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

[Illustration: Fanny brought in the tea-tray to the minute.]



[Illustration]

                        COMFORTABLE MRS. CROOK

                          AND OTHER SKETCHES.


                             BY RUTH LAMB

                               AUTHOR OF

         "Look on the Sunny Side," "Taught by Experience," etc.


[Illustration]


                                LONDON:
                     THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
            56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
                          AND 164, PICCADILLY.



[Illustration]

                               CONTENTS

COMFORTABLE MRS. CROOK

     CHAPTER I. KEEPING TO HERSELF

     CHAPTER II. THE SILENT MESSENGER

     CHAPTER III. READY AND UNREADY

     CHAPTER IV. NOT WITH EYE-SERVICE

     CHAPTER V. THE INVITATION ACCEPTED

     CHAPTER VI. WAITING AND TRUSTING

CAN'T AFFORD TO PLAY

WALKING TOO BIG

WINKLES


[Illustration]



[Illustration]

                       COMFORTABLE MRS. CROOK.

CHAPTER I.

KEEPING TO HERSELF.

IF Mrs. Jemima Crook happened to be in a very good temper, when taking
a cup of tea with some old acquaintance, she would sometimes allude to
her private affairs in these words: "I don't deny it; Crook has left
me comfortable." This was not much to tell, for Mrs. Crook was not
given to confidences, and a frequent remark of hers was: "I know my
own business, and that is enough for me. I don't see that I have any
call to fill other people's minds and mouths with what does not concern
them."

Seeing, however, that Mrs. Crook's own mind and heart were entirely
filled by Mrs. Crook herself, it was perhaps as well that she should
not occupy too much of the attention and affection of her neighbours.

It is a poor narrow heart, and a small mind, that find Self enough to
fill them; but these sorts are not unknown, and Mrs. Crook's were a
sample of such.

When she spoke of having been left "comfortable" by her deceased
partner, there was a look of triumph and satisfaction on her face, and
a "No thanks to any of you" kind of tone in her voice, that must have
jarred on the ear of a listener.

No one ever saw a tear in Mrs. Crook's eye, or heard an expression of
regret for the loss of "Crook" himself. He had been dead, and out of
sight and mind almost, these ten years past. He was merely remembered
as having done his duty in leaving his widow "comfortable." People were
left to speculate as they chose about the amount represented by the
expression. It would not have been good for the man or woman who had
ventured to ask a direct question on the subject, but everybody agreed
that Mrs. Crook must have something handsome. Surely "comfortable"
means free from care, both as regards to-day and to-morrow: not only
enough, but a little more, or else anxiety might step in and spoil
comfort.

If Mrs. Crook had more than enough, she took care not to give of her
abundance. Neither man, woman, nor child was ever the better for the
surplus, if such there were. One of her favourite expressions was, "I
don't care for much neighbouring; I prefer keeping myself to myself."

"And you keep everything else to yourself," muttered one who had vainly
tried to enlist her sympathy for another who was in sickness and
trouble.

Mrs. Crook had a pretty garden, well stocked with flowers according
to the season. She was fond of working in it, and might be seen there
daily, with her sun-bonnet on, snipping, tying and tending her plants.

Children do so love flowers, and, thank God, those who live in country
places have grand gardens to roam in, free to all, and planted by His
own loving hand. But in town it is different, and Mrs. Crook lived just
outside one, far enough away from its smoke to allow of successful
gardening, not too far to prevent little feet from wandering thither
from narrow courts and alleys, to breathe the purer air, and gaze with
longing eyes at the fair blossoms.

It always irritated Mrs. Crook to see these dirty, unkempt little
creatures clustering round her gate or peeping through her hedge.

"What do you want here?" she would ask, sharply. "Get away with you, or
I will send for a policeman. You are peeping about to see if you can
pick up something; I know you are. Be off, without any more telling!"

The light of pleasure called into the young eyes by the sight of the
flowers would fade away, and the hopeful look leave the dirty faces,
as Mrs. Crook's harsh words fell on the children's ears. But as they
turned away with unwilling, lingering steps, heads would be stretched,
and a wistful longing gaze cast upon the coveted flowers, until they
were quite lost to sight.

