a clumsy, old-fashioned watch from his pocket and glanced at it.

"It wants nigh on twenty minutes to, my girl, so if we mean to get out our things we must be quick."

"These are done now," she answered, gathering up the bits and putting them into the fire, where they crackled up into a blaze and made the kettle boil up in good earnest.

So she took off her bonnet, and when she came back Jem had put a small square hamper on the table ready for her to open.

"Do you think mother would like to see what my mistress has given me?" she asked a little timidly; for "mother" was a new word to her lips; hitherto it had always been "your mother."

"I dare say she would, Meg; and tea don't matter for a few minutes."

So Meg left the hamper untouched and went to the cupboard where she had seen the cups, and began to set three on a small tray she found there.

"Here is some milk, Jem!" she exclaimed; "how kind your mother is; and some bread and butter too all ready."

"Mother's in general very thoughtful," he answered, going over to her and lifting the tray to the chiffonier. "It will be handy there, against we have cleared the table."

At this moment there was a knock at the door, which Jem hastened to answer by opening it wide.

"I've brought her," he said, by way of introduction.

And then Mrs. Seymour saw her new daughter-in-law for the first time. That slim graceful figure, clothed in a simple, plainly-made dress of some mixture of grey and brown, which Meg had decided on for her wedding dress, because it would wear well in London, and then the blushing gentle face above it. Jem had not said a word too much in her praise, as far as she could judge by the first glance.

"Welcome, my dear," she said, advancing and kissing her; "I'm glad as my Jem is made happy at last."

"We waited for you, mother," said Jem, when he had placed her in the arm-chair, "because Meg thought as you'd like to see the things unpacked; they was put in by Mrs. MacDonald's own hands."

"That I should," answered Mrs. Seymour heartily, drawing nearer to the table; "what is it?"

"I don't know," answered Meg; "she called me in this morning and she said, 'Archer,'—you know it was only mother called me Meg at home; at mistress's I was always called Archer, so she said, 'Archer, I've put you in a few things to begin on, and so that you will not have to begin cooking at once. Remember, however, that a workman's wages will not buy these sort of things. It is only as a little wedding treat.'"

"That's very true," said Mrs. Seymour, referring to the wages.

"Ah, we know that," answered Meg cheerfully, with a bright glance at Jem; "but it's very kind of her all the same."

By this time Jem had undone the strings, and the hamper lay open before them. First there were a couple of fine chickens all ready cooked, done up in a clean cloth; then there were some sausages; after that a blancmange in a basin; then a bottle of cream; and lastly, some fresh butter and a box of new-laid eggs.

Underneath everything else was a flat parcel tied up in pieces of thin board.

"A wedding present to Margaret Archer, as a mark of Mrs. MacDonald's esteem, wishing her and her husband every happiness."

"Oh!" exclaimed Meg; "she said I should find her present at home! Jem, whatever can it be?"

"I guess," said Jem, trying to get his fingers underneath it to lift it up. But he had to find another way, for the package resisted his efforts by sticking close to the bottom of the hamper as if it were glued.

"It's mighty heavy," he said. And then they found that the strings had been so placed as to allow of its being easily lifted out by them.

"A clock!" said Mrs. Seymour, delighted. "Oh, Jem, how I did want to get you a clock, but I could not manage it anyhow."

He put his broad hand on hers gratefully.

"I know, mother," he answered. "Don't ye think as I've eyes to see as all these things wasn't here when I left here last evening?"

A sweet smile came over the worn face, and with almost an arch look she answered,

"There's a certain bag in my drawer that used to be pretty heavy once, that I kept to buy things for 'Jem's wife.' It's empty now though."

"For me?" asked Meg; and then she blushed so much that she had to help Jem very industriously to undo the knots in the strings.

"For you," answered her mother-in-law.

And when Jem lifted out the present, they found it was a very nice clock, which would strike the hours.

"Shall I move this on one side?" asked Meg, touching the vase in the centre of the mantel-shelf.

"Put it on the chiffonier," said Jem, placing the clock where she had made room for it. "Don't it look handsome?"

After they had all admired it till they had no more words at their command, Meg turned to the basket again.

"Jem, we must have one of these fowls to-night for tea, because mother is here."

"You're very kind, my dear," said Mrs. Seymour, "but I don't wish to eat up your good things."

"Who should enjoy them if not you?" asked Meg heartily, quickly clearing away the papers and things, and placing the hamper tidily in a corner. She spread the cloth and set out the fowl on one of the dishes, putting the sausages round as a garnish; then she poured out some cream, and found a plate for the country butter, which quite ornamented the table, with its pretty cow resting on the circle of grass.

"My mother put us in a loaf of her home-made bread," she exclaimed, turning to Jem; "can you get it out of my basket?"

Jem laughed. It already stood on a plate at her elbow.

"We are ready then, mother," said Meg, preparing to sit down at the tray. "Will you come to the table?"

"I don't think you've made the tea yet, my dear," answered Mrs. Seymour smiling, as she glanced at the still steaming kettle.

Meg looked disconcerted, but Jem only patted her cheek, and said tenderly,

"We can't expect little wives to remember everything the first day, can we?"

Meg had to ask where the tea was kept, and then they gathered round the table.

Jem bent his head and asked their God to bless them now and always, and Mrs. Seymour added a gentle and solemn Amen.

CHAPTER III.

THE LOST BROOCH.

EM had been brought up as a painter, and had served his time in that trade. But painters are often slack, as he knew to his cost; and when he had nothing much to do he used to employ his fingers in another way. Besides, there were long evenings and half holidays when he could pursue the avocation which he liked much better than even painting.

During the years in which he had been learning his trade he had been thrown with carpenters and builders of every class, and he soon had made up his mind that he would learn all he could, so that, should the opportunity ever come, he should know how to be a builder himself.

But times had not as yet been propitious, and at twenty-five he found himself still only a painter, with a very fair knowledge of carpentering into the bargain.

About a year ago he had been taken on as a permanent hand at a large decorating-house, who undertook work in the country; and Jem, valued for his trustworthiness and general ability, was often sent as one of those who knew his own trade well, and also could turn his hand to several others.

Thus it came to pass in the early spring of this same year he had been sent to help in repairing Mrs. MacDonald's handsome house, and had stayed there for two months.

He had soon met with Meg, and had been struck with her gentle modesty of demeanour.

Hitherto the girls he had met had been dressed to the very utmost of their means, and had behaved in a flighty, loud manner which grated on his feelings.

"No such wife for me," he had said to his mother one evening, when they had just met one of their acquaintances in gaudy finery, which could not hide her slovenly boots or pinned-together dress.

His mother quite agreed. Hard-worked and poor as she was, no one had seen her anything but neat.

But Meg was different. As now and then he met her flitting up the stairs at the hall, or passing to and from her mother's cottage, he knew he had to do with quite a different woman from those with whom he was accustomed to meet.

He was sauntering along a lane one afternoon in March when his work was over, thinking of all this, and enjoying the quiet twilight, when he saw a stooping figure in front of him eagerly looking for something.

"Have you lost anything?" he asked, coming up to the figure. "Can I help you?"

He found with a start that the subject of his thoughts was close to him.

Hitherto she had only nodded civilly in return for his passing greeting, and now in the dusk hardly recognized him, though she knew he was a stranger to their village.

"Oh, thank you!" she answered.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It is my mother's little brooch. I can't think how I came to drop it. I should not mind so much only that it has my father's hair in it. She values it very much."

"I dare say we shall manage to find it. When did you miss it?" he asked.

"Just now—not two minutes ago. I know I had it at that stile, because I turned there to look at the new moon, and I had it in my hand then."

They searched in silence for some minutes, but the twilight had deepened quickly, and the dewy grass seemed all one mist under their feet.

"This is damp for you, ain't it?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes; that was how I came to drop it. I gathered up my dress, and it must have slipped then. Whatever shall I do?—we cannot see any longer."

"I dare say they have a lantern at the stables; I will go and ask."

"I will wait here," she answered.

"Don't do that. You go home; I'll come back and look till it's found."

"I cannot trouble you with that," said Meg. "Mother and I will come early to-morrow. No one passes this lane before seven. We could see soon after six now."

"It will be no trouble," Jem answered earnestly; "and if it can be found to-night it is far better nor waitin'. There is some things gets better for waitin', but others——"

Meg listened: surely there was a serious tone in this man's talk, such as her mother loved.

They were rapidly nearing the light in her mother's window.

"That is your home, ain't it?" asked Jem, pointing.

"Yes; how did you know?"

"I heard you lived there. May I come up to the door with you?"

Meg assented. She was rather surprised, but not sorry that he wished it.

When, however, he got to the door, he bade her an abrupt good-bye, and hastened back along the path.

She saw his form disappear in the direction of the stables, and then she opened the door and told her mother all about it.

"He's been working at the Hall for this month, mother; but I've never spoken to him before."

Mrs. Archer went to the door and looked anxiously down the lane, as if with her old eyes she could see the lost brooch herself.

"Dear, dear," she said, "to think I could have let you take it to be mended, and not have gone myself!"

Poor Meg stood beside her in silence. She wished it too; but how could she know she would lose it?

Just then a light twinkled down the lane, and passed rapidly onwards.

Meg bethought herself.

"Mother, I must go back," she exclaimed. "What will they say to me? I told them I should be home early. I'll try to send George over to know if—if he has found it."

So when after a quarter of an hour's search Jem came back with it to the cottage, the little bird whom he had hoped to see there was flown.

"I'm naught but a workman," he said to her, when after another month of seeking the little bird he caught her at last; "and I haven't anything nice to offer you, Meg. I can't give you such a home as you've been used to, not even as good as you might ha' had at yer mother's."

Meg was going to speak, but he went on as if he must say all that was in his heart.

"And I know I'm not so—so—refined, Meg, as you are. You have lived amongst gentlefolks, I've lived amongst the poor, and I know now what I didn't perhaps enough understand when I set my heart on you, that my speech and my bringin' up is not so good as yours. Meg, if I've done you a wrong in lovin' you, I'll go back home, and never come again—"

He paused: could he say any more? What would he do if she accepted that last alternative of his?

But Meg put her hand into his.

"It's the heart, that is the thing, Jem," she whispered, "and that's above fine words and ways."

"If you can be satisfied with that, Meg, we shall be very happy!" he answered, clasping her hand tightly; "for my whole heart is yours, which has never loved another."

"And I'm not afraid," Meg went on earnestly, "since you told me all that happened two years ago. Any one who has felt like that is safe to trust."

For Jem had told her one Sunday, when, with her mother's permission, he had walked home from the evening service with her, what a different man he had been since one particular day.

"I was going down a street near home," he had said, "when some people came along singin' somethin' which I thought sounded very swinging and pretty, and I stopped to listen. They marched along slowly, half-a-dozen of 'em carryin' a banner in front of them, with the words in large letters on it, 'Come to the hall at 7 o'clock and hear the good news.' Still they went on with the singin', and I got curious to know what their good news was.

"'Ye must be born again, again,
Ye must be born again, again;
I verily, verily, say unto you,
Ye must be born again!'

"On it went with a swingin' sort of roll, and I wondered, and followed on in spite of myself. 'Seven o'clock; hear the good news!' What good news was there in being told to be born again? Nonsense! this warn't any good news as I could see. I'd a deal sooner they'd have told me where I could ha' got a bit more work. That's what would ha' been good news to me, I thought. But I went with 'em, for all that; and the end of it all was, that I was born again! That very night I got into a new sort o' man. I left all the old things far away behind—'as far as the east is from the west,' the man who preached said, and I got instead such a white robe to cover me over, as made me feel whiter than the snow they sang about. And that's how I came to be different—just washed in the Blood of the Lamb!"

"I know what that means too," Meg had answered softly.

"I knew you did," he had said. And then they did not speak again till they parted at the Hall gates.

"So, though I'm naught but a workman, you can put up with me, Meg?" he asked, the day before he was going away, and the repairs were finished.

"Dickie," she whispered, as Jem paused, "don't yer like to hear about Jesus? That's the Good Shepherd what I've told you about, as loves the little lambs."—p.38.

And she answered by putting her hand into his.

"One thing I can promise you," he said: "that as long as God gives me strength I'll work for you, Meg!"

