Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: MR. NORRIS TAKES UNA TO SEE THE LAMB.]



                            GRANFER

                              AND

                      ONE CHRISTMAS TIME


                              BY
                      ELEANORA H. STOOKE

                           AUTHOR OF
       "THE HERMIT'S CAVE," "LITTLE MAID MARIGOLD," ETC.



              WITH FRONTISPIECE BY ETHEL WOOLMER



                            LONDON
                 NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
                  BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER
         NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE

                    [All rights reserved]



                          PRINTED BY
         SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARE
                            LONDON



                           CONTENTS

GRANFER

     CHAPTER I. IN THE FARM-KITCHEN

     CHAPTER II. NEW NEIGHBOURS

     CHAPTER III. VISITORS AT LOWERCOOMBE FARM

     CHAPTER IV. THE BOOK-MARKER

     CHAPTER V. UNA LEARNS A SECRET

     CHAPTER VI. UNA'S ACCIDENT

     CHAPTER VII. GRANFER'S HEART'S DESIRE

     CHAPTER VIII. GRANFER'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY

ONE CHRISTMAS TIME

     CHAPTER I. CONCERNING A DOLL IN AN AMBER-COLOURED GOWN

     CHAPTER II. HOW THE DOLL WAS RECEIVED IN THE BLUNDELL FAMILY

     CHAPTER III. CONCERNING JIM BLEWETT AND HIS LANDLADY

     CHAPTER IV. MAGGIE IS INVITED TO A PARTY

     CHAPTER V. PREPARING FOR MRS. METHERELL'S PARTY

     CHAPTER VI. MRS. METHERELL'S PARTY

     CHAPTER VII. JIM BLEWETT VISITS THE BLUNDELLS,
                  AND INTERFERES IN THEIR CONCERNS

     CHAPTER VIII. THE RESULTS OF JIM BLEWETT'S INTERFERENCE




                          GRANFER

CHAPTER I

IN THE FARM-KITCHEN

IT was spring. The bright March sun in a cloudless blue sky was
shining into the kitchen of Lowercoombe Farm, upon the spotless china
on the dresser, the glistening tin ware on the mantelpiece, and the
old copper warming pan hanging from its accustomed nail against the
wall. The farm-house kitchen was a pleasant place: the stone floor
was kept scrupulously clean, and the large deal table was as white as
scrubbing could make it, whilst the oak settles by the fire-place and
the few chairs placed at equal distances around the room shone with the
constant application of 'elbow-grease,' as the housewives call rubbing
and polishing. On the hearth burnt a large wood fire, over which in an
iron crock simmered a savoury stew which Mrs. Maple, the farmer's wife,
who was engaged in getting up her husband's shirts at the table, put
down her iron to stir occasionally.

The mistress of Lowercoombe was a comely, middle-aged woman, with a
pleasant, ruddy face, and bright blue eyes that were in the habit of
looking kindly upon every one and everything. Her husband often said
that if she could find no good to say of people they must be either
very disagreeable or very wicked, for his wife had a way of finding out
folks' good qualities, and always tried to think the best of those who
crossed her path in life.

Now, as she held up the last of the shirts at arm's length to survey
her work better, she heard a footstep approaching the kitchen door,
which opened straight into the yard, and in another moment her father,
who had made his home at Lowercoombe since her marriage to the farmer,
entered, and going to the fire-place, sat down in a corner of the
settle.

He was a tall old man of nearly eighty, with a pair of shrewd dark eyes
and a stern face. Jabez Norris was known as honourable and upright, but
was considered a hard man. Many years ago he had turned his only son,
David, then a lad of eighteen, out of his house, because he wished to
become an artist, instead of following in his father's footsteps, and
being a farmer. From that day to this, Mr. Norris had never seen nor
heard of his son, but whether this was a trouble to the old man or not
nobody knew, for he rarely mentioned David to any one, and even his
favourite daughter, with whom he lived, and who had loved her brother
dearly, spoke of him but seldom.

"Are you tired, father?" asked Mrs. Maple in her bright, cheerful
tones. "I always think these days of early spring are trying!"

"Ay, ay, to folks of my age, no doubt. I'm beginning to feel the weight
of years, Mary!"

"You are a wonderful man for your age, father; every one says so."

"I'm not complaining, but at my time of life, I must expect to be
failing. It is a lovely day, but, as you say, trying. Summer in the
sun, and winter in the shade!"

"It's time for Nellie and Bessie to be home from school," Mrs. Maple
remarked, adroitly changing the conversation as she glanced at the
grandfather's clock that ticked loudly in a corner of the kitchen.

Nellie and Bessie were her two little daughters, aged respectively
eleven and nine. Mr. Norris was very proud and fond of them both, and
his stern face softened at the mention of their names.

"How fast they do grow!" he exclaimed. "Why, they'll be women almost
directly. Nellie is like her father, but I don't think Bessie takes
after either you or your husband, Mary!"

"No," Mrs. Maple answered; then she added, in a lower tone, "but I know
who she is like, though!"

"Who's that?" enquired the old man with a sharp glance at his daughter.

"Why, David, to be sure! Every one remarks the likeness! She has his
soft brown eyes, and his winning manner, and her very voice seems to
have an echo of his!"

Mr. Norris was silent, his eyes fixed on the flames which leaped and
danced on the hearth. His daughter plucked up her courage and continued:

"Have you forgotten what day it is, father? The third of March! David's
birthday! I wonder where he is now! I would give a great deal to know!
An only son, and brother, and to think we have neither seen nor heard
of him for fifteen years!"

"That is his fault, Mary!"

"I don't know about that! You were hard on him, father, and told him
never to show his face at home again, and he took you at your word!"

"It is his pride that has kept him silent!" the old man exclaimed
angrily. "It is to be hoped that your Bessie does not take after him in
disposition as well as in appearance, or you'll have trouble with her
yet!"

"Oh, father, how can you speak like that when she's such a good child?"
the mother cried in reproachful accents. "She has never given me a
moment's anxiety! But, speaking of David, I do wonder what has become
of him, and whether he is married or not!"

At that moment two pairs of light footsteps were heard in the yard, and
Nellie and Bessie entered, rosy with struggling against the March wind.

"Well, children," their mother said in greeting, as she turned her
bright face with its welcoming smile upon them, "are your appetites
ready for dinner?"

"Oh, yes!" they both answered, and Nellie went to the hearth and peeped
into the crock, remarking:

"How good it smells!"

Bessie sat down on the settle by her grandfather's side and slipped her
little, warm fingers into his cold palm.

"How grave you look, Granfer!" she exclaimed, calling him by the name
she and her sister had given him. "What have you and mother been
talking about?" she added coaxingly.

"About some one you never saw—your Uncle David!" the old man responded,
much to the surprise of his daughter, who had never known him mention
their uncle to the children before.

"Oh, I've heard of him!" Bessie cried. "He wanted to be an artist, and
he went away and never came back again! He used always to be painting
pictures, didn't he, Granfer?"

"Yes; neglecting his work and idling his time! He cared nothing for the
farm, but was for ever with a pencil or a paint-brush in his hand!"

"Painting was his talent," Mrs. Maple remarked quietly.

"Then I suppose God gave it to him," Bessie said thoughtfully. "It
wouldn't have been right if he had not been an artist, would it,
Granfer?"

"What do you mean, child?"

"I think I understand," Mrs. Maple interposed, seeing her little
daughter hardly knew how to explain. "You mean that if your uncle David
had not used the talent God had given him, he would have been like the
man in the parable who hid his talent in the earth!"

"Yes," Bessie said eagerly, "he ought to have used it, and instead he
put it away so that it was no good to any one!"

Mrs. Maple glanced at her father somewhat anxiously. He was looking at
Bessie attentively and gravely, but not as though he was angry.

"So you think my son was perfectly right in disobeying me," he said. "I
wanted him to be a farmer, and he would not!"

"He knew he could never be a good farmer," Mrs. Maple put in quietly.
"We must be just, father!"

"Ay; but I don't forget how he defied me."

"What became of him?" asked Nellie. "Do you think he has become rich,
Granfer?"

The old man laughed disagreeably.

"I never heard of a rich artist yet!" he declared.

"Oh, but, Granfer, sometimes artists make a lot of money; they do
really!" Nellie cried eagerly. "They are not all poor, you know. The
girls at school the other day were speaking of a great artist who was
introduced to Queen Victoria!"

"It has sometimes crossed my mind that David may have been successful,"
Mrs. Maple said thoughtfully. "I'm sure I hope he has! I wish we knew
something about him—poor David!" and she sighed regretfully. There were
tears in her kind blue eyes as she spoke of her brother, for she had
treasured the memory of his handsome boyish face and winning ways in
her heart for many a long year; and, rich or poor, if he had returned
at any time he would have found his sister's love the same.

"Don't you wish Uncle David would come home, Granfer?" Bessie asked
softly. "I do!"

"Yes, I should like to see him once more," the old man acknowledged,
"for though he defied me, he is my only son."

His eyes rested thoughtfully and wistfully upon Bessie's face; and
as he saw the likeness to that other countenance that had passed out
of his sight in anger, more than fifteen years before, he sighed
regretfully too, and his daughter caught the murmured words:

"Perhaps I was to blame as well as the boy. As the child says, it was
his one talent! I wish David would come home!"



CHAPTER II

NEW NEIGHBOURS

NOT five minutes' walk from Lowercoombe Farm, situated a little back
from the high road, was a large-sized, detached cottage called Coombe
Villa, standing in its own grounds. It had been unoccupied for some
months, but one day towards the end of March, as Nellie and Bessie
Maple went by on their way to school, they noticed a large furniture
van drawn up in front of the garden gate, and several men engaged in
carrying different articles of household furniture into the cottage.
They paused a moment to watch, and then ran on to make up for lost
time, wondering who the new inhabitants of Coombe Villa were, and
wishing they knew all about them.

On their return journey they found the van had gone, and an old man was
sweeping up the straw and litter that strewed the garden path, whilst a
maidservant stood at one of the open windows looking out.

The children went home in some excitement to inform their mother that
Coombe Villa was occupied again; and during the time the family was
seated at dinner the conversation was mostly about the newcomers.

"The cottage has been taken by a Mr. Manners," the farmer said. "I was
told so in the village this morning—in fact, Mr. Manners was pointed
out to me, and a fine-looking gentleman, he seemed, with a pleasant
face. They tell me he is a widower with an only child, a little girl of
about the same age as our Bessie, I should think."

"Oh, have you seen her?" the children enquired with great interest.

"Yes; she was with her father this morning. They had evidently been
shopping in the village, for they were laden with parcels. They look
nice people, but of course one cannot always judge by appearances."

Nellie and Bessie were very curious about their new neighbours, and
felt the advent of strangers to the parish to be an exciting event,
for, like most country children, they rarely saw a face they did not
know, unless on the few occasions when they went with their parents to
the nearest market town. So they peeped into the garden of Coombe Villa
every time they passed, in the hope of seeing the little girl, but
nearly a week elapsed before they caught sight of her. On that occasion
she was at play with a black and white fox-terrier, and laughing
merrily as the dog frisked around her delighted with the game.

She stood inside the gate looking through the bars as Nellie and Bessie
came within view, and when she met their eager glances she smiled a
little shyly, and said: "Good morning!"

"Good morning!" they echoed, and passed on slowly.

Once they looked back, and perceived the little girl gazing after them
with her face full of lively interest. Next morning she was there
again—this time evidently watching for them. She greeted them in the
same manner as before, adding quickly:

"Oh, please, do stop a minute!"

They paused, and there was a moment's silence; then the little stranger
asked:

"Are you going to school?"

"Yes," Nellie answered.

"I thought so. I don't go to school, because father teaches me. You
pass here every day, don't you? Have you far to go?"

"About a mile—that is not far when the weather is fine, but it seems a
long way in the winter if it is rainy or snowy. We live at Lowercoombe
Farm."

"That is the house down in the valley, isn't it? Is your father a
farmer?"

"Yes."

"How nice! I should like to be a farmer if I were a man, and keep lots
of horses, and dogs, and cows!"

"And sheep, and pigs, and poultry," added Nellie, laughing, "but it's
hard work looking after them all!"

"I suppose it is. My name is Una Manners—what is yours?"

"I am called Nellie—Nellie Maple," the elder little girl explained,
"and she," pointing to her sister, "is Bessie!"

"I think Nellie and Bessie are pretty names! Oh, are you going already?
Can't you stay and talk to me a little longer?"

"We should like to, but we should be late for school if we did, and
that would never do," Nellie replied, "but perhaps we shall see you
another day!"

"Very likely. I will be on the look-out for you. This is my dog
'Crack.' Are you fond of dogs?"

"Oh, yes," both children answered; and Bessie added: "We have a dear
old sheep-dog called 'Rags.'"

"I should like to see him! Oh, must you really go now? Good-bye!"

The little girls ran off and were soon out of sight. Una, after
watching them till they disappeared, opened the gate, and strolled into
the road. As she went along she gathered a bunch of primroses and a few
white violets to take home to her father.

Presently she heard a sheep-dog barking, and coming to a gateway saw
a man crossing the field towards her, bearing in his arms a little
white lamb that bleated pitifully, whilst a rough old English sheep-dog
rushed towards her growling and snarling.

Una drew back hastily with a cry of alarm, and Crack, who was close at
her heels, gave a sharp, indignant bark. The man called to his dog, and
the well-trained animal returned obediently to his side, looking up
into his master's face for further instructions.

"Don't be frightened, Missy," said the farmer, for it was Mr. Maple
himself. "Rags will not hurt you; but he saw you were a stranger, and
he was wondering what you were doing here!"

Una smiled, reassured, and as Rags came up to her again, fixing his
brown eyes on her face as though to ascertain if she was to be trusted
or not, she extended her little white hand to him. The big dog sniffed
at it for a moment in doubt, then he gave it a friendly lick, while
Crack walked round him inquisitively.

"There now!" exclaimed the farmer laughing. "Rags has quite made up his
mind to like you, and he'll know you when he sees you again. He's very
fond of children; my little maids can do anything with him; and he's
really very good-tempered, although he looks so fierce. Ah, dogs know
those who understand them."

"Are Nellie and Bessie your little girls?" Una enquired. "Then you must
be the farmer at Lowercoombe Farm?"

"Yes," he answered, "but how did you come to know that?"

"I was talking to your little girls just now," she explained. "They
pass our house on their way to school. I live at Coombe Villa with my
father and Nanny—she's my nurse. We have another servant named Polly,
but she has not been with us long. Nanny has lived with us ever since I
was born. What are you going to do with that dear little lamb?"

"Why, I am going to take it home to my wife to see if she can't rear it
up by hand. The poor creature has lost its mother."

"Oh, dear, how sad!" cried Una. "Do you think it will live?"

"I hope so. We shall do our best for it, anyway. You must pay us a
visit, little Missy, one of these days, to see for yourself how the
lamb is doing. Will you?"

"Oh, yes, if father will let me, and I know he will! How kind of you to
ask me!"

"My wife and children will be pleased to see you, I know," the farmer
continued; "you'll be very welcome."

"And Rags?" said Una, smiling as she put her hand on the dog's shaggy
back, "you will be pleased to see me too, won't you, Rags?"

"You are fond of animals, I can see," remarked Mr. Maple.

"Oh, yes!" she answered readily, "so is father! He says he cannot think
how any one can serve animals badly! It's so unchristian, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is, Missy, though I never thought of it in that light
before!"

"Don't you remember what God says: 'Every beast of the forest is Mine,
and the cattle upon a thousand hills. I know all the fowls of the
mountains, and the wild beasts of the field are Mine.' Animals belong
to God just as much as we do, don't they?"

The farmer nodded, looking with interest at the bright, animated face
of the child. She put up her hand, and softly caressed the curly fleece
of the motherless lamb.

"Dear little thing!" she murmured, "I do hope it will live! How will
your wife manage to feed it?"

"She puts the finger of a kid glove on to the spout of a tea-pot, and
lets the lambs who lose their mothers take the milk that way. She's
reared many like that, and it's wonderful how soon the little creatures
get to know her."

With a cheery "Good morning," the farmer turned his footsteps
homewards, followed by Rags; and Una calling to Crack, who was rat
hunting in the hedge, ran back along the road towards Coombe Villa.

She found her father at the garden gate looking for her, and
immediately began to tell him about the farmer and his dog and the
little lamb, to all of which he listened with an amused smile. Then she
spoke of her interview with Nellie and Bessie.

"I may go to the farm one day, may I not, father?" she asked coaxingly.

"We will see about it, my dear; I dare say you may. Perhaps the little
girls may mention the matter to you; and if they do, I have not the
least objection to your going. I hear the Maples are nice people, and
much respected in the district, and I dare say the children will be
good companions for you. The folks at Lowercoombe Farm are our nearest
neighbours, and I should wish to be on good terms with them."

"Oh, yes, father! See what beautiful flowers I have gathered for your
studio! Are not the violets sweet?"

"Very," Mr. Manners answered; "I think they are my favourite flowers,
for they always remind me of your dear mother. It was Spring when she
died, and some white violets that I gave her one day were the last
flowers she noticed, I remember."

He sighed, and the shadow of a deep grief crossed his face as he
mentioned his dead wife. Una gave his hand a little, sympathetic
squeeze, and he looked down at her with a tender, loving smile as he
whispered:

"Little comforter! You always understand!"



CHAPTER III

VISITORS AT LOWERCOOMBE FARM

"MARY, there's some one knocking at the door!"

It was old Mr. Norris who spoke. He was seated with his Bible open upon
his knee, in his favourite corner of the settle.

"Coming, father!" his daughter's voice responded from the dairy. And
in another moment Mrs. Maple hurried into the kitchen and opened the
door to little Una Manners and her nurse, Nanny Gray, who were standing
directly outside.

Nanny was a cherry-cheeked, middle-aged woman, whose open countenance
expressed a kindly disposition and an even temper.

"Good morning, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Maple, who knew at once who her
visitors must be. "We have called to know if you can supply us with
milk and butter. We live at Coombe Villa. This," indicating her with a
smiling nod, "is little Miss Manners, my master's only child."

"Pray come in," Mrs. Maple responded hospitably. "I guessed at once who
you were, because in a country place like this, one soon gets to hear
all about strangers who come into the district."

They entered the kitchen at Mrs. Maple's invitation, and Una glanced
curiously at the old man on the settle, who turned his eyes upon her
and regarded her gravely.

"Father," said Mrs. Maple, "this is the little lady who has come to
live at Coombe Villa, and this is Mrs.—"

"Gray," Nanny said as she shook hands with Mr. Norris. "I hope you are
quite well, sir?"

"Quite, thank you," he answered. "And how do you like this part of the
world, little Missy?" he asked, turning his attention to Una.

"Oh, so much!" she replied promptly. "I love the country, and it is so
very beautiful here! May I sit down with you on that long seat? I never
saw one like it before!"

"It is a settle," the old man informed her, with a smile that somewhat
softened the hard lines of his face.

"It is very comfortable," the little girl remarked, "and so cosy, with
its high back!"

"I take it you do not know much about country life and country things?"
he hazarded. "Perhaps you have always lived in town?"

"Yes, in London mostly; but I have been to Paris and Rome, and to many
foreign places, with my father."

"Have you, indeed? You are quite a traveller, then. Now I have never
been to London in my life. I always held no good came of running about."

Una looked puzzled at this view of the subject. She glanced at the old
man's face with bright, interested eyes, and then she caught sight of
his open Bible.

"What have you been reading about this morning?" she enquired.

"About the Israelites and the Philistines," he answered briefly,
surprised at her question.

"Is that your favourite part?" she next asked.

"I don't know that I have a favourite part. It's all good reading,
because it's God's Word."

"Yes, of course it is; but I think I like the New Testament best, for
it is all about Jesus, you see. I have the Bible that used to belong
to mother. Father gave it to me as soon as I could read. My mother is
dead, you know; she died soon after I was born."

"How long since was that?"

"Eight years ago."

"Ah, then you are not quite so old as our Bessie, but very nearly."

"Are Nellie and Bessie your grandchildren?"

"Yes. They call me 'Granfer,'" the old man explained, smiling.

"Do they? What a funny name, but I think I like it! I don't believe
I've got a grandfather; I wish I had," Una said thoughtfully and
regretfully. "I suppose you love Nellie and Bessie very much, don't
you?" she added.

"Certainly; they are both of them good children. You have already made
their acquaintance, I hear?"

"Yes, and I should like so much to be friends with them if they will
let me. Do you think their mother will let them come to Coombe Villa
sometimes?" she asked, glancing at Mrs. Maple, who was by that time
deep in conversation with Nanny.

"I have no doubt that she will. I hope your father will like this
neighbourhood. I suppose he is a Londoner?"

Mr. Norris was a very curious old man, who liked to be well informed
about his neighbours, for he took a lively interest in every one.

"Father was not born in London," Una explained. "He has often told
me he was brought up in the country, and he knows all about country
things—animals, and birds, and flowers! Oh, no, father is not a
Londoner!"

There was a moment's brief silence, during which Una regarded the old
man earnestly, her soft, dark eyes fixed on his somewhat grim face with
eager interest.

"I wonder if you would think me very rude if I asked you a question?"
she enquired presently in doubtful tones.

"That would depend what the question was," he answered cautiously, but
with an amused twinkle in his eyes which the little girl was quick to
notice.

"It is only that I should like to know how old you are," she said
frankly; "that is, if you are quite sure you do not mind telling me!"

"I am seventy-nine. Ah, that is a great age, little lady!"

"It is indeed!" she agreed. "Seventy-nine! But a great many of the
Bible people lived much longer than that! You must be very wise, Mr.—,
I don't know your name. Should you mind if I called you Granfer, like
Nellie and Bessie do?"

"No," he answered, in evident surprise, "I do not mind; but perhaps
your father would not like it, my dear?"

"Oh, yes, he will! Father always likes what I like if it's right; and
if it's wrong, he tells me, and then, of course, I don't like it any
longer!"

Mr. Norris smiled amusedly at this somewhat involved explanation.

"You are very fond of your father, I suppose?" he remarked enquiringly.

"I love him better than any one else in the whole wide world! He's so
good and kind, and so clever! You should see what beautiful pictures he
paints!"

"Is your father an artist?" Mr. Norris asked with keen interest.

"Yes. He paints landscapes, and people give him lots and lots of money
for them. Last year he had a lovely picture in the Royal Academy, and
after it was hung, he took me to see it; and do you know there was such
a crowd round father's picture that he had to lift me up to look!"

Una spoke with loving pride, but without a thought of boastfulness.

"I suppose you know a great many artists?" questioned the old man
anxiously. "Did you ever meet one called Norris?"

The little girl shook her head, wondering at her companion's suddenly
agitated manner, for he alternately clasped and unclasped his hands,
whilst his brows were knitted, and his lips were tremulous.

"Ah!" he muttered, "it would not be likely!"

"No," said Una, "I don't know any one called that. Is he a friend of
yours?"

"Not exactly. He is my son!"

The child lifted a pair of puzzled eyes to the old man's countenance,
and, as if in reply to their questioning look, he continued:

"My only son! I've not seen him for fifteen years—ay, fifteen long
years! Maybe he's dead by now!"

"Was he lost?" she enquired softly.

"Ay, lost!"

"But how could that be?"

He made no reply, and Una felt with the quick, true instinct of
childhood that he did not wish to be questioned further, so she sat
very quiet for a few minutes. At last she said:

"Perhaps you will find him again some day! I suppose you pray to God
about him, don't you?"

At that moment Nanny broke in upon their conversation.

"Come, Miss Una," she said, "we must be going, for I know we must be
taking Mrs. Maple away from her household duties!"

"I am ready," Una replied as she rose to her feet; then she turned to
Mrs. Maple and asked coaxingly: "May I see the little lamb whose mother
died?"

"Surely, my dear," was the ready answer. "Father, will you show them
the lamb, or shall I?"

"I will, Mary."

The old man arose, and after a few farewell words to Mrs. Maple, Nanny
and Una followed him into the yard. He led the way to an outhouse, and
on opening the door the little lamb skipped out. It was quite tame, and
Una was delighted to pat its curly back and stroke the inquisitive nose
it pushed into her hand.

It was with difficulty that Nanny at last bore her young charge away,
insisting that she really must go home.

After their departure, Mr. Norris returned to his daughter, and found
her eager to talk of their visitors.

"Mr. Manners is an artist!" she exclaimed. "Mrs. Gray—Nanny as they
call her at Coombe Villa—has been telling me all about him. She says he
is a very popular, successful man, a good father, and a kind master. He
lost his young wife soon after little Miss Una was born. Doesn't she
seem a sweet little thing?"

"Yes," the old man agreed, smiling, "she does. She asked if she might
call me Granfer."

"What a strange idea! I heard her chattering away to you; she is not in
the least shy!"

Mr. Norris sat down in his accustomed seat again, whilst his daughter
flitted in and out of the kitchen. He was thinking how Una had said: "I
suppose you pray to God about him, don't you?" And realising for the
first time that though he called himself a Christian, he had harboured
angry, bitter thoughts against his only son for fifteen long years, had
spoken of him with hard words, had blamed him as undutiful, and had
never once mentioned his name to the great Father of all.

Granfer turned over the leaves of his Bible with a trembling hand, and
finding the fifteenth chapter of St. Luke's Gospel, slowly read the
parable of the Prodigal Son; then he closed the Holy Book, and his
heart was uplifted in a fervent prayer that he might be allowed to see
his only son, David, once again.



CHAPTER IV

THE BOOK-MARKER

Six weeks had elapsed since the day when Una had become acquainted with
Granfer, and she now saw him often, for she had become very friendly
with all the inmates of Lowercoombe Farm.

Mr. Manners, who was a quiet, reserved man, had never paid a visit
himself to the farm, but he allowed his little daughter to go there
whenever she was asked, and was pleased to see Nellie and Bessie at
Coombe Villa.

One beautiful May morning found the artist at his easel in his studio,
and Una busily employed at a small table with pencils and colour-box of
her own.

"What are you about, Una?" her father asked, noticing how absorbed the
child appeared in what she was doing.

"I'm making a book-marker for Granfer's Bible: I promised him I would
paint him one. Do you think you could sketch in the letters for me,
father?"

"I dare say I could," he answered, smiling, "if you explain what you
want."

Una held up the narrow strip of cardboard which she had been engaged in
cutting out.

"I thought I would put a verse from the Bible on it," she said.

Her father nodded, and taking the book-marker from her hand waited for
further instructions; but the little girl looked undecided.

"Could you help me to think of a good verse, father?" she asked.

"A suitable verse I suppose you mean." He thought a moment. "How would
this do: 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be'?"

"Oh, I think that would do beautifully!" she cried, and she drew near
and watched, whilst he carefully pencilled the words on the card.

"I shall paint the letters in blue and gold," she told him. "Granfer
will be so pleased!"

For the next half hour there was silence in the studio, both father and
daughter working industriously.

At last Una exclaimed, in tones of satisfaction:

"There! It's finished! Won't Granfer be surprised to see how neatly
I've done the lettering! Look, father!"

"Yes, you have done it very nicely, Una. You seem to be extremely fond
of that old man?"

"Oh, yes! I thought he was rather stern at first, but he isn't a bit
now! You remember all I told you about his son who was lost, don't you,
father?"

"Yes."

"Nellie says he went away to be an artist like you, and no one ever
heard of him again! That's why Granfer was angry with him! Granfer
wanted him to be a farmer, but he couldn't, because of his talent!"

"His talent?" Mr. Manners repeated in questioning tones.

"Yes, his talent for painting, you know. Nellie says it wouldn't have
been right for him not to have been an artist."

"What do the people at the farm think has become of him?"

"Mrs. Maple thinks he may be living still, and Nellie and Bessie keep
on hoping he will come home. They never saw him, because he went away
before they were born, but their mother has told them all about him.
Granfer thinks he must be dead."

"Perhaps he hopes he is, if he was such a trouble to the old man."

"Oh, no, indeed, father! He would dearly love to see his son; he told
me so himself! He says that he prays to God to let him live to see his
boy again! Of course he isn't a boy now! Mrs. Maple says he may be a
married man, and have little children of his own. I should like to run
down to Lowercoombe Farm this morning, and give the book-marker to
Granfer. May I go, father?"

"Certainly you may, my dear; but tell Nanny where you are going."

Una flitted away, and found Nanny in the kitchen.

"Off to the farm again!" the good woman cried. "Why, you almost live
there! That old man seems to be wonderfully attractive to you, Miss
Una. I can't think what you see in him to like so much, for my part; he
seems rather cross-grained, I fancy!"

"You think that because you don't know him as well as I do," the little
girl responded promptly. "His manner is rather stern perhaps, but it is
only his manner, and you know, Nanny, you always say that one should
never judge by appearances. I think he is really a very good old man!"