"And after that I'll work for you!" she answered, while two tears glittered in her eyes.

In three months' time Meg left the sweet country and the great Hall, and her mother and young sister, and went to London to make Jem happy.

Mrs. MacDonald gave her a nice wedding breakfast, and much good advice, and Meg entered on her new life as we have seen, full of hope and peace.

CHAPTER IV.

ROYAL CHILDREN.

OU didn't think as I was near you this afternoon, did you?" asked Jem, when he came in to his tea, a few days after their marriage.

"No, indeed," answered Meg, looking up; "were you?"

"Yes; you know the court what runs up under these houses, first turnin' on the right?"

"I think I do."

"Well, one of them houses. My master has the job to repair them a bit; they're goin' to change hands, I believe, and so I shall be about here a good while before they're done."

"I wish I'd known; then I'd have watched for you," said Meg.

"Would you? Well, my dear, I don't know as it will make much difference, only for knowing as we're near each other, because I never do use myself to leave my work, for nothing."

"Ah! no," answered Meg.

He sat down to the table, and after he had asked a blessing they began their meal; but Jem was unusually preoccupied.

Meg was not an old enough wife to understand all her husband's moods, and supposed he was tired with his day's work.

"Meg," he said suddenly, "I suppose we haven't such a thing as an old blanket?"

Meg looked rather astonished.

"Why, you know, Jem, as everything nearly is new what you got ready for our home."

"Yes," said Jem, "yes, I know. I wonder how we could do?"

"What is it for?" asked Meg.

"Why, my girl, my heart's just achin' at a little feller I saw there in a attic. He's been lyin', his sister told me, ever since the first week in May, and he's like a skeleton. She don't seem to have much to give him, nor to live on herself neither, and he's got nothing on him but an old shawl, and the girl says as he's awful cold of nights. It's a frightful draughty place."

Meg's happy eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, Jem," she exclaimed, "can we give them one of ours?"

"Well, ye see, Meg, it won't do for us to be giving away our things one by one; for if we began in this poor neighbourhood, we should not have a rag to our backs, as the sayin' is. But yet this little chap—"

"Oh, yes, Jem, we ought not to 'pass by on the other side,' as the Bible says. Do let us give one of ours."

"I was thinkin'," said Jem; "you know, Meg, you and me made up our minds when we was married to put by somethin' to give to our God out of every shillin' we earned—"

"Yes, we did," answered Meg eagerly.

"Now, though we haven't earned much yet," he went on, "yet we've had a deal give us; and 'sposin' I was to get a blanket for the poor little chap: how would that be?"

"Oh, Jem, do! Will you take me out with you to get it?"

Jem smiled; then turning grave again, he added:

"But, sweetheart, I'm loth to sadden you with such tales when your dear heart's a bit sore at leavin' home. Eh, Meg?"

Meg's tears were very near, but she answered as steadily as she could—

"It would be poor thanks to Him who's given me so much, Jem, to say as I was too happy to be made sorrowful by helping any one in need."

Jem said no more, but went into the other room and fetched Meg's hat and jacket; but when they got outside in the brilliant light of the declining June sun, he said to himself, that he had never before seen his Meg look so beautiful.

The blanket was bought, a very ordinary one—"all wool" as Jem had said, remembering his mother's bringing-up, but not so good as to be immediately noticed and perhaps stolen in the large lodging-house in which the children lived.

Then they retraced their steps, and when they came to the court Jem stopped.

"I'll soon be home, my girl; you go on without me."

"Shan't I come too?" asked Meg.

"If you'd like to, my dear; but it ain't a nice place."

It was by this time getting dusk between the high houses, and Meg followed her husband in silence. It was the first time she had ever been into any crowded abode. A country cottage was the only experience she had had.

Jem led the way up the dark and rickety stairs to the very top, and then stooped his head under a low doorway.

The room was close under the roof, open to the tiles, and was very bare, but neat and orderly. On a mattress in the corner lay the little sufferer, while by him sat his crippled sister, nearly as pale and thin as he.

"My child," said Jem in a kind voice, addressing her, "do you think if I brought you a blanket you could keep it from being stolen?"

The child looked up suddenly. A face, with all its want and suffering, on which something indescribable was written. Jem did not analyze it, but he felt it.

"I think so," she answered. "I know a place outside up under the roof where I could hide it away if I go out. That's what I have to do with most things as it is."

Meg seated herself on the box by the child's side and looked down on his little face. She put his wavy hair back from his forehead and said tenderly—

"Poor little dear, you have a bad cough!"

"Yes," said the child; "me cough all de time."

"Yes," pursued his sister. "Dickie's been bad this five weeks, and if it hadn't been for father having a bit of work, and bringin' home a little for once, he'd ha' died."

Dickie did not seem to mind being thus spoken of, but he turned his head wearily away, as if it were too much trouble to think.

"I like bein' ill," he whispered, as Meg bent over him.

"Like it, dear?" she questioned, thinking she had not heard aright.

He nodded ever so slightly, and then added in a little determined voice—

"'Cause then they don't hurt me no more."

Meg would have asked for an explanation, but Jem was unfolding the blanket, and the girl was absorbed in wonder at its comfort and whiteness.

"Dickie, look!" she exclaimed in a low joyful tone.

But the child was too ill to be interested. He did not turn his head again, and Cherry said, with all the life gone out of her eyes, which had so quickly lighted up at sight of the blanket—

"That's how he is most times. Sometimes I wish he was safely in heaven with mother."

Jem put his hand gently on the girl's arm.

"Ah, my dear, that's how we feel when we're sad; but if we understand that God loves us, we'll be willing to wait, so as we may do His will."

Her wide-open, sad blue eyes filled slowly, and she turned in silence to cover over her little brother. She took up the old shawl and spread the blanket next him, then unfolding the shawl, which had been doubled for warmth, she carefully covered every bit of the blanket with it, even seeking a bit of rag from somewhere to stop up a hole through which the whiteness peeped.

"He might guess it else," she explained, and her hearers had to draw their own conclusions.

"Wouldn't he like him to have it?" questioned Jem.

"He'd like drink better," answered Cherry, in a matter-of-fact tone. "Since poor father's taken to that so much, he don't have the heart he used to have, He wouldn't have took this attic for us, so comfortable, only the landlady let us have it cheap 'cause the other folks wouldn't have Dickie no longer."

"Why, dear?" asked Meg pitifully.

"'Cause he cried and coughed so. The attic was empty, and I told father I didn't mind the holes in the roof so long as they wouldn't worry Dickie. So he was in a good humour, and let us come, and we've been here a month."

Cherry spoke in a congratulating tone, but soon grew sober again when she looked towards the little brown head that moved so restlessly.

"Jem," whispered Meg, "might I make him some bread and milk, and bring it round to him at once?"

Jem willingly agreed, and Meg hurried away. While she was gone, he sat down and drew from his pocket a little Testament, and with Cherry's eyes curiously watching him, he turned over the leaves till he came to the tenth chapter of John. Then in a clear, low tone, that soothed while it wooed them to listen, he read about the Good Shepherd giving His life for the sheep.

Cherry sat down on the bottom of the mattress and listened, evidently not as if it were a new tale, but yet as a thirsty man will stretch out his hand for water which he has not tasted for so long.

"Dickie," she whispered, as Jem paused, "don't yer like to hear about Jesus? That's the Good Shepherd what I've told you about, as loves the little lambs."

Dickie opened his eyes just enough to give her the shadow of a smile of assent; but he was too weak to care to speak.

"Here, dear," said Meg, coming in and leaning over him; "do you like a little nice hot bread and milk?"

The child could not remember the time when such a name had been mentioned to him; but when Meg put a spoonful to his lips the smell of it brought back vividly the remembrance of his mother.

"Yes," he said, answering Meg's question now; "I 'ike it very much."

When he had eaten about half he put his little hand out, and gently pushed the basin away. "No more," he whispered, and sank into sleep such as he had not had since that terrible May day, when he had been brought home nearly dying.

Then Meg turned to Cherry.

"Eat the rest of it, dear," she said.

"Oh, no," answered the child, drawing back; "it 'ull do him such a deal o' good. He never gets nothing nice."

"Jem will let me bring him some more another day," answered Meg; "but if you would rather keep this till he wakes, see, I have brought something for you."

She unfolded a piece of paper with two thick slices of bread-and-butter, which Cherry took in her hands with a look of gratitude which went to Meg's heart.

"Oh, you are good!" the girl exclaimed, throwing her arms round Meg; "nobody was ever so good to us before—since mother went. He's always callin' for mother."

Meg gazed in the upturned face, and then after an instant's hesitation she stooped and kissed it—the soiled little face, upon which Meg was certain was written the name of the King of kings.

CHAPTER V.

A FEW SHIRTS.

OU look tired, mother," said Meg, drawing forward the arm-chair the first time her mother-in-law came to see her after her wedding-day.

"I am," answered Mrs. Seymour, sinking into the seat with a weary sigh.

"I was going to set out to call on you this morning, but, stupid-like, I never asked Jem where you lived before he went to his work. So I couldn't come."

"And Jem never told you where I lived?" asked Mrs. Seymour, astonished.

"I asked him," answered Meg, "and he smiled at me, and said he should tell me nothing about it, but take me to see."

"Why, I live in the very same house, my dear."

Meg looked too surprised to speak. When at last she could find any words, she said anxiously—

"How very unkind you must have thought me, mother, in not coming to see after you. Times I have meant to ask Jem, but then he was out; and these few days have passed so quickly, I have been so busy getting out all my little treasures."

Mrs. Seymour looked round.

"Your things have made a lot o' difference, my dear. You have smartened it up a deal."

"Oh, it did not want smartening up," said Meg; "but the young ladies at the Hall did give me such pretty things. Look at this workbox, and this tea-caddy, and that pretty vase. Those were the young ladies' gifts, and those glass dishes from the other servants."

Mrs. Seymour said they were very kind, and then sat looking somewhat abstractedly into the little fire.

"And he never told you what a job he had to get these rooms for you?" she asked at last.

"No," said Meg; "did he have a job?"

"Oh, that he had. For the party that was in them didn't want to move out. You must know, Meg, that I and Jem lived in two rooms in this house ever since I buried his poor father. But when he got to earn enough, he took the front room on this floor for himself, and used to come and have his meals with me. I've lived in this house twenty years come Michaelmas. I'm a laundress, you know, and wash for poor folks."

"A laundress!" exclaimed Meg, looking at her pale, thin face; "then that's what makes you so tired?"

"No, my dear," briefly answered her mother, "not if I had got my usual help. But she's took a day's holiday, as she does whenever it suits her, and I and my work may go then, for aught she cares."

The old woman's face had begun to assume a hard look, but it was only for a moment.

"Well, well," she said hastily, "it's not for me to be coming down hard on others; I'm not so good myself to my Master. But there was a day, Meg, when I couldn't have felt like that; and it ain't so long ago, neither. It was my Jem as brought me the good news, and since I've been forgiven myself, I'm learnin' to forgive. It makes all the difference."

"It does indeed," answered Meg gently, seating herself in a low chair close to the old woman, and putting her hand in hers.

The caress was unexpected, and her mother looked down upon her with quick watering eyes.

"I might help you to-day," said Meg, hesitating a little.

Not that she grudged offering her help, but she knew so little of her mother-in-law's life. Should she have to go and wash and iron among a lot of other women?

Mrs. Seymour paused a moment before answering, and then said cheerfully—

"Well, my dear, if you would help me for an hour or so, till Jem comes home to dinner, I should be very much obliged, and then we can ask him. What worries me is, that I promised a man who is going away to get his shirts done by one o'clock; but I was that beat, that I could not stand another moment."

"I wish you had asked me," said Meg, looking grieved. "You must try to think of me as a real daughter."

Mrs. Seymour was much touched, but it was not her way to show feeling, and she only answered—

"Thank you, my dear. I shall take your kindness as it was meant; but if you help me at any little pinch like this, you must not be hurt at my giving you what I should have given Jenny."

Meg looked mystified, and then coloured painfully.

"Oh, I don't think I could," she began; but her mother-in-law stopped her.

"Talk it over with Jem, my dear; this is a hard world, and if you could put by a little for a rainy day you would not be sorry. I must pay some one; why not you?"