"You told me yourself that he drove his only son away from home, Miss
Una, and folks in the village say he has never forgiven him!"

"Oh, they are wrong, indeed they are! He has forgiven him! You don't
understand Granfer a bit!"

"And I suppose you do," Nanny said, laughing. "Well, run along to the
farm then, and give the old man your present. I'm sure he ought to be
pleased!"

Una felt sure he would be. With Crack at her heels, she went out into
the bright May sunshine, and passed through the garden gate into the
road. The hedges were full of wild flowers, and the air was sweet with
their delicate scents, the perfumes of hawthorn and wild hyacinths. But
Una did not pause to gather herself a nosegay to-day, though her soft
brown eyes dwelt admiringly on the wealth of flowers, for the artist's
little daughter possessed a beauty-loving soul, and her quick glance
took in all the glory of the May morning.

Presently she heard a deep bark, and in another moment, Mr. Maple's
sheep-dog bounded towards her in a transport of joy at the meeting. She
put her arms around his woolly neck, and gave him a loving hug.

"Oh, you dear old Rags!" she cried. "Good fellow! Good doggie!"

Rags approved of these terms of endearment; his brown eyes were brimful
of affection as he stood by Una's side, his big body wriggling with
excitement and pleasure. Crack jumped about barking and whining, for
though he was on friendly terms with Rags, he did not wish Una to make
too much of him. So the little girl patted Crack too, that he might not
be jealous, and with a dog on either side of her went on her way. At
the turn of the road she met Mr. Norris, who was looking about for Rags.

"Well, little Missy," he said, smiling, "I suppose this fine morning
has enticed you out-of-doors. I wondered why Rags had deserted me, and
I guessed some one he knew must be coming down the road!"

"Are you going for a walk, Granfer?" Una enquired.

"No. I have been to look at the sheep in this field for my son-in-law,"
he explained, indicating a meadow adjoining the road, "and now I'm
going home."

"Are you in a hurry? Please sit down here," pointing to a log of wood
close to the hedge. "I have something for you, Granfer."

The old man willingly complied with her request, and Una seated herself
by his side. She had wrapped the book-marker in tissue-paper, and she
now handed him the little packet, saying:

"It is for you, for your Bible. I cut it out this morning, and painted
it myself! Father sketched the letters for me, but he did not do
anything else towards it! I wonder if you will like it?"

By this time Mr. Norris had taken the book-marker from its wrapping,
and was regarding it with a pleased smile.

"Yes, I do indeed like it," he said heartily. "Thank you, my dear. I
feel quite touched that you should have taken so much trouble for me!"

"It was no trouble; I liked doing it! What do you think of the verse?"

"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' It is a grand promise—a
blessed truth!"

"Father thought of it," Una told him complacently. "I asked him to
think of a verse, because I knew he would be more likely to think of a
good one than I should. I shall tell him what you say about it."

"I have never seen your father except in church on Sundays," Mr. Norris
remarked.

"Why don't you come to see him, Granfer? He would be very pleased if
you did, I am sure; but you see he has not much time for visiting,
that's what he always tells people; he has so much work to do."

"Painting?" queried the old man.

"Yes. He is at home this morning; but generally when it is fine, he is
out-of-doors, because he is painting a picture of a little bit of the
wood at the back of our garden. It is to be called 'A May Morning,' and
it looks as though you could pick the hawthorn and the bluebells! Oh!
it will be a lovely picture when it is finished," Una declared with
enthusiasm. "I am sure he will show it to you, if you would care to see
it!"

"I should not like to intrude," the old man said gravely; "but I should
much like to know your father."

"I will tell him what you say!"

"It is possible he may have met my son. I could explain to him what
David was like!"

"David!" cried Una. "How strange! Father's name is David too!"

"Is it, indeed?" Granfer's voice was full of interest. "I suppose there
are hundreds of Davids in the world!" he added.

"Father and I were talking of your son this morning," Una said, "and I
am sure if father could help you to find him he would. You must come to
Coombe Villa, and see us; or, perhaps father will call at the farm. I
will ask him."

"Pray do so!" The old man rose to his feet. "My birthday comes next
week," he remarked; "I shall be eighty years old. I shall look on this
pretty book-marker as a birthday present from you, and I shall value it
as long as I live."



CHAPTER V

UNA LEARNS A SECRET

"GRANFER was very pleased," Una informed her father on her return home.
"I met him on my way to the farm, so I gave him my present then. He
liked the verse so much, and I told him it was you who thought of it.
And oh, father, he so much wants to see you!"

"Why?" Mr. Manners asked quickly.

"He wants to speak to you about his son. I asked him to come here, but
he said he would not like to intrude. Then I said, perhaps you would go
and see him at the farm. Will you, father dear?"

Una was leaning against the arm of the easy chair in which Mr. Manners
had settled himself comfortably to read the daily newspaper; now she
rested her head upon his shoulder, and lifted her brown eyes pleadingly
to his face as she added in coaxing tones:

"He does want to see you so much!"

"I am very busy at present—you know that, Una," her father reminded her.

"Oh, yes, but some evening perhaps you will be able to call at the
farm. We might go together."

"Well, I will not promise, but I may go some day!"

"Oh, thank you, thank you! I know Granfer will be glad! It is his
birthday next week; he will be eighty. Isn't that very old, father?"

"It is a great age, certainly. By the way, I'm going to walk into the
village after dinner, Una; will you care to go with me?"

"Yes, indeed, father!"

So after their midday meal, father and daughter started off together,
with Crack in attendance as usual. The little girl chatted all the way
about the many objects of interest they came across during their walk—a
bird's nest in the hedge with five blue eggs in it, which Mr. Manners'
sharp eyes caught sight of, and the many flowers which blossomed
everywhere.

"How kind of God to make the world so beautiful!" she exclaimed, when
her father called her attention to the view visible through a gateway—a
sweep of fair meadow-lands dotted with sheep and lambs busily engaged
in cropping the grass. They stood a few minutes watching a group of
lambs at play, skipping around each other, and jumping one by one on
the top of a little hillock, and down again. Una laughed to see the
pretty creatures so happy, clapping her hands with enjoyment of the
scene.

Their destination was the village shop, which was also the post-office;
and while Mr. Manners was transacting his business Una stood in the
doorway looking up and down the street. Presently she uttered a little
exclamation of mingled joy and surprise, and ran back to her father.

"Granfer is coming!" she cried. "He will be passing here in a minute!
Won't you come and speak to him now?"

She caught hold of her father by the hand, but he gently disengaged the
clinging fingers as he answered kindly but firmly:

"No, Una, I cannot speak to him now."

"But father—"

"You hear me, my child, I say no; I cannot do as you wish. Remain where
you are. There is not the least necessity for you to stop Mr. Norris
now, as you have already seen him to-day."

Mr. Manners turned again to the counter to conclude his business, and
Una realised that she must say no more; but she was so disappointed
that it was with difficulty she kept back her tears.

When they left the shop, Granfer had disappeared from sight. Mr.
Manners took his little daughter's hand and pressed it softly, glancing
affectionately at her sober face.

"What an impetuous child you are!" he said. "Why do you so much want me
to know your old friend?"

Una was silent, because she did not want to show how near she was to
crying, and she was afraid if she spoke her father would notice her
emotion.

"I have a very good reason for not wishing to see Mr. Norris yet," he
continued. "I wonder if my little daughter can keep a secret?"

She looked up with a rather watery smile as she answered quietly:

"I think I can, father!"

"It has to do with Mr. Norris' only son."

"Oh!" Her voice full of great excitement.

"I think he is coming back, Una. I believe one of these days he will go
home to his father, and ask for forgiveness for the long years that he
has kept away, but I do not wish to see Mr. Norris before I am quite
certain."

"Will he come soon?" the little girl asked anxiously. "Will he be here
by Granfer's birthday, next week?"

"Yes, I think he will. Can you keep the secret, my dear?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I can! I will not tell any one, not even Nanny!"

"No, not even Nanny. It is a secret between you and me."

"I feel so thankful!" Una cried, "So very thankful! But I did not know
you had ever met Granfer's son!"

"Very likely not; but nevertheless, I know him quite well."

"Is he a good man, father?"

"Not nearly so good as he ought to be, my child. He has done wrong in
keeping away from his own people all these years, but his father was
hard on him and he determined never to return till he was a successful
man. He did not think his father would grieve for him; he believed
himself still unforgiven, or he would not have stayed away. He forgot
that God would soften his father's heart."

"How pleased they all will be at the farm!" Una exclaimed in bright,
glad tones, "Mrs. Maple, and Nellie and Bessie, and the farmer! As for
Granfer—well, I really cannot think how he will feel when he knows God
has answered his prayers at last!"

Una stepped lightly along by her father's side; all traces of her
recent disappointment were gone; her heart danced with joy, and her
whole countenance shone with pleasure as she thought of the great
happiness in store for her friends.

The knowledge of the secret between her father and herself filled the
little girl with a sense of importance, and she was delighted to think
that her father trusted her.

"I don't know what has come across you, miss," Nanny declared when she
was putting Una to bed that evening; "you're in such high spirits that
one would think you had heard good news!"

"So I have, Nanny, but I must not tell you what it is, because it's a
secret—only father and I know it yet, and one other person, I suppose.
By-and-by you and every one in the neighbourhood will know as well."

"Dear me, is it a very wonderful secret, then?"

"Yes, very wonderful; but you must not ask me what it is."

"I don't mean to, dearie."

"It's an answer to prayer, Nanny, I may tell you that much. I feel so
happy and thankful to-night that I don't believe I shall be able to
sleep a wink!"

"Oh, yes, you will. Have you thanked the good Lord for the cause of
your happiness, Miss Una?"

"Yes, over and over again!"

"That's right! Sometimes when folks are very happy they forget to thank
God, and that seems so ungrateful, just as though they only went to
Him when they remembered something they wanted. Ah, we're ready enough
to ask, but we're not always so ready to give thanks; we're too apt to
take the good things as if they were our due."

Nanny tucked the bed-clothes around her little charge, and, after
kissing her affectionately, put out the candle and drew up the blind to
allow the moon to flood the room with its pale, peaceful light. Then
she said, "Good-night," and went downstairs, smiling to herself as she
thought of Una's secret, and wondering what it could possibly be.

Una lay awake for some time watching the moonlight and a little
twinkling star that peeped at her through the window; but by-and-by
her eyelids grew heavy, and she was soon wrapped in a sweet, dreamless
sleep.



CHAPTER VI

UNA'S ACCIDENT

THE garden which surrounded Coombe Villa was what is generally called
a wilderness garden, because plants and flowers of all descriptions
and colours grew together, and flourished unchecked. On the morning
following that day when Una had been told the secret which had given
her so much joy she arose early, and went into the garden to have a
run before breakfast with Crack. The little girl and her dog raced
round the garden paths together till both were tired, and presently Mr.
Manners joined them.

"Come and look at the flowers, Una," he said, "and gather a bouquet for
the breakfast table. We will have some of these pansies to begin with.
I believe there are some lilies of the valley in that shady corner!"

Una darted away to look, and returned with a few sprays.

"How sweet they are!" she exclaimed. "Father, I do love flowers, don't
you?"

"Yes, my dear, certainly I do. Some one once called them the 'poetry of
the Creator'; was not that a beautiful thought?"

"Granfer does not care for flowers much," Una remarked; "that seems
strange, does it not?"

"To you, no doubt; but there are a great many people who do not like
flowers, just as others do not like poetry or music. By the same rule,
there are those who cannot admire a fine view, but I am glad my little
girl loves beauty and can appreciate the crowning works of God."

Una glanced up into her father's face, and, meeting his smile with one
equally bright and loving, she cried:

"Oh, father dear, I am so happy to-day! I can't help thinking of
Granfer, and of how glad he will be when his son comes home! I hope he
will come very soon!"

Mr. Manners was silent, but he kissed his little daughter's upturned
face tenderly; and then they went indoors to see if breakfast was
ready, and Una busied herself in arranging her flowers in the little
glasses that always ornamented the table at meal times.

The morning passed uneventfully. Una learnt her lessons as usual, and
in the afternoon went for a long walk with Nanny, returning by way of
Lowercoombe Farm, where they found only Mrs. Maple at home, Granfer
having gone to the village, and the little girls not having as yet
returned from school.

Mrs. Maple and Nanny enjoyed a long chat together, during which Una was
allowed to wander where she pleased. She inspected the fowl-houses and
cowsheds and stables, finally venturing to climb a few rungs of the
ladder which led to the hay loft. But she was unaccustomed to climbing,
and grew dizzy when she looked down and realised she was some feet from
the ground. She commenced to retrace her way, feeling rather nervous
and shaky, when suddenly she made a false step, missed her footing, and
fell upon the hard stone floor of the stable, with one foot doubled
back under her.

At first she was too faint to utter a sound, but presently when she
tried to move, and a sharp twinge of pain in her foot told her she had
injured it, she called aloud for assistance. Mrs. Maple and Nanny came
running to her immediately, the latter in a terrible fright when she
caught sight of the little girl's pale face.

"Oh, my darling!" cried the faithful woman. "What has happened?"

"I fell off the ladder, Nanny," Una responded faintly, her lips
quivering with pain, "and I have hurt my foot!"

Nanny lifted the child in her strong arms and forthwith carried her
into the house, followed by Mrs. Maple, and placed her on the settle in
the kitchen whilst she proceeded to draw off the boot and stocking from
the injured limb. The foot was already beginning to swell, and Nanny's
face was full of concern as she examined it, and poor Una winced at
every touch.

"It is a bad sprain, I fear," Mrs. Maple said. "She cannot possibly
walk home!"

"And she is too heavy for me to carry!" Nanny exclaimed. "What is to be
done?"

"Why, she must stay here with us," Mrs. Maple answered promptly. "We
will do the best we can for her!"

"Oh no, no!" Una cried; then, fearing she appeared rude and ungrateful,
she looked appealingly at Mrs. Maple and exclaimed: "I would so much
rather go home, please, because father would be so lonely without me.
If Nanny would go and tell him that I have hurt my foot, and cannot
walk, he would come and carry me back."

"Yes, I think that would be the best plan," Nanny agreed. "Is the pain
very bad, dearie?"

Una nodded. Her eyes were full of tears, but she bravely tried not to
cry, and to smile cheerfully.

"I will start at once," Nanny continued. "Keep up your spirits, Miss
Una, I shall not be long!"