"We will talk to Jem," said Meg, recovering herself, and speaking with cheerful alacrity. "I am quite ready, mother; so if you are, we will come and begin, because one o'clock will be soon here."

"They're all starched and damped down," said Mrs. Seymour, "and the irons is heating beautiful."

They turned from the door, and Meg prepared to run down-stairs.

"Not there!" exclaimed Mrs. Seymour. "Why, Meg, I live at the top."

"Oh," said Meg, laughing, "you must scold Jem for not telling me."

"Yes, I live at the top," Mrs. Seymour went on as they reached the landing, "because, you see, no one don't interfere with me up here. I hang my things across here, or I hoist them along this pole out o' window, and I can manage finely."

"Capital," said Meg heartily. "And have you both these rooms?"

"Yes, I rent both; but I have a lodger in one."

Meg made no answer, but followed Mrs. Seymour into the front room, where hung numerous lines close to the ceiling, with clean clothes airing away as fast as they could.

The fire was bright, and so were the irons; so were the tins on the shelf, and one or two covers on the wall. In the middle of the room stood a spotlessly white deal table, and across the window an ironing-board covered with a blanket and cloth, all ready for use.

"What a nice room!" said Meg. "Shall I begin now, mother?"

Mrs. Seymour assented, standing by and watching critically, while Meg looked round for the iron-holder, saw that the stand was ready, and bent over the fire to lift off the iron. Her mother had placed a collar in readiness for her to begin on, and waited while she dusted her iron and put her first pressure upon it, after which she turned back to the arm-chair and sat down with a satisfied sigh.

Meg's cheeks were hot under the gaze of those observant eyes, but she went on without looking up till the collar was done and another spread out. Then she said—

"What will be the next thing, mother?"

"You've learnt from a good ironer, my dear."

"Yes, that was mother," answered Meg brightly; "they used to say so at the Hall."

"I don't doubt it. There are the shirts rolled up in that cloth. When you've done one hang it here to air; I always air everything. Poor people haven't fires, you know, and there's plenty of rheumatics caught by damp clothes."

Meg ironed away, and the weary old woman caught herself dropping into a doze. It was all very well being up early and late, and washing and drying and folding, but worry quite knocked her up; and to know that she had a certain time in which those shirts must be done, and being deprived of her strong helper, she had felt as if her usual energy had failed her.

A gentle voice roused her.

"They are finished, mother. Have you anything else you want done, or may I go down and see if it is time for Jem?"

"To be sure," answered Mrs. Seymour, opening her eyes. "Have you done a'ready? Thank you kindly, my dear."

Her quick glance scanned the shirts hanging neatly folded on the large horse in front of the fire.

"Are they right?" asked Meg. "I had to guess a little, because I have not ironed any of these sort of shirts ever."

"They will do quite well, thank you, my dear. I don't fold 'em just so, but I don't see that it matters much for once. He won't know no difference."

Just then a step was heard on the wooden stairs, and Meg started and turned round.

"Is my little woman here?" asked a voice that made her heart bound.

"Just ain't she?" answered her mother-in-law with animation. "Here have I been sleepin' like any top, and Meg's come and done my work for me."

Jem looked well pleased. He knew his upright old mother far too well to fear that Meg would be called on too often to help.

"Oh, it's nothing," said Meg; "but now, Jem, you must come to dinner, or you'll not be back in your hour."

They left the old woman, and as they went down, up came the man to fetch his shirts.

"All right," said Mrs. Seymour, handing them to him; "and I've put on the buttons. No thanks to Jenny, though, I can tell you. It's my new daughter as has helped me."

CHAPTER VI.

A LODGER.

HAT do you think I'm going to try my hand at to-day?" said Meg the next morning at breakfast.

"I'm sure I can't tell, dear."

"I'm going to make some bread!"

"Oh, that's it, is it?" asked Jem; "if I didn't guess as much when I saw you carryin' home that little red pan."

"But if it's heavy," said Meg dubiously, not referring to the pan, but to the bread, "shall you ever trust me with your flour again?"

He only smiled at that, and said,

"But you used to make it at home, for I'm sure as you told me so once."

"So I used, but not for a long time now; and you know there are a great many things that have to be right, or your bread won't be right."

"Well," said Jem, "let's get 'em all right, and then we shan't have no mishaps."

Meg laughed merrily.

"Jem, I must have some German yeast, and some nice good flour."

"I'll buy those for you as I pass along to my work, and tell them to send 'em in."

"But they'll have to come early," said Meg, "or it will not be a bit of use."

Jem promised to see to that; and then Meg propounded the question which had been burning on her lips all yesterday, only she could not get courage to bring it out.

"Jem," she began.

"Well, little woman?"

"Jem—should you very much mind if I were to earn something?"

Jem looked astonished, and then a cloud came over the brightness of his face. Did his little woman already begin to miss some of the things she had been accustomed to at the Hall?

"Why, dear?" he asked soberly.

"Because—at least—Jem—your mother said—if I helped her she should pay me!"

"And you did not like that?" asked Jem, looking relieved, but puzzled.

"I suppose I did not. I think I should like to help her for nothing—out of love to you, Jem, and by-and-by out of love to her."

"Yes, dear, so should I; but I see what mother feels. If she has more work than she can do alone, she would have to pay some one else, and would a deal rather the money went into your pocket. She would not be right to earn money at your expense."

"Not if we gave my time willingly?"

"No; but, Meg, you needn't do it unless you like it, my dear."

"I thought you would be sure to tell me to help your mother all I can," said Meg, almost ready to cry.

"An' so I should, sweetheart, while we had breath in our bodies, if she were ill or needed it. But it's different as it is. Jenny don't serve her well, that she don't."

"Who is 'Jenny'?" asked Meg.

"Jenny lives on our first floor. She has an old blind father, but she's out a deal. I fancy they have some sort of little income, for she don't work steady enough to keep him, and pay rent for those two rooms."

"And does she iron for mother?"

"Yes; and wash too sometimes. But mother has a knack or two with the washing, and likes to do most of that herself; she says folks don't get the things clean."

"Then you would like me to earn something if I could, Jem?" she asked.

"Well, dear," he answered very kindly, "if you was to ask me what I'd like, I'd say as I should like you never to have a need to work all your life! But, Meg, I've looked at things a long time, and I've laid awake at night too thinkin' of them, and I've come to learn this. That our God don't mean us to be idle—none of us—and that it's whatsoever our hands find to do, that we are to do with our might."

Meg's eyes lost their troubled look, and brightened up into their own serene sweetness under his earnest gaze.

"And so," he pursued, "the matter seems to me to stand like this: 'Is this what your dear little hand finds to do, or ain't it?'"

Meg sat thoughtfully silent for a few moments, and Jem got his hat. Then he came over to bid her good-bye.

"I won't forget the flour, little woman."

"And I won't forget what you've said, Jem. I think my hand does find it to do."

He kissed her tenderly.

"If we bring everythin' as we're doubtful of to whether He would like it——"

Meg nodded; and then he was gone, and she stood alone.

But in a moment his step was heard coming up, and his bright face peeped in.

"How much yeast did you say?"

"Oh, a halfpenny worth—if they would sell it—half an ounce, Jem; that will make up five pounds of flour well."

"All right."

This time she heard his step go to the bottom, and then she turned round and began to think of her day's work.

"I'll run up and ask mother first," she said; and locking her door, which they were obliged to do in a house with so many lodgers, she ran up-stairs.

In answer to her knock a rather far-off voice called "Come in."

She pushed open the door and entered, but Mrs. Seymour was nowhere to be seen. The bed-room door adjoining was ajar, but Meg hesitated to knock there, as she was sure her mother had said she had a lodger.

But in another moment a voice from within said, "Come in here, please; I can't bear to speak loud."

To Meg's great surprise the speaker's voice came from the further of two beds, and a wan pale face, belonging to an elderly woman, raised itself a little from the pillow.

"Did you want me to come in?" asked Meg, hesitating with a fluttering heart.

"Yes. Mrs. Seymour's run down to find Jenny; she promised to be up early, and she ain't come. You're young Mrs. Seymour, I suppose?"

Meg blushed as she answered, "Yes." She had hardly ever heard herself called by her new name.

"She won't be but a minute. Sit down, will yer. You didn't 'spect to find some one here, by your looks?"

"No," answered Meg.

The invalid shook her head.

"Ah, to think now I should see you before I've been made straight for the day, after all!"

Meg did not reply; but thinking it might be unkind to go back, she sat down on the edge of a chair, and tried to think of something to say.

"I've heard of you before to-day," said her mother-in-law's lodger, with an attempt at a smile.

"Have you?" asked Meg.

"And what's more, I've done for you what I wouldn't ha' believed any one would ha' persuaded me to do. But it was all along of Jem's kindness, and Mrs. Seymour's kindness."

"For me?" echoed Meg.

"For you. When Jem told me he wanted me to move up here, out of my back room—yours, as is now—I flatly refused, that I did."

"Oh," said Meg, "was it you who did that for me?"

"Yes, I did, and I don't repent it. In fact, I'm mighty glad I did, for I'm a deal more comfortable up here than I was down there. Of course there's the smell of the washing, but if it's bad I holler out to them to shut the door; and most times I don't mind it, and where I lie I can see 'em in there, going about and ironing, and fussing; and it ain't half so quiet and dull as it was. And then of nights, when I want anything, I can just give a call, and Mrs. Seymour's up in a minute! Jem said as it would be so, but I wouldn't credit it before."

"And what made you decide?" asked Meg, wondering in this mixture of self-interest and helplessness what had been the reason that influenced her at the bottom.

"It was one night," said the invalid with a softened look, "I was took awful bad. I don't know what it was made me so bad; but I had told Jem that evening, flat, that nothing on earth should move me out of the room where I'd lain for ten years, and it was no use his asking me.

"Well, as I said, I was took awful bad in my chest, and I laid there groaning for a long time. At last I managed to knock the wall, and got Jem to come to the door.

"'Oh, I'm dying,' says I; 'come in and see what you can do for me, Jem.'

"He'd put on his things when he heard me first; and in he came and raised me up, and then he goes up-stairs and calls his mother. But as luck would have it, the neighbour on the ground floor was ill too, and Mrs. Seymour couldn't leave her for a moment just then.

"When Jem come up and told me that, I thought I should ha' died straight away. But he comes over to me as quiet and kind as any woman, and he says, 'Miss Hobson, don't you take on; I'll do all as I can for you, if you'll tell me what to do.'

"So I told him to prop me up, for I couldn't fetch my breath, you see; and he goes and gets some hot water from his mother's boiler, and puts a shawl over my head, and makes me breathe the steam; and when I was a little easier he gets me a cup of tea, as did me a world of good.

"Once or twice while he was bending over me when I was so very bad, he says to me sort of soft-like, 'Look to Jesus, Miss Hobson—there's nought but Jesus can save a dying soul.'

"But I heard him without taking much notice.

"When I was a bit better, and had done gasping so bad, he sits down by my side as kind as any nurse, and he says to me, 'Miss Hobson, I'm a deal more anxious for you to get the Breath of Life than ever I am for you to be able to breathe easy. I wish you would think of that!' he says.

"And I says to him, 'What do you mean by the Breath of Life?'

"And he says, 'It's coming to Jesus, and getting forgiveness of all our sins from Him. That's the Breath of Life!'

"'I don't know how to come,' says I.

"'Ask Him to draw you!' says he. 'He tells you, "Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out." If you'll come to Jesus, you'll have new life.'

"Well, I don't know how it was, but I thought as it 'ud be a fine thing to get new life. So I laid myself back on my pillow and thought it over. But before long I says to him, 'Jem, do you ever pray?'

"'Ever?' says he; 'you know I do.'

"'Then pray for me,' says I, closing my eyes.

"When the grey dawn of morning crept into my room there he was, sitting by me and watching me still.

"'Jem,' says I, 'I've come to Jesus. I'm awful bad, but He's said as He'll not cast me out. I've come.'

"At that he looked as glad as if I'd left him a fortune. And then he gets up and lights my fire, and warms some gruel his mother had brought for me, and while I was eating it, I says to him, 'Jem,' says I, 'you may have it!'

"'Have what?' says he.

"'My room,' says I. And that's how it was as I moved up here to make room for you!"