After her nurse had gone Mrs. Maple brought Una a glass of milk and a
slice of home-made cake. The little girl sipped the milk and tried to
eat the cake, but she was in too much pain to do more than nibble a
small bit, and Mrs. Maple, seeing the state of the case, did not press
her to eat, but talked to her in her bright, cheerful fashion till Una
smiled in spite of her suffering. Then, Nellie and Bessie returned from
school, and were much concerned to find their little friend had met
with an accident, and asked her scores of questions.

"Why, I've been up and down that ladder ever so many times," Nellie
declared, "and I never fell off once! It's not in the least difficult
to climb!"

"Ah, but Miss Una is not used to climbing, I expect," Mrs. Maple put in
kindly.

"No," Una agreed with a rueful smile, "and I wish I had never tried!"

Nanny was as good as her word, and was not long absent. She returned in
less than half an hour with her master. At the sight of her father all
Una's fortitude gave way, so that when he sat down on the settle and
lifted her upon his knee she laid her head upon his shoulder, and burst
into a flood of tears.

He consoled her as best he could.

"Don't cry, my darling," he whispered, "you'll make yourself ill if
you do, and though you have given your foot a nasty twist, I dare say
you'll soon be running about as well as ever again."

Una tried to suppress her sobs, and Mr. Manners turned to Mrs. Maple
with a smile.

"It was good of you to offer to keep my little girl here," he said
courteously, "and I am most deeply grateful to you for your kindness;
but I think I had better carry her home. She is not used to being away
from me, for you see she is my only child, and we have never been
parted."

"That I can understand, sir," Mrs. Maple replied. "I know she must be
very dear to you."

"Perhaps you will allow Nellie and Bessie to come and see her every day
until her foot is better?"

"Yes, certainly, sir!"

"Thank you. Now Una, my darling, you must try to be brave, because I am
going to carry you home, and however gentle I am, I fear I shall hurt
your poor foot a little. Say good-bye to your friends now!"

Una lifted her face from her father's shoulders, and turned it towards
the motherly countenance of Mrs. Maple. The kind woman kissed the
little girl affectionately.

"I hope you will soon be well again, my dear," she said gently.
"Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," Una answered, "and please give my best love to Granfer!"

Then she was borne off in her father's arms, whilst Nanny hurried on
in front to make preparations for the little invalid. Mrs. Maple,
with Nellie and Bessie at her side, stood at the door watching the
retreating figures.

"Isn't he a nice gentleman, mother?" Bessie said. Then, receiving no
reply, asked: "What are you thinking about, mother?"

"I was thinking that Mr. Manners is very like someone I used to know
years ago," she answered with a sigh. "When he spoke, I declare the
sound of his voice gave me quite a shock, and I could have almost
thought it was my brother David, especially when he was talking to his
little girl!"

"Is Mr. Manners really like Uncle David?" Nellie enquired eagerly. "If
so, I think I should love Uncle David dearly!"

Mrs. Maple smiled, but her face remained thoughtful, and all that
evening she was puzzling over the wonderful likeness between Una's
father and her lost brother. She was unusually silent, and said but
little about Mr. Manners to Granfer; but when she was alone with her
husband she told him how she had been struck by the artist's appearance
and voice.

The farmer listened in surprise.

"Why surely, Mary, you do not mean to say you think this Mr. Manners is
your brother David?" he exclaimed in incredulous accents.

"I do not know what to think," she replied; "perhaps I am foolish and
fanciful, but he was so like what David might be if he were alive! Oh,
if God would only send David home!"



CHAPTER VII

GRANFER'S HEART'S DESIRE

IT was the evening before Granfer's birthday, and Mr. and Mrs. Maple
had gone for a stroll together, leaving the house in the charge of
Nellie and Bessie, with instructions that they were to wash up the tea
things and feed the poultry during their parents' absence.

Granfer sat in his accustomed seat, for though it was May, and the
weather quite mild, there was a cheerful log fire on the hearth, and
the old man was glad of the warmth.

When the children had finished their duties, they joined their
grandfather, and Nellie commenced a conversation by saying:

"Your birthday cake in the larder looks delicious, Granfer! Mother has
baked it beautifully!"

"She showed it to me," he replied. "Ah! I had hoped the little lady
from Coombe Villa would have been here to tea, to taste it; but I
suppose it will be some days before she will be able to walk as far as
this?"

"Yes," Bessie answered, "though her foot is much better. Mr. Manners
called us in to see her when we were coming home from school to-day,
and she can walk a little; but Mrs. Gray says the sprain will pass
quicker if she rests her foot a bit longer."

"Oh, Granfer," Nellie cried, "we saw the picture Mr. Manners is
painting; he showed it to us; wasn't it kind of him?"

"Very kind," Mr. Norris agreed; "he seems a nice gentleman."

"He is indeed! Mother says he is like Uncle David!"

"Eh? What?" cried the old man.

"Like Uncle David, Granfer, and he's called David too!"

"Yes, yes!"

He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, and presently two big tears
gathered in his eyes and rolled slowly down his withered cheeks. The
little girls looked at him in mingled surprise and awe, and Bessie
crept to his side and laid her soft cheek against his shoulder.

"Don't cry, dear, dear Granfer," she whispered. "Oh, don't cry!"

"Ah, child," he answered sadly, "if I could but have my heart's desire,
and see my boy once more; and if that is too much to ask of God, I wish
I could know that my harshness did not spoil David's life!"

"Why, here come mother and father back already!" Nellie cried in
astonishment as the door opened, and her parents crossed the threshold.
"They cannot have gone far!"

The children noticed at once that their mother looked agitated and
flushed, but, though her eyes were full of tears, they shone with a
bright, glad expression. She came to her father's side, and took one of
his hands in a firm clasp.

"Father, can you bear news—blessed news?" she asked simply. "Oh, my
dear father!"

He looked at her doubtfully, and she continued in hurried accents very
unlike her usually calm tones:

"Just now we met Mr. Manners, little Miss Una's father, and he tells us
that he has news of David!"

"Of David?"

"Yes, he says that David is well and prosperous!"

"Thank God for that!" the old man exclaimed fervently.

"And that he is coming to see us!" Mrs. Maple continued. "He may be
here any moment!"

"Let me go to meet him!" Granfer cried excitedly.

"No, father, not yet! There is more to tell! David has been living near
us some time, but he never came to see us because he was afraid you
were angry and bitter against him still; and father, he has a child
of his own whom you already dearly love! Oh, cannot you guess who our
David is?"

The old man shook his head, and looked around him in painful
bewilderment. Suddenly Nellie gave a little cry of glad surprise.

"Oh, I know, I know!" she cried excitedly. "Uncle David is Mr. Manners,
and Una is our cousin!"

"Yes," Mrs. Maple replied, "you have guessed rightly, Nellie." And
turning again to Mr. Norris she said: "Una is your own grandchild,
father; do you understand now?"

Granfer made no response in words, but his full heart arose in a prayer
of thanksgiving to God. There was a brief silence, then the farmer
beckoned to the children to follow him, and together the three left the
kitchen, while Mrs. Maple hurried to the door and spoke to some one who
was waiting without.

"I have told him, David," she said softly. "You can come in and see him
now!"

Granfer turned his head quickly, and peered at the tall form that came
to his side with outstretched hands that sought his own.

"Father, forgive me!"

It was his son David's voice, and the old man trembled exceedingly,
whilst his quivering lips murmured the two words: "My son!"

Mrs. Maple stole gently away to join her husband and children, and to
have a good cry, because, as she said, she was so very, very glad.

Then, after an hour had passed, they all returned to the kitchen to
find father and son seated side by side talking quietly and happily.

"This is the one like you, David," Granfer said, calling Bessie to him.
"I wonder you never noticed the likeness yourself! Your little Una does
not favour you in the least!"

"No, she is like her mother, and I am glad she is!"

"Her mother must have been a very sweet woman, I am sure," Mrs. Maple
said.

"She was indeed. Her death was a great trouble to me; we had only been
married eighteen months when she died. My little daughter is very fond
of you, father."

"Yes, she is," the old man admitted, smiling with pleasure. "The first
time we met she asked if she might call me Granfer."

"Did she really? How strange!"

"And it was she who led me to pray for you, David: I never did till
your child suggested it! God bless her!"

"She is a dear little soul—my Una! Ah, she has looked forward joyfully
to the return of your son, never dreaming him to be her own father!"

"Have you not told her yet?" Mrs. Maple asked.

"No, but I shall do so to-morrow."

"Cannot you manage to bring her here to tea? It is father's eightieth
birthday, you know, and he will want you and Una to taste his birthday
cake. Oh, you must come, David!" Mrs. Maple said appealingly.

"I will certainly see if it can be managed in some way," he responded
smiling.

"We will send the gig up to Coombe Villa to fetch you," the farmer
offered hospitably.

"Thank you; if you do, we will certainly come. Una will be delighted, I
know."

"Shall we call you Uncle David now?" Bessie asked, looking up into her
new-found uncle's face, with shy, dark eyes.

"Yes, indeed you must, and Una is your cousin, remember. But my name is
really Manners," he added, turning to Granfer. "It was my wife's maiden
name, and on our marriage her father stipulated I should take his name
on account of some property which had to come to his daughter at his
death. He died seven years ago."

Mr. Manners remained some time longer, but at last he rose to leave,
saying that Una would wonder what had become of him; and after he had
gone a silence fell upon the little party in the farm-kitchen, which
was broken only by Mrs. Maple remarking:

"I feel as though I must be dreaming! I cannot realise that he is
really David—can you, father?"

"Yes, I recognised his voice in a moment. I had never seen him since
he came to live at Coombe Villa except in church, but if I had met
him face to face, I should have known him immediately," the old man
declared, with conviction in his tones. "God has been very merciful to
me, and heard my prayers, and I am happier to-night than I have been
for years—indeed ever since David went away."

"Will Uncle David show you the beautiful picture he is painting,
Granfer?" Bessie asked. "Oh, you will want to see it, won't you?"

"Yes, I shall," he acknowledged. "Do you remember, Bessie, when you
said if painting was his talent, it would have been wrong for him not
to use it?"

"Of course I do, Granfer!"

"You were quite right, my dear, quite right!"

"Has God given you your heart's desire, Granfer?" Nellie questioned
softly.

"Ay, that He has!"

"And now you will be so happy, won't you?" the little girl continued:
"and you shall have such a beautiful birthday, and Uncle David and Una
will come to tea, and we shall all have such a lovely time together!
Oh, I wonder what Una will say when she knows that you are really and
truly her grandfather?"

"She will be very pleased, I feel sure," Mrs. Maple said, her face
beaming with happiness. "You children shall have a holiday from school
to-morrow, and then you will be able to help me get everything straight
by the time our visitors arrive!"



CHAPTER VIII

GRANFER'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY

FAIR dawned the morning of Granfer's eightieth birthday. The sun rose
behind a gray mist which it quickly dispelled, and shone on a world
decked with fresh green fields, tender budding leaves, and myriads of
flowers. Never during all the eighty years of his long life had Granfer
seen a more beautiful May morning; never had his heart beat happier,
or his soul been filled with a greater joy, than to-day as he came
downstairs to be greeted with good wishes, loving kisses, and kindly
looks from each member of the family in turn.

At Coombe Villa Mr. Manners was awake and up early. He went into the
garden and gathered a bunch of flowers for his little girl; then
returned to the house to wait till she should come downstairs. At last
she entered the room, looking a trifle pale still as a result of the
shock of her fall, and limping in her walk, but smiling and bright as
ever.

"Oh, you dear old father!" she cried when she caught sight of the
flowers. "I know those are for me!"

She went up to him and put her arms around his neck, giving him a
tender, loving kiss.

"Has my darling slept well?" he enquired.

"I fell asleep the minute I was in bed, and never woke up till Nanny
called me just now," she answered.

"Is it not a lovely morning?"

"Beautiful. There has been a heavy dew during the night, and everything
in the garden is the fresher for it."

"It is Granfer's birthday," she reminded him. "I wonder if his son has
come home?"

"Yes, Una; he returned last night!"

"Oh!"

For a moment she said no more; her lips trembled with emotion, and her
eyes shone through a mist of tears. Presently she said simply:

"God has answered Granfer's prayers at last."

Her father kissed her again and again.

"Was Granfer very delighted to see him?" she asked. "How did you know,
father?"

Then he told her the whole story, how he himself was Granfer's son,
and how he had gone to Lowercoombe Farm the night before and become
reconciled to his father. She listened in silence, too amazed to
utter a word, but there was a glad light upon her face and joy in her
tremulous smile.

"So you see, Una darling, Granfer is your grandfather as well as
Nellie's and Bessie's; and Mrs. Maple is my sister Mary, and your
aunt," Mr. Manners said in conclusion. "They are so pleased to think
that you are related to them, and I have promised that we will have tea
at the farm this afternoon because it is Granfer's birthday, and he
wishes it."

"Oh!" cried Una again, with a little gasp of astonishment. "Oh, how
wonderful! Father, you only told me half the secret, after all! You
never said you were Granter's son! I am so glad you are! Oh, dear
Granfer, how pleased and happy he must be!"

"And I am happy too, Una, happier than I have been for many a long
year. It was you who told me my father had forgiven me and wished to
see me again."

"Granfer loves you so much, father darling, and I am sure you love him,
don't you? Fancy Nellie and Bessie being my cousins! But I don't think
I can care for them any more than I do now, because I am really very
fond of both of them, and I'm sure I don't know which I like best!"

Una was full of excitement. After breakfast there was Nanny to be told
the wonderful news, and to the little girl's great astonishment she
discovered that her nurse was not so surprised as she had anticipated
she would be.

"I have guessed your father was old Mr. Norris's son for some while
now," Nanny confessed, "on account of different things I have heard
Mrs. Maple say about her brother, and by putting two and two together.
I am glad it has come out at last. Ah, Miss Una, this life is too short
for folks who love each other to be angry long; we ought to learn to
forgive and forget!"

"Granfer is not angry now!" Una said quickly, fearful lest Nanny should
not have grasped that fact.

"I should think not! There, dear, I won't say a word against your
grandfather, for I believe the good Lord has really softened his heart;
even to my eyes, he doesn't look quite so grim as he used," and Nanny
gave Una a kiss, adding gently, "God does everything for the best, my
dear, and He makes all right in the end!"

At four o'clock the gig arrived from Lowercoombe Farm, driven by the
farmer himself, and with the faithful Rags in attendance.

"I hope you are going to take kindly to your new uncle?" Mr. Maple said
with a merry twinkle in his eye as he lifted Una in his arms to put her
into the conveyance.