Meg had sat spell-bound, listening to the woman's words, her interest in her Jem swallowed up in her greater interest in this soul's struggle from death to life.

"Oh, thank you for telling me," she exclaimed at last.

But the invalid spoke again.

"I've been a selfish woman all my life, and now I've come near the end of it, I'm a selfish old woman still; but my Jesus is going to cure me of that. I tell Him about it every day, and He helps me every day to get the better of it, a little bit."

"Oh, Miss Hobson," said Meg, coming close to her, "I do want to get like Jesus too. Will you help me?"

"Me, my dear?"

"Yes; I'm sure if you want to so much, you can show me how."

"He teaches," she answered, "teaches every day."

Just as she said these words Mrs. Seymour pushed open the door, and not seeing Meg, said anxiously,

"There! Jenny's been and played truant again. Her old father says as her uncle has come and fetched her to spend the day over at Brixton."

Then she caught sight of Meg, who hastened to explain why she was there, and her mother-in-law said,

"Why, my dear, you've come in my time of need. Do you mean you will work for me as I proposed?"

"Yes," answered Meg, "if it would be a comfort to you."

Mrs. Seymour looked exceedingly relieved.

"Can you come at once?" she asked.

"When I have made some bread," answered Meg, "and tidied up a bit."

"Bread?" said Mrs. Seymour.

Meg smiled.

"I'm going to try; and if I succeed I'll bring you a loaf, mother! Please don't think I'm a new broom!"

"You're a nice broom!" said her mother-in-law, with rare enthusiasm, "and I'll come down to see you make it one of these days. Dear, dear, can you make bread, to be sure? I've often wished to see it done!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE EMPTY PAN.

T was Saturday, and Meg had plenty to do, so that her mother-in-law's wish to have her at once was a little confusing.

When she got down to her own room again her fire was low, her breakfast table untidy, and things less bright and orderly than they had been once since her marriage.

She felt inclined to go up to her mother-in-law and excuse herself for to-day; but the remembrance of Jenny's breach of faith made her pause.

"No," she said to herself, "even if my bread has to be given up for to-day I must not disappoint mother."

She ran up again and tapped at Mrs. Seymour's door.

"Mother, I want to arrange my work; how long will your ironing take me?"

"Why," answered Mrs. Seymour, "I've got behind this week, else I do say if they won't bring it to me before Friday, I can't do it! But you see, my dear, I've to take it pretty much as I find it. Poor folks haven't many clothes, and when they spare them, they want them done up quick. These came in yesterday, and if Jenny had come to her time, they'd have been half done by now."

She sat holding it, the mother looking on at Meg's swift gentle ways.—p. 75.

"And they will take——?" began Meg.

"Three hours at least," answered Mrs. Seymour.

"All right," answered Meg, "I'll be up in about an hour. I must set Jem's dinner on."

She hastened away, and Mrs. Seymour turned into the bed-room to see after her invalid lodger.

"I like her," said Miss Hobson. "Jem's got a good 'un."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Seymour, a little shortly.

The invalid noticed the tone, and answered,

"Now don't you 'spose I've known Jem long enough to be free to pass a remark on his wife?"

"As you like," answered Mrs. Seymour.

"But you don't like, I can see that," answered Miss Hobson.

Mrs. Seymour did not reply, for she and her charge were apt to get into a little wrangle unless she could be very forbearing. The thought of how hard it must be to be in bed for years generally came to her aid, added to another thought, deeper and sweeter: "I forgave thee all that debt."

Miss Hobson was reminded by her silence that she too had some one else to please, and she proceeded with her morning toilet with a softer feeling in her heart.

Meanwhile Meg quickly washed up her breakfast cups, and spread the things ready for making a meat pie. There were the remains of the chickens, and a little fresh meat which she and Jem had gone out last night to buy. It was the middle of June, and very warm, and Meg had fried it that it should keep the night.

So she made her pie and set it ready to bake at the right time; she peeled her potatoes, and left them in a basin of clear water; she made up her fire so that it should burn as little coal as possible till she needed it for cooking, and then, after a glance to see if all were right, she went to the door.

Here she nearly stumbled over the boy with her flour and yeast. She took it from his hand, and putting it in her cupboard, once more set out for her mother-in-law's room.

"You've come within the hour!" remarked Mrs. Seymour contentedly. "Now, my dear, while I starch these few things, will you iron those pinafores? They belong to the family on the ground floor, where there's such a lot of 'em."

"Are there?"

"Such mites; there's six of them, I think, and one above another like so many steps. Poor thing, you've seen her, haven't you, standing at the door with her young baby? It ain't two months old yet."

"I've seen her," answered Meg, leaning on her iron and pressing very hard. She remembered the glimpse she had had of the full room—the fretting babies, the general air of untidiness which only a half-open door had revealed.

"She's no hand at washing,—leastways not to make anything respectable,—so I take a few of her things cheap. She was a tidy enough woman when she came; but poor living and many cares have beaten the life out of her."

Meg sighed, and wondered if there might be anything she might do to lighten the burden; perhaps some day she might hold the baby or something.

Mrs. Seymour did not sit down to doze in her chair this morning. She kept Meg well supplied with things to iron, and Meg satisfied her as much as on the previous day.

"You do it just right," she said, approvingly. "You don't fiddle over it, and you don't hurry over it. Now, Jenny slights some of it, and puts so much work into the rest, that I tell her it's a wonder if there's a bit of profit left."

"I'm glad I do it right," said Meg, smiling. And then she thought of Jem's dinner, and ran down-stairs to put her pie in the little oven.

"How's your bread getting on?" asked Mrs. Seymour, when she came back.

"Oh, I left it for to-day. It does not matter," said Meg, rather hurriedly, for she did not want her mother to know what a disappointment it had been to have to give it up after all Jem's care and trouble.

Mrs. Seymour made no remark, but she drew her own conclusions; and when Meg had finished the ironing and had gone down-stairs, she went into the back room, and said to Miss Hobson—

"Did you hear that about the bread?"

"Yes, I did. I don't know as I could 'a done it; only married hardly a week. That's what I call thinking of others afore yerself."

Mrs. Seymour nodded and went back to clear her table for dinner, Miss Hobson's eyes watching her with interest meanwhile. On the whole, she did not feel sorry that she had given up her room to Meg.

When Jem came in at dinner-time and went to peep into the red pan, clean emptiness reigned there, and Meg sat quietly working by the window. As he understood nothing about bread-making, he concluded it must be in the oven. But when Meg went to that to lift out the pie, and he saw no bread there, he was fairly puzzled.

"Where's the baker's shop?" he asked playfully.

"Oh, Jem, I'm so sorry; but Jenny went out, and mother wanted the ironing done. I could not manage the bread too—so it's not done."

Meg looked so concerned that Jem had to get up and kiss her.

"Never mind," he said, "We must try again on Monday."

"Yes; but I'm afraid the yeast may not be good this hot weather. Still, we can see. Jem, I did think it was what my hand found to do—"

"I haven't a bit of doubt about that, little woman," he answered. "How did you find time to make this nice pie, or did a fairy come in?"

Meg shook her head, while she was delighted with his praise.

"This is for to-morrow as well," she said, "because you know we agreed we'd only cook potatoes on Sunday."

"So we did; it could not be a better dinner."

"How nicely this oven will bake our potatoes while we are at service, Jem!"

"Everything's nice," answered Jem, smiling. "Meg, I shall not be home till four o'clock this afternoon; but if you'll be ready we'll take a penny boat, and have a turn up the river. This is our honeymoon, you know."

Meg blushed and smiled.

"Oh, Jem," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, "I hope I shall be all you wish!"

He looked down at her with eyes that said a great deal, but he only answered—

"Mind you're ready, little woman.

So Meg set to and made her rooms as clean and beautiful for Sunday as she could devise. It was true, they were already nearly as clean as they could be; but London smoke penetrates everywhere, and Meg knew that a little sweeping and scrubbing would do no harm. When it was nearly four, she went up to ask a favour of her mother-in-law.

"Jem's going to take me up the river," she said, smilingly; "but I'm afraid the fire will go out, and there'll be no hot water for tea. Would you think it a trouble to look to it for me, mother?"

"Not a bit, my dear. But if Jem and you are going out, let out your fire this hot day, and come up and have tea with me when you come in. I was thinking I'd come and ask you."

Meg promised to do so if Jem were agreeable, and hastened away to take off what little fire she had, and to lay it again to be ready whenever it might be needed. And then she stood looking out of the window watching for Jem.

The look-out was not as cheering as the look-in. Tall sombre houses across the narrow street, with dirty tattered blinds, bedsteads half across windows, dirty children leaning out and risking their necks, here and there a few sickly plants. Such was her outlook in front. Behind it was still worse. A double row of forlorn little courts, where stunted fowls were kept, where badly-washed clothes were hung from Saturday to Saturday all the week round, where rubbish was thrown, where children made mud-pies, where old boxes and firewood were heaped, and every imaginable untidiness congregated to depress the spirits and health of the crowded houses abutting on it.

Meg never looked out if she could help it. People must live in London, she supposed, and Jem had asked her to come and make London bright for him, and she meant to do it if she could. And then her eyes went up above the narrow street, and looked into the clear June sky, and she whispered: "They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."

CHAPTER VIII.

GONE.

ND so time went on happily and swiftly. The summer days came and went, while Meg and her young husband worked cheerily at their allotted tasks.

Many a time did Meg visit the forlorn attic, carrying not only dainties for poor suffering Dickie, but cheer and sunshine for his devoted little sister. If Meg had discovered in Cherry traces of "a disciple," she did not fail to do her part in giving her many "a cup of cold water."

This she did in various ways, so tenderly and unobtrusively, as to be almost unnoticed by Cherry at the time. She brought her some soap and an old towel, and coaxed Dickie "to feel how nice the warm water was," and when his ablutions were done, to their joy he had a long sound sleep. Cherry made up her mind she would try it again another day.

Then Meg begged a bowl without a handle, which her mother-in-law had done with as useless for washing; this she carried round to Cherry and taught her to wash over her floor, so that if the old boards might not look white, they would at least be fresh. And once Meg put on her oldest dress and scrubbed the room from end to end. She also took home the old shawl one hot August day and returned it in the evening clean and sweet.

She was rewarded, if reward she needed, by Cherry's brightened face, and by Dickie's creeping off his mattress and up into her arms, where he would lie peacefully while she told him story after story of the little lamb who was lost on the mountains, and was sought by the Good Shepherd, until He carried it home rejoicing.

By-and-by Dickie began to run about the bare room with fresh energy; but as he began to revive, so Cherry seemed to get despondent. There was a look of alarm on her face which puzzled Meg; but the child would never give any explanation. She resolutely kept Dickie up-stairs, hushing him from making any extra noise, and Meg heard her once whisper to him in a warning voice—

"Dickie, they'll know yer well again if yer don't mind; and then—I hope they've forgot you, Dickie, for a bit."

He seemed to comprehend, and turned to the bits of toys and broken crockery which he called tea-things as contentedly as before.

"Is he ever naughty?" asked Meg softly.

Cherry nodded.

"What do you do then?"

"I talk to 'im, and tell 'im how sorry mother'd ha' been, and how sorry He is," reverently; "and then he soon gets right again, and says he's 'good now.'"

One day when Meg went she found Cherry with an old hat on, and Dickie also with some apology for walking things.

"Are you going out, dear?" she asked, surprised, for Cherry's aversion to leave her room had been so great.

"We're goin' hopping," answered the child. "Father's goin' to take us; and I think it 'ull be the best thing for Dickie. He'll be able to run out in the air, and so—"

She placed in Meg's hand a pawn-ticket, as if she would perfectly understand.

"What is this, dear?"

"That's the blanket. I don't know no one as would keep it for us, and so I put it there. Here's the money, and you can get it out for me, if you will, when we come back. I'd ha' come to you about it, only I didn't rightly know where you lived."

It did not occur to Meg to explain where her home was at the moment, though afterwards it cost her many a pang that she had not done so. She was busy thinking about the blanket; and just as she had promised to do as Cherry wished about the pawn-ticket, Cherry's father came up the stairs and entered the room.

It was the first time Meg had met him, and he stared in surprise at such a sweet vision in that desolate place.

"This is a friend what came to see Dickie when he was ill, father," said Cherry in a deprecating tone.

"Eh! Oh, well, Dickie's all right now; and the train 'ull be gone if you don't come at once. We shan't be back again for many a long day."

He looked askance at Meg, and evidently waited for her to go. She bade a hasty good-bye to the children, and went down-stairs with a sad heart.

So Meg lost sight of her little friends, and though in a month or two's time she went several times to their attic, she could hear nothing of them. The attic had other occupants, and the child and his crippled sister seemed forgotten.

Meanwhile, the winter came and was passing away, while Meg was busy from morning till night. If she were not rendering efficient help to her mother-in-law, she had some work of her own, over which she bent with a happy look in her face which made it like sunshine.

One morning as she was returning from fetching some yeast for her bread-making, for Meg had set up a regular practice of supplying her husband with her own baking, she entered the doorway just as the toddling girl belonging to the woman on the ground floor did the same.

The little one was running at full speed, and before Meg could put out her hand to save her, she tripped over a bit of brick which was lying in her path, and down she came with her head against the stone doorstep.

Meg quickly picked her up, and recognizing her, knocked at the door just as the child's mother ran to see what the screams were about.

"I'm afraid she's hurt," she said, entering; "her head came right against the corner."

"Dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the mother, with an inward feeling that here was another misfortune; "I never did see such children! There, child, leave off screaming and I'll see to yer."

Though the words were rough, the face of the woman was not unkindly. Somehow Meg had never come across her before, and had been too shy to make any advances without being asked, though she had often pitied the poor woman as she passed and heard the crying babies and general hubbub.

"Thank you, Mrs. Seymour," said the woman, taking the child from Meg's arms. "My! ain't it bleeding! Whatever shall I do?"

"I should lay a wet rag on it," said Meg; "and then we can see how big the place is. Perhaps it isn't so much as it looks."

"Dear, dear, dear!" said the mother again; "I haven't one bit of rag handy; I have had to use all mine up for my boy's leg what was bad so long."

Meg ran up-stairs, and soon returned with a nice clean piece from a store of old linen which had been given her at the Hall. She looked round for a basin, and soon had a little lukewarm water in it, and the rag put on the child's forehead. She sat holding it, the mother looking on at Meg's swift gentle ways with evident surprise and pleasure.

When the crying grew less, and the little thing, pale and miserable, was laid on the little bed in the corner, Meg bethought herself of her bread, and took up her basket to go.

"Thank you kindly," said the woman gratefully; "you've quite cheered me up a bit. This is a hard life for us poor mothers."

Her eyes, which had once perhaps been as bright as Meg's, were sunken and tired. She glanced at the deserted breakfast-table, and said wearily—

"Work as me and him do, you may say, night and day, we can't satisfy their mouths. I can't tell you how I long for somethin' different from bread, Mrs. Seymour!"

Meg's eyes had followed hers, and she could see that there had been nothing on that table that morning but milkless tea and dry bread. Nothing remained but a few small crumbs.

"My 'usband says as it's hard to work and bring 'ome all he've earned, and then not to have enough after all. But what can I do? They've eaten a loaf and a half this mornin', and not one of 'em but could ha' eaten double!"

"You have six children, haven't you?" said Meg, sympathizing truly, but feeling powerless to help.

"Eight," answered the woman, "and all under twelve year old. Here's the baby."

She led the way into the back room, where in a good-sized bed a baby still slept soundly.

"You must have your hands full," said Meg kindly; "I wish I could think of anything to help you. Where are they all?"

"Gone to school. They take even my biggest girl away from me, her as might be some 'elp, and I'm sure she don't want schooling as bad as she wants food."

"It comes very hard on you. And so you have to stay at home with the babies?"

"That's just it. I might put 'em out to be 'minded,' but I'm not going to have 'em starved under my eyes, and burnt and neglected and slapped! Not but what I slap 'em myself sometimes," she added with compunction, "when I'm that tired—but not so often considering; and I'm not going to put 'em out for nobody."

She seemed glad to have some one to pour out her griefs to, and Meg hardly liked to hurry away.

"I thought when I see you first as you'd soon get untidy like the rest of the girls, but you ain't yet!" remarked the woman, as they went back to the other room.

Meg smiled.

"I hope not," she said gently; "but you know I have not got a lot of children to feed and see to. I should have no excuse now."

Just as she was turning to the door she thought of something.

"I wonder if you ever make oatmeal porridge for your children?" she asked.

The woman made a wry face.

"Law, my dear, they wouldn't touch it!"

"I think they would if it were made nicely."

"I'm sure you've been so kind and clever, that I ought to think of what you say," apologized the woman; "but I'm afraid—"

"What have you for dinner to-day, if I may ask?" said Meg, hesitating, in her shy way.

"Bread," answered the mother emphatically; "and I meant to pour some boiling water on it, and put some salt, and make believe it was soup. It's so bitter cold to-day."

"I wonder if you'd be offended if I offered to make some porridge for you?"

"I shan't be offended; but I know they won't touch it!"

Meg laughed.

"You see!" she said brightly. "Tell them a friend brought them some, and you give them their choice of that or bread, and I expect—"

"I haven't any oatmeal," said the woman.

"But I have; I'll go and fetch some. My husband has it every day for breakfast."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the woman.

"But I must make my bread first, for if I don't it will not have time to rise. When I have done that I'll bring the oatmeal down with me, and make it for them. Will you let me?"

The woman thanked her; but before Meg went up to her bread she requested that a saucepan of water might be put over the fire instead of the kettle, which the woman had already put on for the early dinner.

"Will you mind measuring the water into it?" asked Meg; "eight half-pints is what I want, and a good teaspoonful of salt."

Mrs. Blunt said she would, and Meg went away to her bread.

That did not take her half-an-hour, but when she came down the woman had done her best to smarten up her room. The little hurt child had had its hands washed, and was now fast asleep, and the woman herself looked three degrees fresher than when Meg left her.

"I have brought half-a-pound of oatmeal if you will accept it," she said, entering, with her clean cooking apron still on, and her neat hair uncovered by her hat.

"It's very kind, I'm sure," said the woman. "Now you must show me the right way, and then I shall know."

"Is the water boiling yet?" asked Meg, seating herself near the fire and peeping into the steaming saucepan.

"That it is! Don't it look like it?"

"Because it must boil," explained Meg, "or the oatmeal would sink to the bottom and burn."

"Oh, that's the reason?"

"Yes; and I've brought down my wooden spoon in case you had not got one. The iron ones get so hot."

"Must it be stirred all the time?"

"Oh no, every now and then. See, I'm going to sprinkle in the oatmeal with my hand. If I put it in all at once it would fall into lumps, and children hate lumps! At least I did when I was a child."

Mrs. Blunt stood by watching.

"And how much do ye pay a pound for it, Mrs. Seymour?"

"Twopence-halfpenny where Jem gets it."

"What do ye eat it with? I've heard tell of treacle, but I'm no hand at sweet things myself."

"No, more am I," said Meg. "Of course the best thing is a little milk; I dare say half a pint would do; but you might give them their choice of sugar."

Mrs. Blunt sighed. She had spent nearly all she had left on the baker's loaves which went so fast, and she hardly knew where the milk and sugar were to come from.

Meg guessed that, from the change in the woman's face from bright interest to despondency.

She thought for a moment, and then she said with some little hesitation—

"I wonder if the children would think me interfering if I were to bring them a little milk and sugar as a present?"

The woman turned away to the other room, nominally to fetch the baby, who was stirring, but really to get rid of a few tears. It was the way it was done, she told herself, that was so nice. She couldn't have let every one do her such a kindness.

"Mind you stir it while I am gone," said Meg, "because they won't take to burnt porridge, for certain! You see it doesn't need much fire after once the saucepan boils."

When she came back with the pound of sugar and a pint of milk, the porridge had had its full half-hour, and was done.

"Now stand it on the hob, and if it simmers a little it will not hurt at all. Pour it out the last thing, and see if they do not like it better than bread, and feel more satisfied too. I've heard that it is the best thing you can have to make children grow."

"May I bring back your spoon and tell you how I got on with it?" asked Mrs. Blunt, already longing to taste what looked and smelt so good.

"Do; I shall be glad to see you," answered Meg. Then pausing with a sudden remembrance, she said, blushing, "Do you remember those loving words of our Saviour to all who are weary and troubled, 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee'?"

"I've heard 'em before," answered the woman, "but I don't know much about it."

"We all can, just by taking Him at His word," said Meg gently, "and I don't know a burden that any one can have that will be too hard for Him to help in."

The woman looked in Meg's face to see if she really meant it, and the clear eyes she met were too earnest to be mistaken.

The woman wrung her hand and went back to the porridge without speaking.

When Meg had finished dinner, and was sitting down to her needle, there was a tap at the door, and on saying "Come in," Mrs. Blunt with her two babies appeared in the doorway.

"Well?" asked Meg, smiling.

"Well," said the woman, sinking into the seat Meg pushed forward, "when they came in they sniffed and looked about, and asked where the loaf was, and peeped into the milk-jug, and then they spied the saucepan, and came over as curious as anything to see what it was. I told 'em as it was a present to 'em, but they had no call to eat it unless they liked; and with that I poured out a little into the basins. Some of 'em was that hungry that they didn't think twice about it, and after a mouthful or two that they wasn't sure about, they finished what I gave 'em, and asked for more! That they did—all but one of 'em, and she turned up her nose at it and stuck to the bread."

"Did they finish it?" asked Meg.

"All but a bit I put by for their father. And they told me to say as they was much obliged, and hadn't had such a nice hot dinner I don't know when."

Meg was delighted. She got up to look into her little bread-pan, and the woman's eyes followed her curiously.

"I wish I could see ye do it," she said, "'cause I've heard as it's a deal cheaper."

"Of course it is," said Meg; "and if you have to stay at home to mind your babies, you could not use some of your time better. Mother used to say it went quite twice as far as baker's bread. I'll show you how to do it next time I bake. I don't do it every day, because we don't need it."

"Will you?" asked Mrs. Blunt earnestly.

"That I will. I'll let you know when to come."

The woman rose, and called her little girl from the window, where she had been absorbed in looking out from such an unusual height.

"She's better then?" asked Meg.

"Yes," answered her mother, undoing the bandage; "see, it ain't such a great place. How it did bleed to be sure!"

"I should keep it wet for the present," said Meg; "water softens things so."

"That's true," said the woman. Then hesitating, she added, "Mrs. Seymour, you and your mother-in-law has been the only creatures since I came to London who has ever done me a kindness—I don't forgit it. The neighbours come in at times, and they mean to be kind; but one and another 'ull say a little word as 'ull make ye discontented with yer lot; and it ain't a bit of good. We've got to bear it, and makin' the worst of it don't mend it."

"No," answered Meg softly, "that's why——"

"Yes," interrupted the woman. "You say I've got a burden, but you say there's the Lord as can lighten it, and I shan't forgit. For one thing, I can see as you let Him carry yours."

She turned abruptly and left the room, and Meg's eyes filled with tears to think how little, after all, she loved and trusted that dear Lord who loved her and gave Himself for her.

CHAPTER IX.

MEG'S TEA-PARTY.

HE next time Meg set about making some bread, she told Jem to stop at their neighbour's door, and tell her to come up as soon as she could.

Accordingly Mrs. Blunt soon appeared, carrying her baby in her arms, a roll of mending in one hand and her toddling child in the other.

Meg greeted her with a bright smile.

"Here you are!" she said. "I am so glad you came early, because the earlier I get to it the better. I often make it before breakfast."

"And can you bake it in your oven?"

"Yes, it is such a good little stove. I'm so glad it is not a kitchener, because they burn so much, whether you want it or not."

"I could never bake enough in my oven to make it worth while," said Mrs. Blunt.

"I've been thinking of that," answered Meg, "and my husband says that the baker would bake it for you, he thinks, for nothing, if you made the arrangement to buy your flour there. You could make inquiries. Jem says he knew one woman who did regularly."

"I should want some large tins," said Mrs. Blunt.

"I dare say you could pick some up cheap somewhere," said Meg; "but anyway in a week you would save the price of a large tin."

"Should I?" asked Mrs. Blunt.