For answer the little girl clasped him tightly round the neck, and,
after pressing a kiss on his bronzed cheek, answered promptly:

"Indeed, I love you very dearly already! You are so very kind!"

They drove off, Una seated between her father and the farmer, the
latter amusing her with an account of how the tame lamb was daily
growing bolder, so that they had great difficulty in keeping it out of
the house.

"It's so tame that it follows my wife everywhere," he declared, "and
she has to shut it up on Sundays when we go to church, or we should
never keep it at home!"

In ten minutes they arrived at Lowercoombe Farm, where Una was carried
into the kitchen, and surrounded by her aunt, and grandfather, and
the children. They had so many questions to ask and to be answered,
and made so much of her, that she felt quite bewildered at first; but
by-and-by she noticed that Granfer was wearing the suit of clothes he
usually wore on Sundays, and that Mrs. Maple and Nellie and Bessie were
attired in their best gowns in honour of the day.

Presently, they had tea in the best parlour, which room was only used
on great occasions, or when there were visitors at the farm. Una sat
between her father and grandfather in a sort of dream-like happiness.
In the centre of the table was Granfer's birthday cake, which he cut
himself, and every one declared to be most delicious.

The old man and each member of the little party seemed merry and
pleased. Now and again Una met her father's eyes and smiled in answer
to his affectionate glance that mutely asked if she was happy and
content. She was both, though it seemed very strange to find herself
and her father so much at home at Lowercoombe Farm.

During the evening the little girl had a few words alone with her
grandfather, and took the opportunity to tell him how glad she was to
know of the relationship between them.

"God has been very good to me, my dear," he said gratefully. "He has
given me back my son."

"Yes," she answered, smiling brightly, "God is good." She took his hand
in her little, soft fingers, and looked tenderly into his aged face, as
she added lovingly:

"He has given me my Granfer too!"



                     ONE CHRISTMAS TIME

CHAPTER I

CONCERNING A DOLL
 IN AN AMBER-COLOURED GOWN

IT was a wretched evening, only a few days before the joyful Christmas
season. The weather was damp and chill, and the London streets were
slippery and comfortless. Pale, shivering forms sheltered themselves in
every conceivable nook which was safe, for a time at any rate, from the
keen scrutiny of the police; business men and women were wending their
different ways homewards from the City, and the theatres and other
places of amusement were not yet open. The shops were with enticing
articles displayed to the best advantage, and many a poor child stood
wistfully gazing at the fruit in the grocers' windows, so temptingly
set out, as though to purposely tantalize hungry eyes.

And then the toys! Wonderful inventions made for the children of the
wealthy! Engines worked by machinery! Dolls that opened and shut
their eyes, and even walked and talked! Noah's arks of marvellous
workmanship, containing every known animal on the face of the globe!

A young man, hurrying along, turned his head and glanced smilingly at
a shop window full of dolls of all sizes and conditions and prices,
from the gorgeously apparelled waxen bride-dollie in satin and orange
blossom to her penny Dutch sister with flat figure and nondescript
features.

"That would be the place to buy a doll for Nellie!" exclaimed the young
man, as he came to a full stop and stood with his hands in his pockets,
gazing at the motley faces that seemed to stare at him unblinkingly
with their glassy eyes. "I suppose she would rather have a doll than
anything else, although she has so many already!"

He was a good-looking lad, a medical student, Jim Blewett by name,
and Nellie was the only child of his brother in Cornwall, and a great
favourite with her uncle.

"I think I could afford half-a-sovereign," he ruminated; "for that
price it would appear one can get a most desirable dollie!"

He was turning into the doorway of the shop when he espied a child
at his side, watching him with great interest, and he paused. She
was a little girl of about seven years old, with a pale, thin face,
and large dark eyes. She drew back when she saw he had observed her,
and coloured. His shrewd glance noted she was poorly though neatly
clad, and that her toes had worn through her boots, whilst her head
was covered by an old sailor hat much too large for her, and with a
dilapidated brim.

"I suppose I must have been talking aloud," Jim Blewett thought; then
nodded encouragingly at the child, who responded with a smile.

The young man was not a Londoner; he was only studying at one of
the London hospitals, and looking forward to the day when, fully
qualified, he would be at liberty to practise his profession in the
country. Brought up in a small provincial town, where he had known
all the inhabitants, at any rate by sight, he could never understand
the unconcern with which Londoners regard those who cross their path.
He was always picking up acquaintances in an eccentric manner, as
his fellow students declared, or mixing himself up in other people's
business.

"It would be a much more unhappy world than it is, if no one interfered
with what did not immediately affect himself!" Jim would retort
good-naturedly. He was certainly in disposition very unlike the priest
and the Levite in the parable, for he was always ready to go out of
his way to assist any one; his desire was to be neighbourly to all the
world. The young man was a general favourite, and though many of his
acquaintances laughed at him, they could not help admiring him for his
open, manly Christianity.

"Well, little one," he said cheerily, "are you having a peep at the
dolls?"

"Yes, sir," the little girl responded, in a slightly abashed tone.

"I suppose you have a doll of your own at home?" he proceeded to
enquire.

The child shook her head, whilst a smile crossed her face, as though
she was amused at the thought. Then she turned to the window again and
sighed. After watching her a few moments in silence, Jim drew nearer
and asked:

"If you had the money, which would you buy?" She glanced at him
doubtfully, being mistrustful of a stranger, but, reassured by his kind
face, pointed to a large rosy-cheeked doll, in a gaudy amber-coloured
frock. Jim saw it was ticketed half-a-crown.

"If I gave you that doll, would you be pleased?"

She looked at him hesitatingly, then drew back, the tears springing to
her eyes, her cheeks crimsoning.

"You're making game of me!" she cried.

"On my honour I am not! See here!" Jim seized the child's chill hand in
his warm clasp, and drew her into the brilliantly-lighted shop. "Will
you please let us see one of the dolls in the window?" he asked of the
young woman who came forward to serve him. "It is the one in the yellow
dress we want. The one marked half-a-crown."

In a minute the much-coveted doll was laid on the counter, and Jim
turned to his companion.

"Is that the one you would like?"

The little girl lifted her eyes to his smiling countenance, her face
alternately paling and flushing with excitement.

"Oh, sir!" she gasped. "Oh, sir! Do you really mean it?"

"Mean it? Of course I do! I'm going to give you a Christmas present
because I have a little niece about your age, and you remind me of her,
and I know if she was here she would want you to have this doll!"

"Oh!"

"I will put the doll in paper," said the young woman behind the counter.

"Perhaps you would rather take her as she is?" asked Jim. "Or shall the
lady wrap her up for you?"

"She might feel the cold!" the child answered, looking at the doll with
longing eyes.

"She might," he agreed laughingly. "We will have her put in paper,
please."

The assistant turned aside, and in a minute brought forward a cardboard
box, into which she carefully laid the doll, then, after wrapping the
box in paper and securely fastening the parcel with a string, she
handed it across the counter.

"There, my dear," she said, as the little girl took possession of her
present, "your doll will be perfectly safe now."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am!"

"Thank you," Jim said, as he paid his half-a-crown. "You are very good
to take so much trouble!"

"Not at all, sir! I am only too pleased!"

The young woman, who was weary with standing all day, and had been
feeling decidedly cross and disheartened, seemed considerably cheered
by the sale of the doll. She watched Jim and his companion leave the
shop with interested eyes.

"What an odd couple!" she thought. "Fancy him spending his money on
that street child! Well, he must have a kind heart!"

Meanwhile Jim Blewett was saying good-bye, and refusing to listen to
the thanks which the delighted little girl was trying to put into words.

"Run away home," he said, "and take care of your dollie. I hope she'll
be a good child, and give you no trouble!"

"Oh, sir! I can never, never thank you!"

"Never mind. I don't want thanks. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir!"

The child gave him a long look full of gratitude; then, clasping her
treasure closely in her arms, she darted down the street, and was soon
lost in the hurrying crowd of pedestrians.

"Poor little soul!" Jim thought. "I'm glad I was able to gratify her
desire. Well, Miss Nellie will not have such an expensive present as I
intended, but she won't mind, and I think I'll write and tell her of
this little adventure; she will be interested."

The young man hastened home, swinging along with easy strides, his
thoughts busy with his little niece in Cornwall and the child whom he
had rendered happy in his impulsive way. Arrived at his lodgings, he
found his tea awaiting him, and his landlady forgot her household cares
as she answered his cheery greeting.

"A dull evening, Mrs. Metherell," he remarked, as she brought in the
tea-pot, and he sat down to his frugal meal; "but I never mind the
weather! We shall soon have Christmas now, and I begin to feel quite
Christmassy already!"




CHAPTER II

HOW THE DOLL WAS RECEIVED
 IN THE BLUNDELL FAMILY

"OH, how my eyes ache!"

The speaker, a weary-looking woman, was seated stitching away by the
light of a single candle. She was a button-hole maker, so what wonder
if her poor eyes did ache! To make button-holes from early morning till
late at night is no easy task; but Mrs. Blundell was not usually a
grumbler, and she rarely complained. To-night she was very tired, and
a fear that had haunted her for months took strong hold upon her, and
filled her soul with dismay. Supposing there should be something really
amiss with her eyes—more than weariness? Supposing her precious sight
should be really leaving her? She shuddered at the thought, for she had
two children to support, and, as things were, existence was hard enough.

But Mrs. Blundell was one who always put a stout heart to a stiff hill.
She had been country bred, and had come to London as a wife ten years
ago. Her husband, a house painter by trade, had been led astray by evil
companions, and had taken to drink and gambling. The downward path is
always a swift one, and so it had been in John Blundell's case. When he
had died, nearly two years since, he had left his widow and two little
girls totally unprovided for; and Mrs. Blundell continued to work as a
button-hole maker, as she had done during her husband's lifetime, in
order to supply those necessaries which were so hard to provide.

"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,' the poor woman had murmured
to herself over and over again when the weight of care thrown upon
her would have seemed unbearable except for that great promise. She
had learnt to turn to her Heavenly Father for assistance in time of
trouble, and trusted in Him with all her heart. But to-night she was
wearied out, mentally and bodily; and as she glanced round the garret
that was home to her and her children she shuddered at the thought that
even this humble abode might not be theirs much longer.

"Mother!"

The voice, weak and plaintive in tone, proceeded from a bed in a corner
of the room, where a little girl of about eight years of age was lying.

"Yes, my darling!"

The mother spoke in tender, caressing accents, which she strove to
make cheerful for her sick child's sake. Little Annie was always ill.
She suffered from a spinal complaint, and only Mrs. Blundell knew that
it was the result of a fall she had had from her father's arms when
an infant. John Blundell had been intoxicated when the accident had
happened, and, though it had been a shock to him at the time, he had
soon recovered from his fright, although Annie had never had a day's
health since.

"Oh, mother, do put down your work, and rest your poor eyes!"

"Presently, my dear; I am not going to do much more to-night. Have you
been asleep, Annie?"

"Yes, mother. Where is Maggie?"

"I sent her out to get some thread an hour ago. She ought to be back by
this time."

"I expect she is looking at the shops. She was telling me this morning
how they were. Oh, how I wish I could see them!"

"I wish so too, Annie."

"It does seem hard not to be able to get about like Maggie. Oh, mother,
why are we so poor? Has God forgotten us, do you think?"

"Oh, hush, my dear! No! God has not forgotten us; that is impossible!
All the world may forget us, but not God!"

"But, mother, it's so hard to be poor at Christmas time!"

"Oh, Annie, don't say that! The joy of the Christmas season has nothing
to do with riches, although it must be pleasant to be able to give
happiness to others for Christ's sake. If we have no money to buy
presents for those we love, the love is in our hearts the same; and the
angels' message was to the whole world, rich and poor alike. Never mind
our poverty, Annie, so long as Jesus is with us. Have you forgotten how
He was born in a stable, and cradled in a manger, because His mother
was of so little account that they could not make room for her in the
inn?"

"Oh, mother, I do remember, but—"

"He was poor all His life," Mrs. Blundell continued softly, "and His
friends were the working people. That thought has helped me to bear a
great deal, for He understands all our trials and sorrows."

"Still, I should like to have some money to buy presents for you and
Maggie, mother?"

"What would you give me, my dear?"

"A new gown, mother; it should be so warm and soft! I am not sure what
I would give Maggie! A pretty new hat, I think, for that old sailor hat
of hers is dreadfully shabby."

There was silence for a few minutes, then the sick child spoke again:

"Mother, I can't see the stars to-night; I expect it is raining."

Mrs. Blundell put down her work, and rising, went to the tiny window,
and looked out.

"It is very misty," she said. "I do wish Maggie would come! Where can
she be?"

"She is coming, mother!"

Annie's quick ears had told her truly, for in another minute the
rickety door was flung open, and a breathless little figure ran into
the room, and stood panting before her astonished mother and sister.

"Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Blundell, with mingled anxiety and reproof in
her voice. "Where have you been?"

For answer the child laughed—a clear, ringing laugh, full of pure
enjoyment, that echoed strangely through the miserable garret. Annie
raised herself on her elbow, her eyes open wide with amazement, whilst
Mrs. Blundell pointed to the parcel in Maggie's arms for an explanation.

"Oh!" the excited little girl cried at length. "You'll never guess what
has happened."

She laid the parcel on the bed, and bade Annie open it, then stood
by, somewhat impatiently watching the weak, tremulous fingers as they
fumbled with the string. The cover was removed from the box at last,
and the doll in the bright amber gown lay revealed.

For a moment there was an awed silence; then:

"Where did she come from, Maggie? Who is she for?"

"She is for you, Annie," Maggie answered brightly, "for your very own!
A Christmas present! A gentleman gave her to me, and I ran as fast as
ever I could to bring her home to you! You remember my telling you
yesterday about that shop where there was a big window full of dolls?
Well, I was looking in, and the gentleman asked me which doll I would
like if I had the money to buy her; and then, when I told him, he took
me into the shop and gave her to me!"

"Oh, Maggie!"

"And the lady in the shop put her in this box because she should not
get damp," the excited child continued, "and then I ran home as fast as
I could!"

"What a kind gentleman he must be!" cried Annie. "I wonder what made
him do it! I think God must have told him!"

"I shouldn't wonder," Maggie agreed. "How do you like her, Annie? You
haven't touched her yet!"

"She is so pretty, and her dress is so grand," the sick child answered
in awe-struck tones. "I never saw such a lovely doll before."

"She is your very own, Annie."

"Oh, I don't like to take her from you, Maggie; the gentleman meant you
to have her!"

"I would rather give her to you!"

Taking the doll carefully from the box, Annie placed her in her
sister's arms, whilst Mrs. Blundell stood by, watching the children
with tears in her eyes. She was pleased to see Maggie acting so
unselfishly, for she well knew that in giving up her doll the child was
making no slight sacrifice.

"See what lovely pink cheeks she has!" cried Annie. "And, oh, how blue
her eyes are! Oh, you beautiful creature!"

"I knew you would like her," Maggie remarked complacently. "I was
longing to be to able buy her for you when the gentleman spoke to me."

"Was he an old gentleman, Maggie?"

"Oh, no—quite young."

"He must have a kind heart," Mrs. Blundell said gratefully. "The doll
will be quite a companion for Annie when you are at school, Maggie, and
I am busy."

It was a strange scene in that humble garret home—a scene full of
pathos and tender human nature. The sick child with the gaudily dressed
doll clasped in her frail arms; her sister, her face radiant with
happiness; and the careworn mother looking on with eyes that smiled
through a mist of tears.

It was Mrs. Blundell who broke the silence in words that came straight
from a heart full of thankfulness and gratitude:

"There, children! You have had a beautiful Christmas present! You have
no idea who the kind gentleman was, my dear? No. Well, God bless him,
whoever he may be!"



CHAPTER III

CONCERNING JIM BLEWETT AND HIS LANDLADY

THE following morning the children awoke early, and the chill winter's
dawn found them busily discussing the marvellous attractions of the
wonderful doll. Annie was so excited that she could scarcely eat a
mouthful of breakfast, and Maggie was nearly as bad. It was certainly
not an inviting meal, being composed of a little weak tea and slices of
bread and dripping; but the children ate so sparingly. Annie, posted
up in bed, looked better than usual. She was a pretty child really,
but sickness had made her wan, and had sharpened her features till she
seemed all nose and eyes.

"What shall we call her?" she asked, pointing to the doll lying on the
counterpane by her side. "She must have a name."

"Call her 'Rose,'" suggested Mrs. Blundell; "or do you want something
that sounds grander?"

"I don't know," doubtfully. "What do you think, Maggie?"

"I think 'Rose' would do splendidly. She has such rosy cheeks, hasn't
she?"

"Yes. And such lovely hair and eyes! She is beautiful! We will call her
'Rose,'" and the little invalid looked at the doll with admiring eyes,
and gently smoothed the amber gown.

When breakfast was over Maggie started for school, and Mrs. Blundell
was obliged to go out to take her work to the business-house that
employed her; and for the first time in her life the time Annie spent
alone did not seem very long. She lay back in bed, feeling perfectly
happy and contented, talking to her doll, which she held in her weak
arms, and every now and again pressing tender kisses on the blooming
cheeks.

"Let us 'make believe,'" she whispered. "We are in a palace, a
beautiful palace made of white marble, and the walls are shining with
diamonds, and there is a grand feast for every one, and there are
flowers everywhere! The King is having a party, and nobody is cold or
hungry, because the King is so good and wise, he won't allow people to
be unhappy or want for anything. It is warm, and oh, so comfortable!
The King has asked us to sit by the fire with a lot of other little
children, and we can feel the heat!"

The child paused, and shivered involuntarily, awakening suddenly to the
reality; but in a minute she smiled, and continued to "make believe."

Meanwhile, the wintry sunshine was peeping through the tiny window; the
mist was clearing, and in the streets people were remarking that there
was a promise of a real old-fashioned Christmas.

Jim Blewett as he sat at his breakfast table looked at the sunshine,
and smiled.

"The weather is going to change," he remarked to his landlady as
she placed his fried bacon in front of him; indeed, "it has changed
already. There's a more cheerful outlook this morning."

"Yes," she assented, "I expect we shall have a spell of real cold now.
God help the poor folk if we do!"

"It will be healthier than all the damp we've been having, Mrs.
Metherell."

"Maybe, but it'll be a deal more trying for the poor. You don't know
London like I do, sir, or you'd know that!"

"I was bred in the country, thank God; and in the small town where I
was brought up the poorest never lacked for fuel, I am sure. My father
was the Vicar—he died several years ago—but in his young days, he had
had some experience of London life, as he had held a curacy in the
East End. He accepted a living in Cornwall when I was a baby, so my
knowledge of London is built on what I heard from him, and my own two
years' sojourn here."

"I was born and bred in London," Mrs. Metherell declared, "and I've
an affection for the place, though they do call it modern Babylon. I
don't suppose people are worse here than in the country. There's a deal
of wickedness done in London, I must confess, but there's a deal of
goodness too! For my part, I love the bustle, the continual movement,
the life! It seems to me country folk are never properly alive!"

"I suppose all Londoners think that!" Jim replied laughing, as he
looked at his landlady's good-humoured face. "I must acknowledge that
you always strike me as being very much alive, and you say you're a
real Londoner. You do not let the grass grow under your feet, Mrs.
Metherell."

Jim knew no woman could possibly work harder than his landlady. She
was at it early in the morning, and late at night; yet she was always
bright and cheerful.

Mrs. Metherell was a little woman with a tip-tilted nose, a pair of
honest gray eyes, and a wide mouth which was redeemed from ugliness
by a beautiful smile. Her figure was spare, and she stooped slightly,
as though she had been accustomed to carrying heavy weights, but she
was quick in her movements, and her tongue was quite as nimble. Left
a widow at thirty, she had, by means of this lodging-house in a quiet
side street, contrived to bring up three children, and put them out in
the world. They all had homes of their own now; but their mother kept
on the lodging-house, and her cheerful countenance grew brighter still
as the years passed on, and she found herself in easier circumstances.

Jim Blewett had lodged with Mrs. Metherell for the last two years. They
had taken to each other at the beginning of their acquaintanceship,
for, strange though it may appear, they were congenial spirits. The
toil-worn Londoner and the country lad had much in common; they met on
the ground of their wide-hearted Christianity. Mrs. Metherell often
lingered thus for a few minutes' conversation, and Jim, being of a
decidedly sociable disposition, always encouraged her to talk.

"You are not thinking of going home for Christmas, then, sir?" she
asked.

Jim shook his head, whilst a shadow crossed his face.

"No," he said, "although my brother's wife has written and asked me to
come, and my little niece Nellie sent a message to say it wouldn't be
like Christmas if I was not there! But I have made up my mind not to go
down till Easter. I want to work, and a break now would unsettle me, I
know. If my mother and father were alive it would be different!"

"Ah! This season brings its sad memories to many a heart," Mrs.
Metherell remarked, "but they cannot take away from the joy. The house
will be well-nigh empty this week, as most of my lodgers will be away.
I am going to give a party on my own account, sir!"

There was a twinkle in Mrs. Metherell's eyes as she spoke, which Jim
was quick to notice.

"I hope you are going to invite me," he said, smiling; then, seeing
Mrs. Metherell looked a little doubtful, "You surely won't leave me out
in the cold!"

"It's a children's party, sir."

"So much the better! They are ever so much jollier than grown-up
people's parties! I will help you amuse the children!"

"They are a few I know who will not be very likely to have anything
done for their pleasure at home. I am going to ask them to come on
Christmas Eve from four to eight. I shall give them a good tea—poor
little souls! And I mean to dress up a Christmas tree for the occasion!"

"I shall insist on being present, Mrs. Metherell; and I'll help you
dress the tree!"

A smile of gratification spread over the landlady's face as she
answered:

"I am sure I shall be very glad of your assistance, sir. It's not much
I'm able to do for my fellow creatures; but now, at Christmas, I think
one ought to make a little extra effort to try to make others happy. It
always seems to me Christmas is the children's festival especially, and
I should like to think I was able to make some of His little ones glad,
for His sake."

"Yes," Jim agreed. "I remember—oh! As long ago as I can remember
anything—the excitement there used to be at home when this season drew
near, and how my father used to remind us children that we must never
forget in the midst of all the festivity the cause of our rejoicing."

"He was quite right, sir."

"Indeed, he was. Well, I hope you and I shall have a happy Christmas."

His thoughts flew to the child to whom he had given the doll the night
before, but he made no mention of the matter to his landlady. And
after a few more words she retired downstairs, and Jim turned to his
breakfast.



CHAPTER IV

MAGGIE IS INVITED TO A PARTY

IT wanted but two days to Christmas, and it was intensely cold. For a
few hours in the morning the sun had shone brightly in a cloudless blue
sky; but now evening had come, and the keen, frosty air was cruelly
biting to those who lacked thick garments and warm furs to shelter
them from the severity of the weather. It promised to be a trying
Christmastide for the London poor, but those who had cosy firesides to
turn to, said it was healthy and seasonable.

To an onlooker, things would not have appeared very comfortable in the
Blundells' home. There was scarcely more than a handful of coals in
the little fire-place. Mrs. Blundell, as usual, was stitching away at
her work, whilst the children held a whispered conversation together.
Yet, cheerless though the garret looked, there was an atmosphere of
quiet contentment about its inmates. Christmas was coming! That was the
thought which cheered their hearts, that made the mother almost forget
her misgivings for the future, as she hummed softly to herself the
lines of the well-known hymn:

  "He comes the broken heart to bind,
     The bleeding soul to cure;
   And with the treasures of His grace
     To bless the humble poor."

Suddenly Mrs. Blundell dropped her work on her lap, and turned her head
expectantly to the doorway. She had heard a footstep, and in a minute
there was a knock. Maggie ran to the door, and admitted a little woman
with stooping shoulders—no other than Jim Blewett's landlady.

"Oh, Mrs. Metherell!" Mrs. Blundell exclaimed in quick, pleased tones.
"Do please come in and sit down! Why, you're quite breathless with
climbing up the stairs! I am glad to see you, ma'am!"

Brisk and smiling, Mrs. Metherell greeted the children cordially, and
then, turning to their mother, said:

"I am not going to stay long, but in my basket here are a few things
for you. The fact is, all my lodgers but one have gone away for
Christmas, and they've left some provisions behind that it would be
a pity to let spoil. Here's half a cold chicken and a knuckle of
ham—'Nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat,' they say—and a few other
trifles."

"Oh, ma'am, I shall never be able to thank you for all the thoughtful
goodness you've shown to me and mine! If you had not been such a friend
to us before now, I believe we should have starved!"

"You have a better friend than me, you know, Mrs. Blundell. We are all
in God's hands."

"I do know it, ma'am; but sometimes one's faith seems weak!"

"'There hath not failed one word of all His good promise,'" Mrs.
Metherell quoted in her pleasant, cheery tones. "Now please to empty
the basket, and I hope you'll have a good supper, and enjoy it. Annie,
my dear, how are you to-night?"

"Oh, much better, thank you, ma'am."

"Much better, eh? That's right. And what have you there?" Suddenly
becoming aware that the little girl was evidently desiring her to
notice the object in her arms.

"It is a doll, my doll, ma'am," in proud accents. "She is called
'Rose.' Isn't she a beauty?"

In a few words Mrs. Blundell explained how the child had become
possessed of her treasure. Mrs. Metherell nodded her head approvingly
as she listened to the tale, whilst her face simply beamed with smiles.
"Well, now!" she exclaimed. "That was kindly done! Don't you wish you
knew who the gentleman was?"

"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Blundell answered earnestly. "I feel quite sorry to
think he will never know how thankful my children are to him for his
gift."

"I can't thank him myself," Annie put in, "I only wish I could. But
Maggie and I speak of him to God every night. I think God will bless
him, don't you, ma'am?"

"Yes, I do," Mrs. Metherell returned in cordial tones, "I feel sure of
it. She is, indeed, a beautiful doll, Annie; and I don't wonder you are
pleased."

"I love her very much," answered the little invalid simply.

"There is one thing more I have to say before I go," Mrs. Metherell
said, as she turned to Maggie, "and it's to do with you, my dear. I am
going to give a little party on Christmas Eve to a few children I know,
and I want you to join us. Would you like to come to my party, Maggie?"

In her astonishment Maggie turned very red, then quite pale, and for
a minute did not answer. At length she gave a little gasp of mingled
pleasure and surprise as she exclaimed:

"Oh, ma'am! A party!"

"From four to eight. Will you allow Maggie to come, Mrs. Blundell?"

The mother looked doubtful, as she mentally pictured Maggie's best
frock, which was decidedly more than a little shabby. Then she
reflected that her visitor, who knew her position very well, would not
expect her child to be dressed smartly, and she gave a cordial consent.

"It is indeed kind of you to ask Maggie, ma'am," she said, "and I'm
sure I shall be only too pleased for her to go. It will be a rare treat
for her."

"It is decided, then. At four, mind, and be in good time, Maggie."

The little girl accompanied their visitor down the rickety stairs
in order to pour into her ears the thanks she had at first been too
astonished to utter. When she came upstairs again she found her mother
and sister in quite a state of excitement.

"Oh, I am so glad!" the latter exclaimed. "Oh, what a wonderful week
this has been! First came my doll, and, now, to think that you are
going to a real party, Maggie, not a 'make believe' one! Mind you
notice everything, so as to be able to tell me all about it!"

"That I will," Maggie agreed readily, "I only wish you were going too,
Annie."

"Oh, I don't mind now I have Rose for company. I shall be able to
imagine it all, and that will be nearly as good as being there," was
the contented reply.

"I am very pleased too. It seems to me that we have more friends than
we thought. I am sure I'm delighted that Maggie should have this
pleasure," Mrs. Blundell said, with a loving glance at her little
daughters, and remembering how the younger child had given up her doll
to her invalid sister.

"I wish we were all going," Maggie went on, "but, never mind, I'll tell
you everything about it afterwards. I wonder what we shall do? Play
games, I expect."

"And there will be refreshments—all sorts of nice things!" Annie
suggested.

She was not in the least a greedy child, but her capricious appetite
often hankered after such luxuries as she rarely tasted.

"We will have supper now," Mrs. Blundell said, and Maggie began to busy
herself preparing the evening meal.

They had not tasted meat for the day, and the knuckle of ham and
scraps of chicken seemed a feast indeed. Cheered by the good food, the
children grew quite merry, and chatted and laughed. The mother watched
them, and thanked God for putting it into Mrs. Metherell's heart to
remember them that Christmas.

Jim Blewett's landlady had been a kind friend to them ever since, two
years ago, she had by chance learnt to know of the hard-working widow
and her children. Many a time Mrs. Metherell had sent a dainty dish
to tempt the little invalid's appetite; and on rare occasions, as on
the present, she had paid a visit to the family, but never before had
she invited one to her home. How deeply Mrs. Blundell appreciated her
kindness to Maggie only one in her position can realise, and Mrs.
Metherell herself would have been surprised and much gratified could
she have known the intense pleasure which the anticipation of her party
was giving in at least one humble home.