"Yes; Jem has been reckoning it up, and he says you would save eighteenpence or two shillings a week."

"I should like to save that," exclaimed Mrs. Blunt; "it would buy us a deal of things we have to do without now."

"That it would," said Meg, busily pouring her flour into the pan, and measuring some crushed salt into it. "See, Mrs. Blunt, to my five pounds of flour I put five half teaspoonfuls of salt and five half-pints of lukewarm water. It is very simple."

"But you haven't put the water in yet," said Mrs. Blunt.

"No, because part of that has to melt my yeast. Here it is, feel it—just as warm as new milk. There! now I pour this on the yeast and mix it well; now I make a hole in my flour and pour in my yeast and the rest of my water, and stir it round—so—round and round till it is as thick as a batter and as smooth."

Mrs. Blunt was watching intently. It looked very interesting to see Meg's clean hand going round and round, each time drawing a little flour into the yellow cream in the middle.

"It takes a long time," she remarked.

"Not a bit too long. If you are patient over this part the next will take less time, and your bread will not be lumpy."

While she spoke she plunged her two hands into the middle of the batter and began to knead in the rest of the flour, which stood up round the sides as a sort of wall; and as she kneaded she pushed the middle out and drew the sides in, to Mrs. Blunt's great astonishment.

"You see, I want to work it all smooth, and when it is in a round cushion it is done."

"Does it go into the oven at once?" asked Mrs. Blunt.

Meg laughed merrily. "No; I set it near the fire to rise, and it has to get to more than twice as high as it is now before it is ready. You will have to come up again to see it 'made up' if you want to learn the whole process."

"I'm afraid I should be a long time getting it right," said Mrs. Blunt, sighing.

"It wants experience," answered Meg; "but you would soon know; and if you like to try it, I will look in on you and give you some hints."

"Then I may come up again?" asked Mrs. Blunt, as she saw Meg turn her dough over as a final act, and cover the pan with a clean cloth. "I 'spose it's done for the present?"

"Yes," said Meg, going to the bowl to wash off the flour which clung to her hands, "and when you come up again Pattie shall have a bit of dough all to herself to make into a little loaf."

Pattie, who had stood all the while with her chin over the edge of the pan, absorbed in watching, now clapped her hands gleefully.

"You are very kind, I'm sure," said Mrs. Blunt heartily. "Then you will let me know?"

"I shall not forget, and if it is good bread you shall have a loaf for the children."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Blunt, in a very gratified tone.

"Look here," said Meg, considering for a minute or two. "It is half-past ten now, and if I do not put it quite so near the fire it will not be ready till my husband has gone back to work this afternoon. I can keep it back a little. Will you come up directly your children are gone to school, and sit with me for an hour or so while I bake it? That is the best way to learn."

"Oh, thank you!" said Mrs. Blunt; "then I will."

"As I do not want my bread to be late, perhaps you would not mind coming up before you wash up your dinner-plates, then you can run down for that when the bread goes into the oven, and I'll mind the babies."

The mother was only too pleased. Somehow Meg's society was so restful; she chatted about such pleasant things; above all, she seemed to be able to look at everything as coming from a Father's hand above, who allowed even the disagreeable things to happen in truest love.

So Mrs. Blunt went down with fresh heart, and tried her hand at a saucepan of porridge herself, and succeeded as well as Meg had done, to her own great delight.

At two o'clock she once more set out to see the bread made up.

Meg had already cleared away all traces of her dinner; the kettle was on the hob, the fire had been made up, and on the table stood a clean pastry-board, a basin of flour, and a knife.

"The first thing I do when I have got out my things and washed my hands, is to butter my tins—dripping will do. See, here are two that exactly fit into my oven. I take a clean bit of paper and put a little knob of dripping or butter on it, and rub them all over, not missing any place, or the bread will stick. Now I put the tins on the fender to warm; next I cut my dough in half,—look how full of little holes it is! that's what mother at home calls her 'lace,'—and I lift it out on to my board. Here, Pattie, this is a little bit for you. How nice and clean mother has made your hands! Now you'll be able to eat it when it's baked. Now I work and roll this with a little flour which I have sprinkled on the board first, till it feels quite dry again and has left off sticking; this will make the bread white and keep the holes small. Hark how the bubbles break as I pinch it and roll it! There, that will do. Now I must make it into the right shape and put it into the tin."

"Here 'tis," she said, in a satisfied tone. "I knew as 'twas somewheres. Supposin' you and me was to read a bit every night?" p. 105.

She did the same with the other half of the dough, then plunged the knife several times to the bottom of the tin, cut it across the top, and put it back on the fender.

"Now, Mrs. Blunt," said Meg, "I judge by my oven whether to leave it there for a quarter of an hour, or whether to put it into the bottom shelf of the oven. If the bottom is not too hot, that's the best place. Yes, mine is just right; feel what a different heat it is from the top."

"Why do you do that?" asked Mrs. Blunt.

"Because if I put it into the hot part at once it would set the crust of the loaf before it had time to rise, and then the rest would be heavy. I leave it in the bottom just so long as will allow it to begin to rise, about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and then put it into the top, and my baking begins. You had better wait to see that before you go down again."

"I made some porridge, Mrs. Seymour; and what's more they've eat it, and said it's as good as yours."

"Oh, I am glad!" said Meg, heartily. "When they get used to it, you see if they don't say it's better than mine."

Mrs. Blunt laughed at that, but she knew enough of children by this time to guess that Meg was right.

When she was gone down to wash her dishes, Meg sat down on her low chair with the baby, and drew little Pattie to her knee to hear a story. She told them about the Good Shepherd who loves little lambs, and how He gave His life to save the little lambs from being lost.

Pattie's eyes were very wide open, and she listened as long as there was any "story" in Meg's words. Then when she began to grow fidgety Meg got her to learn the one word "Jesus," and after that she sang to them till their mother came back.

"Now I'm going to fetch my mother-in-law," said Meg; "she's coming to have a cup of early tea with us, while the bread is baking. I do not look at it yet, because I want the oven to keep hot, and I know it will not burn yet."

"If the baker bakes my bread for me, I shall be saved all that," said Mrs. Blunt.

"Yes, so you will; and as your loaves will be large it would be a great help, because a baker's oven is such a nice even heat. Still it is nice to know how to do it."

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Blunt. "I did not mean that."

Meg went upstairs.

"Come, mother," she said, "Mrs. Blunt's there, and I'm going to make the tea. It's early to be sure, but you won't mind."

"I must finish these couple of shirts, my dear."

"Then I'll do that," said Meg, "while you make up your fire. I couldn't venture to do that for you, mother; I shouldn't do it right."

Meg laughed as she said that, and Mrs. Seymour laughed too.

Miss Hobson from the inner room called out cheerily: "Well, it's the only thing as she thinks you can't do to her mind anyway."

"Young folks can't have the experience of us old ones," said Mrs. Seymour. "We can't expect it."

Meg finished the shirts, and then went into the back room to say, "How d'ye do" to her mother-in-law's lodger, while Mrs. Seymour took off her ironing apron, settled her cap aright, and went downstairs.

"I shall bring you a cup of our tea presently," said Meg, "and a bit of bread and butter, so don't settle to sleep yet, Miss Hobson."

"Very well, my dear, I'm glad you told me. Are you going to have a party?"

Meg smiled. "Miss Hobson, I've got a pot of sunshine that won't hold it all, so I'm going to give a little away."

Miss Hobson looked at her curiously, but Meg only nodded and ran off.

Presently Meg allowed Mrs. Blunt to look for a moment with her into the little oven. There were the two loaves brown and crusty, with beautiful white ridges peeping out where the crust had broken, looking the picture of what home-made loaves should be.

"Are they done?" asked Mrs. Blunt.

"Not quite. They are not 'soaked,' as mother would say. If we took them out now they would be wet in the middle."

She quickly shut the oven, looked at her fire, but did not touch it, as she had made it up before the bread went in; and then she turned to her kettle.

"Now boil as soon as you like," she said to it. She spread a cloth, set some teacups, cut some bread and butter, and took out of her cupboard a tin of sardines. "Jem heard what I was going to do, and he brought these home of his own idea; don't you think that was kind of him?" asked Meg.

"That it was," said Mrs. Blunt. "Why, I haven't been out to tea since—not for years."

"Here is the kettle boiling, and here is Pattie's little loaf, just cool enough for her to touch. Come, Pattie, sit on this hassock on the chair by mother, you'll be high enough then."

They gathered round the table while Meg invited her mother to ask the blessing; then they all began. But before Meg tasted hers she took up a couple of thin slices of bread and butter and a sardine on a little tray, with a nice hot cup of tea.

"Brought up some of the sunshine to me?" said Miss Hobson, smiling.

"Oh, I didn't mean that! But if you saw how thin and, careworn and poor she is——"

"I know it—I've seen her often enough. Meg, wasn't it Jem as said that you did with your might 'whatsoever your hand found to do'?"

"No, he said we ought to."

"It's the same thing with you, I'm thinking."

Meg went back to her tea-party, and by-and-by the bread was done, and came out of the oven looking a picture.

"How do you judge?" asked Mrs. Blunt.

But she need not have spoken, for Meg was tapping it with her knuckles, and when she heard it sound clear and bright on every side, she knew it was baked through.

"There, Mrs. Blunt, one of those is for you; see I will stand it on its top on this shelf to let the steam off, and when you go you shall take it with you. Whenever you like, I'll come down and watch you make one or two batches; that is, if mother does not want me."

So the tea-party ended. Mrs. Blunt had not had such a quiet meal for years. Her face looked brighter and happier as she prepared to go back again. Mrs. Seymour had already returned to her ironing, and Meg was putting the loaf on a plate.

"Would you mind saying that text over again?" asked Mrs. Blunt wistfully.

"That about our burdens?" said Meg.

"She's teached me one," said Pattie. "I 'tan say it—'Jesus,'—that's what she teached me."

"So I did," said Meg, kissing her, "and mother's text means just the same, only longer, because she's big. 'Cast thy burden on the Lord, and He shall sustain thee.'"

CHAPTER X.

TURNING A NEW LEAF.

ND so Mrs. Blunt began a new life.

That afternoon when she went down with softened heart to her crowded and somewhat dirty rooms, she looked round upon them with new eyes—eyes that had been lightened by a ray from above. She scarcely knew it, and yet, instead of gloomy half-patient, half-hopeless despondency, she began to think even her poor little things might be able to be made better.

The rest of her children were all at school, but they would soon be home now. They must not find home more desolate than usual because mother had had a rare treat.

She put the new loaf carefully away, it must not be touched till to-morrow, and then she set on her kettle for tea and swept up the room. How different it looked even with that little bit of care! Next, deciding that she should just have time to clean the hearth, she set about it with all speed, and was just putting away her pail when there came a rush in the passage, and four or five children burst into the room.

It was on her lips to say, "What a row you do make!" but another word was already hovering there—Pattie's new word, "Jesus,"—and somehow that word would not let the others pass it.

"Ain't tea ready? we're awful hungry, mother."

"Very soon, Jim. Just take Pattie and baby outside, will yer, while I turn round a bit. It 'ull come all the sooner for letting me get it without them hangin' on my skirts."

Jim saw the force of this argument, and with pretty good grace took the little ones under his charge on the doorstep, while the mother turned to the eldest girl with an unusually kind welcome.

"Come, Kittie," she said, "and help tidy up for father. I've been out to tea, Kittie, and I've heard words as has made me wish to have a happier home, and I want you to 'elp me do it."

Kittie, a well-grown but backward girl of twelve, rather stared at her mother, but she recognized that the tone was different, and concluding that her mother was in a good humour, as she called it, she hastened to do as she was bid.

Tea was a favourite meal. Sometimes a little treacle or dripping was added to the bread, and though the tea was nearly as colourless as it was tasteless, still it was hot and occasionally sweet, and that was something.

To-night a large stale loaf and some treacle was the fare, and as Kittie bustled about to spread the cloth, Mrs. Blunt said again—

"Kittie, I've often grumbled at things bein' so terrible hard for us, and about bein' so short of food and all, but instead o' that I'm goin' to turn over a new leaf."

"A new leaf?" questioned the girl, pausing on her way to the cupboard. "What do yer mean, mother?"