CHAPTER V

PREPARING FOR MRS. METHERELL'S PARTY

IT was getting late by the time Mrs. Metherell arrived at home, for she
had had a good bit of shopping to do, which had taken her longer than
she had anticipated. As she was going upstairs a voice called to her:

"Is that you, Mrs. Metherell?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come in here a minute, will you, please?"

There was an eager note in Jim Blewett's voice as he spoke, and as
Mrs. Metherell stepped into his sitting-room she cast an astonished
glance around. An empty hamper was on the floor, whilst the table was
strewn with what had been its contents—a turkey, some sausages, a plum
pudding in a mould, a large cake, a couple of pounds of butter, a tin
of clotted cream, and half-a-dozen pairs of hand-knitted socks.

"You see the folks at home have not forgotten me," Jim remarked
smilingly. "I've had a hamper from my sister-in-law. She says—"
referring to a letter in his hand—"that the pudding is sufficiently
boiled, and only wants warming through. She knitted the socks herself.
Aren't they capital?"

Mrs. Metherell took up the articles and examined them approvingly,
whilst her lodger went on:

"I know my sister-in-law's Christmas puddings of old! You can't beat
them! Mrs. Metherell, I shall never eat that huge turkey all by myself,
although I have such an excellent appetite, and I'm going to dine with
our senior house surgeon on Christmas Day. I want you to cook the
turkey for your little visitors, and have the cake as well. If you are
going to have a high tea, as I think you told me you intended, cold
turkey would come in nicely, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would," Mrs. Metherell acknowledged, "but I don't like to take
it from you, sir. The turkey will keep several days, and you might have
it hot for dinner one night, and as to the cake—why, I don't suppose
your sister-in-law meant you to eat all these good things at once!"

"Well, no," he responded, laughing, "but I'd so much rather the
children shared them with me."

"I'm sure, sir, if that's the case, I'm quite agreeable, and I'm very
much obliged to you for wishing it."

"And, Mrs. Metherell, I've bought a few things to help decorate your
Christmas tree. I passed a toy shop on my way home from the hospital
to-night, and the toys were so enticing, I couldn't possibly resist
buying some. The fact is," he explained, speaking in confidential
tones, "my godfather has sent me a five pound note for a Christmas box!"

"Oh, Mr. Blewett, you ought not to have spent your money in that way!"

"Only a small part of it—there's a lot left, I assure you. I've bought
a beautiful doll for my little niece, Nellie—such a grand doll! And
a Russia leather pocket-book for my brother, dear old chap! And
half-a-dozen pairs of gloves for my sister-in-law. And look here, Mrs.
Metherell, what do you think of this?" Drawing a small jeweller's box
from his breast pocket, and exhibiting therein a pretty silver brooch.

"For Clara," he explained, "only I shall not give it to her till
Christmas Day. Do you think she will like it?"

"I am sure she will, sir! I believe you are the only one of my lodgers
who ever shows her the least consideration, and I'm sure you'll be the
only one to give her anything for Christmas."

Clara was the indefatigable maid-of-all-work of the establishment, a
good-natured girl who had imbibed some of her mistress's qualities of
mind and heart.

"When I think of the scores of times she has toiled up to my room here,
in answer to my bell," said Jim, "and what dirty boots she has had to
clean for me, I feel sorry I have no handsomer present to give her."

"She will be delighted," Mrs. Metherell declared. "Clara is a good
girl, and she's a great help to me. I will send her upstairs to tidy up
your room for you, Mr. Blewett. As to the turkey, and that big cake,
which, if looks go for anything, must be simply delicious, I accept
them gladly for the children, and the toys too. I won't say you ought
not to have bought them, for I know it's a pleasure to you to give."

"When do you decorate the tree, Mrs. Metherell? I gave Clara my parcel
of toys as I came in."

"Why, I shall begin as soon as I have taken off my bonnet and cloak.
Would you care to come down to my sitting-room presently? I should be
really glad if you would help me hang up the things, for I'm afraid I
shall not have much taste in arranging them. Of course, sir, if you're
going to work—"

"But I'm not. I don't feel a bit workish. There is nothing I should
like better than to help you decorate the tree."

In another half hour the important business of the evening was in full
swing. The tree, in its pot, was set in the middle of the floor in Mrs.
Metherell's sitting-room, and the presents carefully secured thereto.
It was an undoubtedly fortunate thing that the medical student was
there, for neither the landlady nor Clara had the least idea how to
display the different articles to the best advantage. It was on Jim
that the work fell, and he was quite satisfied that it should be so.
The presents were useful as well as ornamental, for Mrs. Metherell had
knitted several warm comforters, and Clara had crocheted some pairs of
cuffs in brilliantly coloured wools.

"There!" cried the young man at length, withdrawing to a little
distance, to view his work the better. "I don't believe there'll be a
prettier Christmas tree in all London. When the Chinese lanterns are
lit up, it will look splendid!"

Mrs. Metherell and Clara eagerly agreed, the latter uttering
exclamations of admiration and delight.

The girl was a regular Londoner, like her mistress, and had been
brought up in a poor home in a wretched slum. Clara had seen nothing of
the better side of life until she had come to live with Mrs. Metherell,
who had taught her the meaning of that love which is the light of the
world. She had been as ignorant of God as any heathen in a foreign
land, and it had been given to her mistress to plant those seeds in the
girl's heart which were, by God's grace, to take deep root and beautify
her whole life. The Gospel Story poured into her ears by one who humbly
tried to walk in the way that leads to eternal life had made so great
an impression upon her that it had lightened each hard day's work and
sweetened every breath she drew. She was growing in grace, and in the
knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, learning to trust in
Him as her unfailing friend, and casting all her weakness upon Him.

The night out-doors was bright and frosty. The pale moon and twinkling
stars looked down upon the great city with its riches and poverty, its
goodness and sin, upon luxurious homes whose inmates had little thought
for those to whom Christmas meant nothing, and—thank God—upon those
too who busied themselves preparing for the happiness of others; upon
reckless waste and terrible want, and deeds of self-sacrifice and deeds
of love. And to all, gentle and simple, rich and poor, was coming the
angels' message that for nineteen hundred years has resounded through
all Christian lands, scoffed at by some, passed by unheeded by others,
but here and there treasured up in some faithful hearts, bearing its
tidings of joy and good will towards all mankind.

To the three in Mrs. Metherell's sitting-room—three so wide apart
in every way but one, and that their love for Him they were looking
forward to worship as the Babe of Bethlehem on Christmas Day—it seemed
as though an atmosphere of pleasant expectancy surrounded all the world.

"The tree looks lovely," Mrs. Metherell said, when after a few
finishing touches Jim declared his work was done, "and it's due to you,
sir, entirely! We could never have arranged the things so tastefully,
or made them look half so well."

"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed the lad. "I've had some experience, you know,
for we used to have a tree every year at home."

Then he went upstairs, and wrote a long letter to his dear ones in
Cornwall, regaling them with an account of the preparations for Mrs.
Metherell's party, concluding with a glowing account of the Christmas
tree for Nellie's benefit, and confessing he had shared the contents of
his hamper with his landlady, for the children's benefit. He knew well
that his sister-in-law would enter into his feelings, and be perfectly
satisfied that some of her good cheer should go to the little ones.



CHAPTER VI

MRS. METHERELL'S PARTY

IF Mrs. Metherell's party had been anticipated with feelings of
pleasure and delight, the realisation quite came up to every one's
expectations. To many children it would doubtless have appeared a tame
affair, but to those who partook of its joys, it left nothing to be
desired.

First came the substantial high tea in the roomy underground kitchen,
which had been decorated with holly and evergreens for the occasion,
the tins on the mantel-shelf shining like silver, and the plated
dish-covers on the walls looking like mirrors for brightness. Around
the large, square kitchen table sat the children—about a dozen little
girls and boys who were at first too busily occupied with the good
food, that was such a rare treat to them, to have much to say.

But when the appetites of all were satisfied, the children commenced to
chatter, and one small boy whispered audibly to his neighbour: "I never
tasted turkey before, an' ain't it just prime!"

Maggie Blundell, her usually pale cheeks flushed with excitement, her
eyes shining brightly, was one of the quietest of the lot, though she
was thoroughly enjoying herself, and making mental notes of everything
she saw and every word that was said, with which to entertain Annie for
days to come.

Tea over, Mrs. Metherell offered up a short prayer of thanksgiving to
God, during which some of the children bowed their heads reverently,
whilst the others appeared astonished, never having been taught that
all good things come from our Heavenly Father. The kind hostess looked
around on the young faces about her table, and in a few earnest words
reminded them Whose birthday eve it was, and for Whose sake they were
making glad.

Afterwards, the whole party arose, and was ushered by Clara into the
sitting-room. Exclamations of amazement and admiration broke from the
children as they saw the Christmas tree. The Chinese lanterns had been
carefully lighted by Jim Blewett, who stood in the background, watching
the eager faces and listening to the delighted remarks:

"A Christmas tree!" cried one. "Oh, how lovely!"

"I never saw a Christmas tree before!" from another.

"Nor I!"

"Nor I!"

"Doesn't it do one's heart good to see their pleasure?" Mrs. Metherell
whispered to Jim.

He nodded silently, his observant eyes wandering from one child's face
to another, till they rested on Maggie Blundell's animated countenance,
with recognition.

"There is one I know," he said, indicating the little girl. "How
strange she should be here to-night!"

"Do you mean Maggie Blundell, sir?"

"Is that her name? I mean that tidy little figure in black. There, she
is looking at us now, and I believe she recognises me too."

Maggie's eyes had indeed espied her unknown friend, and, darting across
the room towards him, she cried: "Oh, sir!" then paused too agitated to
utter another word.

"How do you do? I hope you are having a good time?" Jim said, genially.

"Oh, yes, sir, thank you! Oh, Mrs. Metherell, ma'am, this is the
gentleman we told you about who gave me the doll!"

Mrs. Metherell comprehended the situation at once, and she laid a
kindly hand on the child's shoulder, smiling down into the excited
face, as she replied:

"This gentleman is Mr. Blewett, one of my lodgers, my dear. What a
strange coincidence! Now you can tell him what has become of his
present, for I am sure he will like to know how much it is appreciated!"

In a few eager words, Maggie explained that she had given the doll to
her sister, because she was always ill, and often lonely; how they had
named the doll "Rose"; and how they loved her dearly. Encouraged by
his evident interest, she proceeded to tell him all about her home,
till Jim knew how hard her mother worked, and what trying times they
had sometimes, to all of which he listened with deep attention. Their
conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Metherell, who thought it was time
to begin distributing the presents to the children.

The little ones were ranged around the tree in a circle, and when they
received their gifts it was quite touching to notice the pleasure on
their faces. Of course, the tree was the most wonderful object of the
evening, but it was dismantled at length, and pushed back into a corner
of the room, shorn of its glory.

Games followed—"blind man's buff," puss in the corner, and a variety
of others, and the medical student proved himself an adept in all. At
first the children were inclined to be shy with him, but when they
played "family coach," and Jim took upon himself to tell the history
of that famous vehicle, and gave a humorous account of all the mishaps
that attended its career, the young people forgot their reserve, and
fairly shouted with laughter.

It was all over at last; the children returned to their different homes
with happy hearts; whilst Mrs. Metherell and Clara began to tidy up
after their little visitors, and the party was an event of the past.

"It has been a complete success," Jim Blewett remarked ere he went
upstairs, "and I, for one, have certainly enjoyed it. You've caused
some happiness any way, Mrs. Metherell!"

"I'm truly glad to think so, sir," the landlady answered, "and I'm sure
I'm most grateful to you for your assistance."

Meanwhile, Maggie Blundell had hastened home, and having exhibited
her presents from the Christmas tree, which were greatly admired, was
giving her mother and sister a graphic description of the party, and
telling of her delight and astonishment at the sight of the "kind
gentleman," as she had grown accustomed to call the young medical
student.

"I was so amazed I could hardly speak at first," she explained, "but
afterwards I told him all about you, mother, and all about you too,
Annie. He asked me lots of questions—had we always lived in London; and
when he heard you were brought up in the country, mother, he said he
thought as much, because I spoke differently from the other children,
and he guessed that was the reason. I suppose he meant I spoke like
you, mother?"

"I dare say, my dear."

"Oh, he did say such a funny thing about himself! He said he was half a
doctor! What could he have meant, mother?"

"I'm sure I can't think. Half a doctor! Are you sure that was what he
said? Oh! Perhaps he is a medical student. He may be learning to be a
doctor. We will ask Mrs. Metherell. By the way, Maggie, you have not
told us his name."

"He is called Mr. Blewett."

"Blewett!" Mrs. Blundell echoed. "I wonder where he comes from! Can it
be? But no, it is not likely!"

"Do you know any one called Blewett, mother?"

"I used to know a family of that name years ago."

"He said he would come to see us one day; and he asked me if Annie had
had a good doctor."

"What did you say, dear?"

"I said, no, not since I could remember."

"Oh, Maggie, do you really think he will come here?" asked Annie,
casting a comprehensive glance around their poor home.

"I should not be surprised. I think he does mean to come. Do have
another chocolate, Annie!"

The little invalid was posted up in bed, regaling herself on chocolates
from a box that her sister had received from the Christmas tree.

"We will keep some for to-morrow," the mother said, smiling, "and
I think we will put off hearing anything more about the party till
to-morrow too. You must be very tired, Maggie: and Annie there ought to
have been asleep long ago."

"I don't feel a bit sleepy, mother," Maggie said.

"I dare say not, but it's time you were in bed, all the same. Put away
your sweets and presents till to-morrow, like a good girl."

The child obeyed obediently; and then Mrs. Blundell brought forward her
Bible, and read slowly and reverently the account St. Luke gives of
the birth of Christ. When she had finished, they all joined in singing
that grand old Christmas hymn, "While shepherds watched their flocks by
night."

The mother's voice was tired, and much of its beauty had passed, but
the children's notes were pure and sweet, and resounded through the
house, thrilling many a weary heart with the triumphant words of joy:

   "All glory be to God on high,
     And on the earth be peace;
   Good will henceforth from heaven to men
     Begin and never cease."



CHAPTER VII

JIM BLEWETT VISITS THE BLUNDELLS,
 AND INTERFERES IN THEIR CONCERNS

CLEAR and bright dawned Christmas morning, and the bells from the
churches rang out their joyful notes, calling all the world to come and
worship the newborn King, the Prince of Peace. It was a very quiet day
for the Blundells. A neighbour came in to sit with Annie, to enable
Mrs. Blundell and Maggie to attend the morning service at church. It
was the same church where Mrs. Metherell worshipped; and after the
service was over, they had a few words with the kind little woman.

Mrs. Metherell was in capital spirits, for she had received loving
remembrances from her children, and a present of a warm Shetland shawl
from her favourite lodger.

"It is pleasant to be remembered at Christmas," she said brightly. "One
of my sons is an engineer settled in Hull, and the other's a clerk in
a shipping office in Liverpool. Both are married and have families,
but they don't forget their old mother. My only daughter's married
too, and living in Dublin: she would like me to live with her, but I
think a young couple's best alone. So you see I've no near relations in
London, and I sometimes feel a bit lonesome. Your relatives live in the
country, I suppose, Mrs. Blundell?"

"Yes, ma'am—many miles away."

When they had parted from Mrs. Metherell, Maggie turned to her mother,
and asked curiously: "Have we any relations, mother?"

"Yes, my dear."

"They never write to us, mother?"

"Never."

A cloud seemed to have overshadowed the mother's face, and she sighed.
She was unusually quiet all the rest of the day, though the children
found so much to talk about, and when they had fallen asleep that
night, she still sat on by the scanty fire, deep in thought.

By-and-by she roused herself, and fetched writing materials, and tried
to write a letter. It was evidently a difficult task, for after writing
a few halting lines, she put down her pen, and covering her face with
her hands wept bitterly.

"Oh!" she sobbed, "if father would only forgive me for the children's
sake!"

She turned to her letter again, but she could not express in words the
feelings of her heart, and at last she laid down her pen in despair.
The next few days passed uneventfully; but one evening there was a
knock at the door of the Blundells' home, and Maggie, who hastened to
answer it, exclaimed as she peeped out:

"Oh, sir! Oh, mother! It's Mr. Blewett!"

The medical student came in, and with that adaptability which promised
to do much towards making him a popular doctor some day, soon made
himself at home. Mrs. Blundell stood by smiling as he talked to her
little girls, his keen eyes fixed on Annie, in whose case he already
felt an interest.

"Do you never get up, little one?" he asked.

"Never, sir. But I am not lonely now I have Rose."

"I am glad you find her companionable." Then, turning to the mother, he
remarked:

"She had an accident, I think you said?"

"Yes, sir. Her spine was injured. I have not been able to afford a
doctor lately, but—"

"Will you allow me to make an examination? I am a medical student, and
interested in spinal complaints."

Mother and child both consented, and Jim proceeded to examine the
little girl's back most carefully.

"There!" he said at last. "I don't think I've hurt you much, have I?
Mrs. Blundell, I should like our senior house surgeon to see your
little girl. He's very clever. You could not have a better man for the
case."

"But, sir, I am not able to pay—"

"There will be no question of payment. May I bring him? I see I may.
He's such a good fellow, and used to be a personal friend of my poor
father's."

"Your poor father, sir? Why do you say poor?"

"It's a way one has of speaking of the dead. My father died three years
ago, and my mother a few months before; but," he said, noticing that
there were tears in Mrs. Blundell's eyes, "you did not know them!"

"Yes, sir, indeed I did, if your father was the Vicar of R—, in
Cornwall!"

"He was. And you?"

"I was parlour-maid in your family for five years. You were a little
boy then, sir, but I dare say, when I tell you what my name was, you'll
remember it."

"How strange! I thought when I came in that your face was familiar to
me, and I felt certain you came from Cornwall by your speech, and your
children have a touch of the dialect, too."

"It comes from being so much with me, I suppose, sir. I was Dinah
Mudford before I married."

"Old John Mudford's daughter? Why, of course, I remember now! I saw
your father only last summer, and had a long chat with him. He's a
hale, hearty man for his years."

Jim Blewett cast a discerning glance around the wretched garret, for
he knew that Mrs. Blundell's father was a man counted well off for his
position in life. He had by hard work and frugality raised himself
from a labouring man to be the owner of a small dairy farm; therefore,
it seemed almost incredible that his daughter should be in needy
circumstances.

Mrs. Blundell saw and comprehended the meaning of the look on the young
man's face, and when he took his leave, she followed him downstairs,
and explained to him how she had married against her father's consent,
and he had accordingly declined to have anything more to do with her.

"Many's the time I've longed and prayed for his forgiveness," she said
sadly, "for I was a bad girl, sir, and wilfully disobeyed him. The
misery my marriage brought me, I cannot tell you, and I don't wish to
speak ill of the dead. My husband turned out as my father told me he
would, only I wouldn't listen to him, and that's why I've been ashamed
to write to him. If I had, I don't suppose it would have been any good,
for father was always hard and unforgiving."

"He may have been once, but that he certainly is not now. He is a
sincere Christian, and I am certain if you appealed to him he would
assist you!"

"Father a Christian!" she exclaimed in accents of amazement.

"Indeed he is. I do not know how the change came about, but it is a
fact. Write to him, and await results."

With this advice Jim Blewett departed, and Mrs. Blundell returned to
her children, who were full of eager questions about the grandfather
of whom they had never heard before; and the mother smiled almost
hopefully as she answered, for the news she had heard had considerably
lightened her heart.

"To think that father, who was always so hard and stern, should be
a Christian!" she thought; "although I don't know why it should be
so wonderful after all. It is God's work, and marvellous in our eyes
because we can't understand how He brings things to pass. What a
Christmas this has been! To think the children's 'kind gentleman'
should turn out to be 'little Master Jim,' as we used to call him. I
knew him at once; he has his father's kind eyes, and yet, he reminds me
of his mother too!"

Meanwhile, Jim Blewett had returned to his lodgings, his mind full
of the visit he had just paid. The evident poverty and want of Mrs.
Blundell and her children appealed forcibly to his sympathy, and he
could not help contrasting the anxious, careworn mother with the
handsome girl he remembered as Dinah Mudford. He recalled having heard
that old John Mudford's daughter had made an unfortunate marriage, and
he thought it more than likely that the father knew nothing of his
daughter's position.

"I've a great mind to write to the old man myself," he thought. "It may
do some good, and I do not see that it can possibly do any harm. Poor
woman! She needs help badly, and who should give it if not her father?
That little sick girl, too! I've a notion something might be done for
her!"

To think was to act with Jim Blewett, and sitting down, he drew pen,
ink, and paper towards him. His pen flew swiftly over the paper, and in
ten minutes he had plainly stated the circumstances of the case, and
boldly said he considered it was John Mudford's duty to provide for his
widowed daughter and her children.

Having finished his letter, he went out and posted it.

"There!" he said, as he dropped it into the letter box. "I'm
interfering with other people's business again; but I think my father
would have done the same."

On his return home he sought Mrs. Metherell, and told her who Mrs.
Blundell was, and how he had acted. The good lady threw up her hands in
astonishment as she exclaimed:

"Good gracious, Mr. Blewett! I never heard anything like it in my life!
It's Providence, sir, that's what it is! First your meeting Maggie and
giving her that doll; then my party, and you and the child both being
there; and now her mother recognising you! There's no such thing as
chance, sir; we walk on blindly trying to feel our way, and all the
time there's a hand that's guiding our footsteps, though we mayn't
realise it at the time!"

"Do you think I have done wisely in writing to the old man?" he asked,
a trifle anxiously.

"Well, sir," was the laconic reply, "we'll wait and see."



CHAPTER VIII

THE RESULTS OF JIM BLEWETT'S INTERFERENCE

"MOTHER! Do you really mean it? Oh, mother! Will God really make me
well some day?"

It was little Annie Blundell who spoke, in eager, excited tones. The
young medical student and his friend, the clever surgeon, had just gone
away, leaving behind them an atmosphere of hope and joy. In time, Annie
would grow stronger, and perhaps quite well. That had been the doctor's
verdict, which the mother had heard with heartfelt thankfulness.

"Yes," Mrs. Blundell said, in answer to Annie's agitated questions,
"if all goes well, my dear little invalid daughter will be able to run
about like her sister one of these days; only we must do all the kind
doctor says, and follow his directions."

"What was it he said about fresh air, mother?" Annie inquired anxiously.

"He said life in the country with plenty of fresh air would be of the
utmost advantage to help to make you stronger. I am going to write to
your grandfather, Annie, and ask him if he would not like a little
grandchild in his home, one who would grow to love him dearly, I know."

"And you, mother? And Maggie?"

"I don't know, darling, yet."

"I could not leave you, mother!"

"Not if leaving me would mean making you strong and well?"

"No," was the response in determined accents. "Oh, mother, don't ask me
to go!"

Mrs. Blundell sighed. She had again put off writing to her father,
shrinking sensitively from explaining to him the miseries of her
married life; but, now that she knew that fresh air was the one thing
needed to assist in Annie's cure, she determined to appeal to him to
take the child.

Maggie heard her mother's resolve in silence, but she drew near to her
sister, and put her arms in mute protest around her neck.

"Oh, Maggie," Annie whispered, tearfully, "I don't think I want to get
well now."

Meanwhile Jim Blewett had parted from his friend, and had returned to
his lodgings. Clara, who had been evidently on the look-out for his
arrival, met him at the door; and in a mysterious whisper asked him to
walk into Mrs. Metherell's sitting-room.

"There is some one there waiting to see you," she explained.

"Who is it, Clara?"

"Some one called Mudford, sir."

Jim waited to hear no further, but hastened into the room, where he
found his landlady in earnest conversation with a fresh-complexioned
old man, evidently a countryman—no other than Mrs. Blundell's father.

"I am delighted to see you," Jim said cordially. "In fact, I don't know
there is any one I would rather see!"

Old John Mudford took the young man's outstretched hand, and shook it
heartily.

"Sir," he answered, "I am much indebted to you. You see I've replied to
your letter by coming up to London. I'm no great hand at writing, so
I thought I'd better come. This kind lady," he said, indicating Mrs.
Metherell with a jerk of his thumb, "'as been tellin' me all about my
poor maid an' 'er troubles. I knowed what it would be, an' I warned 'er
to no purpose. Maybe I was too rough—well, I own I was! I saw things
different in those days!"

"I'm sure if your daughter disobeyed you, she has repented it
bitterly," Mrs. Metherell remarked. "I have known her for several
years, and have deeply sympathised with her in her troubles."

The old man turned a grateful look upon the speaker as he said: "Ma'am,
I feel that grateful to you, and to Mr. Blewett, that I can't find
words to tell my feelings. If Dinah 'ad sent me a line, I would 'ave
done all I could for 'er. If I spoke in anger long ago, I've repented
of it ever since. The loss a' my maid was a sore trial, but maybe the
Lord knew I wanted a lesson."

"But she is lost no longer," the young man broke in eagerly. "When are
you going to see her?"

"At once, sir, if you'll kindly give me the address!"

"I will take you there, and we can talk on the road."

The landlady watched them depart with eyes full of pleasure and
sympathy.

"I've a notion things are brightening for Mrs. Blundell," she remarked
to Clara. "I believe her father intends to look after her and the
children. How Mr. Blewett hurried the old man off! What an impetuous,
warm-hearted lad he is, to be sure!"

Meanwhile the medical student was pouring into his companion's ears the
story of how he had become acquainted with Maggie, and telling of the
doctor's opinion of Annie.

Who can tell what tumultuous thoughts filled the father's heart as he
followed Jim up the dark, rickety staircase! He was to see his daughter
again, and he had come full of forgiveness and love. She had ever been
in his mind this Christmas season, and the letter telling of her trials
and troubles, clearly pointing out to him his duty, had come at the
very time when his lonely heart had been yearning for her presence.

There were tears in the old man's eyes as, after receiving the usual,
"Come in," in answer to his knock, the medical student took him by the
arm and led him into the badly-lighted room.

Mrs. Blundell put down her work hastily, whilst the children turned
curious eyes on the stranger. Old John Mudford took a step forward and
looked at his daughter's face, exclaiming brokenly:

"Dinah! My poor maid!"

"Father! Father!"

"Dinah! My dear, I've come to take you home with me!"

After that Jim Blewett beat a hasty retreat, for he knew his share in
the work of reconciliation was done.

"This has been the most wonderful Christmas I ever remember!" Maggie
said seriously, when, her mother having become more composed, the
children were introduced to their grandfather.

"And this—the sight of your dear face, father—is the crowning joy of
all," Mrs. Blundell said gladly. "I never thought you would come to
London to look for me."

"Well, you see, it was Mr. Blewett's doing."

"God bless him! We've much to thank him for."

"He gave us the doll, my dear Rose," said Annie, "and he brought the
doctor to see me."

The little girl looked into her grandfather's face appealingly.

"You won't take me away from mother and Maggie will you?" she asked.

"No, my dear. You shall all go back to Cornwall with me."

"Oh, father!" Mrs. Blundell exclaimed joyfully.

"Oh, how splendid!" Maggie cried, clapping her hands.

"Is it in the country?" Annie asked, a wistful longing in her eyes.
"Will there be flowers, and trees, and birds? And shall I get well
there?"

"I trust so, my dear," the old man replied, "and it's quite in the
country. Your mother will tell you all about it."

"And we shall never come back here any more," said Maggie reflectively,
casting a lingering look, not devoid of affection, round the garret
which had been home to them so long. "Poor old place! I shall never
forget it!"

It had been a poor home, but after all, mother and children had
had their happy days there—days when no troubles had been able to
obliterate the sunshine of God's presence in their hearts, and they had
felt secure in His loving care.

There is little more to tell. When old John Mudford returned to
Cornwall, he took his daughter and her children with him, and in her
native air Mrs. Blundell soon lost her careworn looks, and her tired
eyes regained their strength. Maggie became quite rosy and blooming;
but it was Annie who changed the most. The following summer found her
able to move about, and her poor back grew stronger as time went on,
and the fresh, country air did its work.

Mrs. Metherell still keeps on her lodging-house, and Clara remains with
her as servant; but she has lost her favourite lodger, for Mr. Blewett
has been appointed junior house surgeon at the hospital where he was
once a student, so that it is more than probable he will find his
life's work in London, after all.

Meanwhile, first amongst the carefully guarded treasures of Maggie
and Annie Blundell is the doll, in its gaudy amber gown, that was
the humble means of bringing a shower of blessings in its train. The
children declare they will never forget their last Christmas in London,
which, in the midst of their poverty and many anxieties, was full of
unlooked-for happiness and joy.



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