"I don't rightly know yet—if I did I'd tell yer. But one thing I do know, Kittie. Young Mrs. Seymour, what's been so kind to me, says the Saviour don't mean us to go worritin' all our days, but likes us best to ask Him to 'elp us bear our troubles; and she says as He lightens hers and He will mine. Well, if that's true, I'd like to try it, and somehow, Kittie—I don't hardly like to so much as say it—but I feel a deal happier and better, and as if I'd got some one to love as will never fail me."

Mrs. Blunt's eyes were tearful by the time she had said all this, and Kittie's watered in sympathy, though she did not fully understand her mother.

"There's the kettle boilin'! Make the tea and call the little 'uns in. What a mercy as we've got some treacle! That's 'cause the porridge cost less nor the bread would ha' done. We saved a penny or more for dinner, and every one had enough; and that's more'n we can say every day, ain't it, Kittie?"

Kittie nodded. She was intent on filling the tea-pot. Then she went to the door and began to call; but there was no need. Jim caught up the baby, and there was a general rush to the table.

The father did not come home till six, so some bread was set aside for him first of all, and then the mother divided what there was as equally as she could, giving larger shares to the bigger children. Soon there was nothing but empty plates, and then the elder children went into different corners, or wherever they could be quietest, to learn their home-lessons. Then mother quickly cleared away, and set the table straight for the father. A meagre meal for a working man. She felt it bitterly as she spread the few slices of bread on a plate, and put a small bit of dripping in front of them. But as she looked she remembered that there was the Lord who was to carry her burdens, and not herself, and so she took courage again, though she could not at the moment see any way out of the difficulty.

"It 'ull be better when I can make 'em the bread," she thought. "Fancy saving two shillings a week!"

At this moment a knock came at the door, and on going to open it, she found old Mrs. Seymour standing there with something in her hand.

"Mrs. Blunt," she said, "I guess you're wishin' as your husband had been with us this afternoon to have such a nice tea, now weren't you?"

Mrs. Blunt's colour rose, and she could have cried, she thought. At last she said, "Why, how could you know that, Mrs. Seymour?"

"I've had a husband myself, my dear, and a steady one too, like yours, and so I've brought this bloater if you'll excuse it, just to make a little relish for his tea. He isn't in, is he?"

"No," said Mrs. Blunt, "but——"

"No 'buts,' my dear. Just you cook it for him and tell him to ask no questions about it, but enjoy it as much as we did our tea up yonder."

She was gone before Mr. Blunt could say another word, and when she turned to the fire with her treasure, she thought she had never been so happy.

But were these tears that were coursing each other down her cheeks? How was that?

When her husband opened the door, expecting an untidy home and some dry bread, what was his astonishment to be greeted by an unusually cheerful-looking room, and a fragrant smell of frying fish.

His wife turned round with a smile.

"Here's a treat!" she said, "and you're to ask no questions, but enjoy it. It ain't come out of our to-morrer's breakfast neither, so don't you think it; and I didn't buy it neither; so here it is smoking hot, and mind ye don't burn yerself."

The man sat down in great wonder, first at the nice supper provided for him, and secondly at his wife's tone.

She, however, took no more notice, but shut herself in the next room with the little ones, where she quickly undressed them and put them to bed. When she returned again, the other children had gone out to play in the street, and Kittie was clearing away her father's tea.

The father sat by the fire smoking, and turned round on his wife's entrance to look in her face, as if to see if there were a change there. But he saw nothing particular that he could fix upon, and he resumed his pipe in silence.

"Come, Kit," said Mrs. Blunt, "you and me 'ull get to that mending. Jim's wearin' his best trousers 'cause we ain't done it."

"But I don't know how," said Kittie, none too willingly.

"Then I'll show yer. Come, Kit, be a good girl and do yer best. You've been taught yer needle, that's one good thing."

"I wish I could leave school," grumbled Kit, as she fumbled in her pocket for her thimble; "there's lots o' girls as young as me has left."

"Of course they 'ave! Them as is quick at their learning can leave sooner. I've telled you that a hundred times, but ye see ye haven't taken what I said."

"I can't do no better," answered Kittie, "the lessons is so terrible hard."

"Well, well," answered the mother, more patiently than usual, "perhaps the Lord can help you in your troubles as well as me. We'll see about it. You and me has a deal to learn, Kittie."

Kittie knew that. She was always being told "she had a deal to learn." The daily pressure on her mother, that would have been so lightened could she have left school, made the subject return again and again to worry her. Inattentive and careless, she thought she could do no better, and hopelessly gave the whole matter up as a bad job.

But when the mending was done, and she laid herself down in her little bed in the corner of her mother's room, behind the screen of a large towel-horse, which served as her bedroom, she began to think the matter over in rather a new light.

What had her mother meant when she said, "perhaps the Lord would help her to do better in her lessons"?

Was there any help in such a thing as that? And who was this "Lord" of whom her mother spoke?

Kittie had perceived that things had been brighter for the last day or two, and if this had anything to do with this "Lord," of whom her mother seemed to expect something, she too would like to understand the whole matter.

Long she lay awake, thinking. Sleep seemed to have left her eyelids. Her brothers came in from the street, and she watched through the open door her mother helping them to their rough little beds in the front room. By-and-by the hubbub was over, and quiet sank down upon the whole of them.

Her father must be dozing, she supposed, as he said not a word, and her mother was unusually silent too. The click of her needle and the sharp rap of her scissors on the bare table were the only sounds inside the room. Outside the noisy roar went on as usual: the crying children, the scolding mothers, the cries of the fish and fruit sellers, the organ-grinders—everything just as usual.

Presently her mother spoke. "Husband, I've been a thinkin' there must be something in them Seymours as is different from most folks."

"Like enough," he answered.

"There's a big print Bible or somethin' stuck up over old Mrs. Seymour's ironing-board. What should ye think that might be for, now?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; you'd a deal better ask her if y'er so curious."

Mrs. Blunt was busy on her own thoughts, and pursued, without noticing her husband's implied rebuke—

"'Cause if that's what makes 'em different, I'd like to be different too."

"Bide as ye are. Don't you be taking up fine notions. Ye've enough to do to mind us all, without doin' as other folks does."

"I wonder where our Bible's been put to," his wife went on, without regarding him.

Her husband did not answer. He was half inclined to be vexed at his wife's persistency, but he remembered the brightened room this evening, the absence of scolding, and the nicely-cooked fish, so he took refuge in silence.

Mrs. Blunt got up, put away her work, and began searching on the top shelf of a cupboard which filled one corner.

At last she got down from the chair on which she had been standing, and Kittie could hear her blowing the dust from something.

"Here 'tis," she said, in a satisfied tone. "I knew as 'twas somewheres. Supposin' you and me was to read a bit every night?"

"Not I," said the man. "If you've took up with new notions, keep 'em to yerself. I'm goin' to step out a bit. This 'ere room's stiflin'."

His wife's countenance fell, and when the door banged behind him, she opened the book with a sigh.

Kittie from her corner could just see her mother's face—such a weary, thin face. She was thinking so, when, after turning over a good many pages, her mother began to read out in a subdued voice. Kittie was so surprised that she listened, and these were the words she heard—

"Behold, there came a leper and worshipped Him, saying, Lord, if Thou wilt Thou canst make me clean. And Jesus put forth His hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed."

Kittie lost the next few sentences while she said to herself, "Then the 'Lord' as mother spoke on means Jesus! I didn't know that. And people is asking Him to do something for 'em, and He seems quite willin'. I wonder if He'd be willin' to help poor little Kittie a bit? Well, what comes next?"

"Lord, my servant lieth at home sick of the palsy, grievously tormented. And Jesus saith unto him, I will come and heal him."

Her mother ceased reading, and leant her head on her hand, while Kittie, strange thoughts running in her mind, began to wish she could go to this Lord to obtain help as these people had. She must get that book and see what more it said. At any rate of this she was certain, that the Lord Jesus answered to both those applicants, "I will." He did not say "no" to either, and if she could only find out how to speak to Him, she too might get what she needed. With this comforting thought, and with the light of a new hope dawning in her heart, little Kittie fell asleep.

She did not yet know that He was close to her all the time, and that His ear was ever ready to hear if she spoke to Him.

CHAPTER XI.

A MIDNIGHT BARGAIN.

OOK 'ere," said a low voice, "be a good boy, and don't cry, and then I'll see if I can't get yer somethin' or other to eat."

"But I'm 'ungry, Cherry," whispered the little one in answer, frightened by former experiences into keeping his woe within bounds, "and it's all cold and dark 'ere. I wish you'd take me to mother."

A sharp pang shot across Cherry's heart, and she answered in a voice that held a sob only just restrained from breaking forth, "I can't, Dickie, you know as I can't. I would in a minute if I could; mother's gone a long way off."

"In a train?" whispered Dickie.

Cherry nodded. What did it matter, so that Dickie was pacified? she thought.

"She promised as she'd take me," he said again, "and she never has. She never went a long way from Dickie 'afore."

"No," whispered Cherry again, "no more she did from Cherry; but she couldn't help herself—mother couldn't. She was took."

Dickie turned round wearily, and his little sister smoothed his hair and cheek, till by-and-by his gentle breathing told her that he was at last asleep.

Then she raised herself a little and looked round stealthily.

The room in which she lay was a good-sized one, and in each of the four corners, heaped together for warmth, the different members of four different families were huddled. Tattered rugs, shawls, and rags covered them from the biting February cold, and a flickering nightlight on a box in the middle of the room was the only gleam that revealed the shadowy misery congregated there.

Though the poor little brother was asleep, and Cherry herself sorely needed repose, she still kept her wearied eyes open, watching the door fearfully. At last, overcome by fatigue, she forgot everything, till a slight moan from Dickie brought her back to the present, and she heard a voice close at her elbow say thickly—

"Well, yer can 'ave him: the worst on't is the gal; she'll take on if I say yes, awful."

The words were spoken in a rough sort of undertone by a man who seemed by the sound of his voice to have been drinking heavily.

The answer, from a woman who was already settling herself to sleep in her corner near, came in a hard distinct whisper—

"Never mind her! She'll fret a bit, but that'll be the end on it. She can't do nothing. Anybody 'ud know as 'tis better for 'im to be fed and clothed than left 'ere to starve."

The man addressed was sensible of a sort of flash of memory, and a picture came up before his eyes.

A neat, quiet home; an invalid wife sitting in a chair by the fire, tenderly holding a little frail boy; a crippled girl standing with her hand in the child's; a low hoarse voice pleading, "You'll take care of 'em, Tom! You'll let that dreadful drink alone, and feed them as are so helpless instead!"

That was the picture, and as Tom heard the woman say what she proposed "was better than starving," he knew in his heart how cruelly he had broken the promise he had made to his dying wife.

"I'll take 'im right away up to the attic if ye like," the woman went on, "and then," indicating Cherry by a movement of her hand, "she won't hear nor see nothink."

The man shook his head.

"One thing, she do keep 'im quiet when we don't want 'im. And if she makes a fuss I'll find a way to shut 'er mouth; that I will, don't yer fear."

Cherry lay and quaked. Well she knew all that was implied in this low-toned conversation, both towards her little brother and herself. But she too had seen, as by a flash, another scene. A woman on a dying bed, whispering with an earnestness which impressed every word on her child's memory, "Cherry, if you're in any trouble, tell Jesus—ask Him to help you. Oh, Cherry, if I did not know you love Him, my heart would break. Jesus, will help you. Tell Dickie that I always said that."

Cherry thought of it now, at first with a hopeless feeling that things had been so bad for so long that she feared Jesus did not hear; and then with a rebound she determined never to give up what her beloved and dying mother had bequeathed to her. "She always spoke true," she thought, with a sudden lightening of her terrible burden, and her head nestled against Dickie's with a certain dim belief that rescue of some sort would come some day.

The crowded inhabitants of the room had one by one sunk into slumber; even her father had ceased tossing about and swearing at all around him. Still Cherry lay broad awake, thinking over all the events of the last year, and remembering now with a sort of awe how she had called upon her Lord Jesus last May, when things had been so dreadfully bad with little Dickie, and how He had heard her, and had sent Dickie a long and dangerous illness, which had made him quite unable to be taken out on hire with old Sairy as heretofore.

She remembered now with thankfulness, though she had not looked upon it as the answer at the time, that somehow the kind carpenter who had been repairing their wretched room had taken notice of Dickie, and had given him a blanket and some grapes, and how his wife had brought him many a nice meal from their table.

Cherry's life was so hard that she had taken all that happened, both bad and good, with a sort of apathy; but to-night it all came over her afresh, and she realized that this had perhaps been the way her Lord Jesus had answered her despairing prayer for little Dickie.

Then she would pray again; and this time instead of asking only for him to be taken away from the cruel woman everybody called "old Sairy," she would pray that he might have a nice home, and love and care.

Cherry did not say those words, but in her simple language she asked what she wanted, and after that, with a strange sense of the burden lifted on to shoulders which were very strong, she closed her eyes and at last fell asleep.

And even the next day, when Dickie woke, and old Sairy handed him a piece of bread, Cherry took the matter with equanimity, saying to herself over and over again, "I've told Jesus, and He's goin' to see to it."

But when Dickie had eaten the bread ravenously, he turned his little face back again to Cherry's shoulder, and said with a shudder, "Don't yer let me go 'long o' them, Cherry, don't yer!" Then Cherry's heart misgave her, and she looked at her still sleeping father, and then at old Sairy, as if to measure her possibility of resistance.

But Sairy gave her a glance which withered her up, like the raw February air which was rushing in at the open door, and hissed out in an undertone which made her shiver, "If yer don't mind what yer about, it 'ull be the worse for 'im, and that I tell yer."

An hour after, when she saw them set off as of old, the man with Dickie, and old Sairy with somebody's wailing baby, her heart died within her.

The room had almost cleared. Only a weakly young mother with her babe were left, and two sleeping drunken men.

As Cherry lifted her heavy sorrowful eyes they met those of the woman.

"Come 'ere, dear," she said gently; "don't you take on about the little 'un. It won't 'urt 'im to be out o' doors, and if you 'aven't food to give 'im, ain't it a deal better as they should feed 'im? I 'eard what them two said last night, and it's true as he's pretty nigh starvin'."

"Yes, but you don't know," whispered Cherry, looking round fearfully; "if it was only taking him out I shouldn't care; but—"

At this moment her father roused up and shook himself.

"Eh, gal, so they're gone?" with a coarse laugh; "and to-night we'll get a bit of supper, and some'ut to drink."

"Then the woman seizes Dickie again, and begins to tie somethin' on his eyes, and he fights and screams with all his little might."—p. 136.

CHAPTER XII.

"INASMUCH."

ARCH was nearly over, when one night Jem woke to see Meg standing at the window. It was moonlight, and he could see her outline distinctly against the bright sky.

"Is anything the matter, Meg?" he asked anxiously.

"Hush!" exclaimed Meg earnestly. "Jem, night after night I hear the same. I thought it must be my fancy, but I'm certain it's not. There! can't you hear those screams?"

Jem got up and came to the window, more with the intention of soothing Meg than of listening to his neighbours. He had too long been used to London sights and sounds to be alarmed at a little crying in the night.

Meg held her breath, and on the night air were certainly borne unmistakable cries of some child, either in great fear or pain.

"Jem!" said Meg again in a frightened whisper, "which house did you say Dickie used to live in?"

"D'ye mean Dickie's attic?"

"Yes; where we went," said Meg, with her teeth chattering.

"Get into bed!" he implored. "Meg, you'll catch your death o' cold, my dear. I'll stay and listen here, if it 'ull do any good."

Meg retreated, and Jem gazed out into the dimness. Still he could hear what had so affected Meg, and as he looked, and his eyes became accustomed to the moonlight, which could not shine down into the depths of the courtyard below, but still shed a hazy light on it all, he began to see which-were-which of the houses behind; and could trace—there the back windows of a certain public-house—there the blank darkness of an empty building—and there the twinkling lights in houses which he knew to be general lodgings.

It was from one of these he fancied, up the next court, that the cries came; and as he stood reckoning it up, he turned to Meg and said,

"It is Dickie's attic, I believe! There's a light there, and people movin' back and forwards. Perhaps some one's ill."

"No," said Meg, sitting up, "it's nobody ill. It's some child being beaten or hurt. Oh, Jem, could you go and see—could you get in there, do you think?"

"Not to-night, my girl. But to-morrow I'll see if I can hear anything of it. It's the house where I worked, so they'll know me most like, and not think I'm intrudin' on 'em."

"Jem! that blanket weighs on me," said Meg with a sob. "Those children ought to have had it all this time; but whenever I've been up to the attic to see, the people have been so rough to me, and the other rooms were all let out to several families in each."

"I know," said Jem, coming away from the window, "and very likely he'd have took the children elsewhere, especially if he didn't want you to interfere with 'em, Meg."

Poor Meg, with a weary sigh she lay down on her pillow and tried to sleep. The house where they fancied the sound came from was so near theirs at right angles, that a conversation could be carried on from the back windows if any one had chosen.

As Meg lay wakeful and sad, she fancied she could still hear the cries, growing fainter and fainter, till either they ceased, or Meg ceased to be able to catch them.

The next morning Jem and she consulted as to what could be done; Jem averring, very truly, that "folks wouldn't stand people coming to make inquiries after crying children."

"I should not so much mind if it were not for Cherry's hints," said Meg; "but, Jem, I could make something, or you could buy a few oranges to take in your hand, and say you had brought them for Dickie if you could find him. Would that do?"

Jem promised to do his best, and went to his work revolving the matter in his mind. He bade a tender adieu to his wife, looked in her pale face, and told her she must not worry, but remember what she had tried to teach Mrs. Blunt—to cast her burden on the Lord, and find anew that He would sustain her.

He hastened away, and Meg cleared her table, and went up-stairs to speak to her mother-in-law.

It could not have been more than half-an-hour afterwards that she and Mrs. Seymour were coming down together, and Meg had just reached the bottom step at her own landing, when a man's voice was heard asking in a loud voice as he came up—

"Does any one live here belonging to a man of the name of Seymour?"

"Yes," answered Meg and her mother both together.

"Because he's been run over near the Monument, and they've taken him to 'Guy's.'"

Meg gave one wild look at her mother, held out her arms to catch something, and fell fainting on the floor.

Towards afternoon Meg opened her eyes at the sound of a beloved voice.

"My girl," he said, "don't ye know me? Look up, sweetheart! Here's Jem. And look what we've got sent us from our God! Meg, my girl, it was not your Jem as was hurt."

Meg gave a faint smile, and then she saw her mother-in-law bending over her, and putting into Jem's hand a spoon with something to give her.

She allowed him to feed her, and when the cup was empty she whispered—

"Jem, I thought——"

"You must not talk, my little woman; but now you're a bit better, would you like to see our little child? He was sent to us while you were so ill."

Meg tried to hold out her arms, but failed, and her mother-in-law laid a little babe in them. Meg said not a word, but pressed a kiss upon Jem's hand, and endeavoured to reach the downy little head. But she had no strength, and Mrs. Seymour, seeing her wish, and knowing too something else which neither of them guessed, raised the babe a little, that its mother's lips might touch its tiny face.

Meg was satisfied, and closed her eyes to sleep. "Husband and child," she thought, "who could be richer?" And then another thought came to rest her with its sweetness—"Who for your sakes became poor, that ye, through His poverty, might be rich."

Meg's lips moved, and Jem bent over her to hear.

"We'll teach him about Jesus first of all, Jem," she murmured; and as Jem assented, she slept.

But the little one was to be taken into the Shepherd's care at once. Meg was never to have her desire of herself teaching him the name she loved beyond all others.

Mrs. Seymour stood by and watched, unwilling to break the slumber which was like life to Meg, and knowing that nothing could be done for the babe better than lying in its mother's bosom.

And Jem sat watching too, realizing in a dim sort of way that he was indeed a father.

By-and-by his mother touched him on the shoulder.

"Jem," she whispered, cautioning him by a warning glance, "God is taking the little one to Himself; but I think Meg will do well if we can but keep her quiet."

Jem gave one look at her to take in the meaning of her words, and then he sat still, trying to realize and submit to what his God was sending.

When, after two long hours of watching on their part, and deep refreshing sleep on Meg's, she again opened her eyes and turned to her babe, the little spirit had already taken flight to the land where "their angels do alway behold the face of the Father which is in heaven."

"Meg, my girl," said Jem's voice, oh, so tenderly, "you'd be willin' to give him up into our Saviour's care if He was to ask it?"

"I think I would," she answered in a wondering tone, but looking up quite collectedly.

"Because I think the Good Shepherd has been callin' him, my dear."

Meg could turn her head now; she raised herself on her elbow, and gazed at the little face.

"Jem," she said helplessly, and laid her head back on her pillow with a sob.

Her mother-in-law bent over her.

"Let me take him for a little while, my child; it will be better so."

Meg made no objection, and her mother lifted the tiny form to her lap, and crossed its wee hands on its breast.

"May it go in my cradle, just for once?" asked Meg beseechingly.

And so he was laid in the little cot that Meg had prepared with such loving hands, and Jem put it on a chair by her side; and then he sat down again by her, and they both wept together.

After a long time Meg wiped away her tears.

"Jem," she said softly, "I can say it now: 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

Jem and his mother watched by her side till the clock in the other room struck twelve, and then Mrs. Seymour signed to him to go and take some rest.

But though not a word had been spoken nor a movement made, Meg started up.

"There it is again!"

"What, my dear?" asked Mrs. Seymour soothingly. "Lie down, and I'll see to it."

But Meg could not be silenced so.

"Jem," she urged, doing, however, as her mother wished, "Jem, you said you'd go and see about it. Oh, Jem dear, my heart will break!"

"I will, Meg," he answered at once. "You're bein' so ill put it out of my head. I'll go at once."

He rose, and his mother followed him out of the room.

"I think she's a bit light-headed, Jem; don't go out, my dear. What does she mean?"

"I know," answered Jem hurriedly. "Let me go, mother; I ought to have been there ever so long ago."

He went, and Meg lay wide awake listening. She took the gruel her mother brought her, and pronounced herself much better. Often her eyes rested on the little cot, but she did not cry, nor did she say anything about it.

Once she asked hesitatingly—

"Mother, did I dream it, or did some one say that Jem was dead?"

"It was a mistake," answered Mrs. Seymour, "a cruel carelessness. It was a man of the name of Seymour, who lives, we find, in the second house up the court, and people sent them here. 'Twas a cruel thing to say it out like that!"

Meg asked no more, and before long she heard Jem's step coming up the stairs and entering the room.

He came softly to her bedside, and then, as if he could no longer bear it, he threw himself on his knees and wept bitterly.

Meg put out her hand and touched his head.

"Jem dear?" she questioned; while Mrs. Seymour laid a firm hand on his arm, and said gravely—

"Don't give way so, my son, or you'll worry her."

But Jem was wholly overcome.

"It might ha' been ours, it might ha' been ours!" he said, over and over again, till Mrs. Seymour was quite beside herself.

"Tell me, Jem," said Meg gently. "Have you found Dickie?"

He nodded.

"Was he being hurt?" she asked again.

He nodded again.

"How?"

Jem shivered.

"How I shall never tell to mortal being!" he exclaimed; "but it was something they are doing to his eyes."

"His eyes?" said Meg, leaning up. "Oh, Jem, do tell me quick!"

"To make them bad, to get more money by begging," said Jem, as if the words were forced from him; "and his father's dying in the hospital, and he'll be left to their mercy!"

"Can't you fetch him here?" asked Meg.

Jem looked up.

"Meg! could we—now? You and me was talkin' of it this mornin'. They'll be orphans to-morrow."

Meg smiled a weak sweet smile as she looked towards the cot.

"Bring him if you can," she answered, "and Cherry too."

Mrs. Seymour could hardly follow the course of their thoughts, for she knew so little of what had gone before, and when Jem rose up and left the house for the second time, she was too astonished to protest.

This time he was gone longer than before, and Meg ate what her mother brought, and dozed quietly.

After some time his step was again heard, and he came quickly up.

Meg's eyes opened, and she listened intently. Yes, that was his step, and after it surely, surely, there was the halting one of poor little Cherry.

Jem opened the door and came softly in.