There was a tradition amongst the youngsters that a very small child
had once called through the bars of the gate: "P'ease, missis, do give
me a f'ower." Also that something in the baby voice had so far moved
Mrs. Jemima Crook, that she had stopped to select one or two of the
least faded roses amongst those just snipped from the bushes, and given
them to the daring little blue eyes outside, with this injunction,
however:

"Mind you never come here asking for flowers any more."

This report was long current among the inhabitants of a city court, but
it needs confirmation.

Mrs. Crook objected to borrowers also, and perhaps she was not so much
to be blamed for that. Most of us who possess bookshelves, and once
delighted in seeing them well-filled, look sorrowfully at gaps made by
borrowers who have failed to return our treasures.

But domestic emergencies occur even in the best regulated families,
and neighbourly help may be imperatively required. It may be a matter
of Christian duty and privilege too, to lend both our goods and our
personal aid.

Mrs. Crook did not think so. Lending formed no part of her creed. If
other people believed in it, and liked their household goods to travel
up and down the neighbourhood, that was their look out, not hers.

"I never borrow, so why should I lend?" asked Mrs. Crook. "Beside, I
am particular about my things. My pans are kept as bright and clean as
new ones, and if my servant put them on the shelves, as some people's
servants replace theirs after using, she would not be here long. No,
thank you. When I begin to borrow, I will begin to lend, but not until
then."

Mrs. Crook's sentiments were so well known that, even in a case of
sickness, when a few spoonfuls of mustard were needed for immediate use
in poultices, the messenger on the way to borrow it, passed her door
rather than risk a refusal, whereby more time might be lost than by
going farther in the first instance.

Many were the invitations Mrs. Crook received to take part in the work
of different societies.

One lady asked her to join the Dorcas meeting.

"You can sew so beautifully," she said, "you would be a great
acquisition to our little gathering."

The compliment touched a tender point. Mrs. Crook was proud of
her needlework, but to dedicate such skill in sewing to making
underclothing for the poorest of the poor! The idea was monstrous!

Mrs. Crook answered civilly, that she could not undertake to go
backwards and forwards to a room half a mile off. It would be a
waste of time. Besides, though it was probably not the case in that
particular meeting, she had heard that there was often a great deal of
gossip going on at such places.

The visitor was determined not to be offended, and she replied gently,
that there was no chance of gossip, for after a certain time had
been given to the actual business of the meeting, such as planning,
cutting-out, and apportioning work, one of the ladies read, whilst the
rest sewed.

"But," she added, "if you are willing to help us a little, and object
to joining the meeting at the room, perhaps you will let me bring you
something to be made at home. There is always work for every willing
hand."

Then Mrs. Crook drew herself up, and said she did not feel inclined to
take in sewing. She had her own to do, and did it without requiring
assistance, and she thought it was better to teach the lower classes
to depend upon themselves than to go about pampering poor people and
encouraging idleness, as many persons were so fond of doing now-a-days.
No doubt they thought they were doing good, but, for her part, she
believed that in many cases they did harm.

The visitor could have told tales of worn-out toilers, labouring
almost night and day to win bread for their children, but unable to
find either material for a garment or time to make it. She could have
pleaded for the widow and the orphan, if there had seemed any feelings
to touch, any heart to stir. But Mrs. Crook's hard words and looks
repelled her, and she went her way, after a mere, "Good-morning. I am
sorry you cannot see your way to help us."

No chance of widows weeping for the loss of Mrs. Crook, or telling of
her alms deeds and good works, or showing the coats and garments made
for them by her active fingers!

It was the same when some adventurous collector called upon Mrs. Crook
to solicit a subscription. She had always something to say against the
object for which money was asked.

If it were for the sufferers by a colliery accident, or for the
unemployed at the time of trade depression, she would answer—

"Why don't they insure their lives, like their betters? Why don't they
save something, when they are getting good-wages? I am not going to
encourage the thriftless, or help those who might help themselves, if
they would think beforehand."

If it were to build a church that money was being sought, Mrs. Crook
instantly replied, that they had more need try to fill all the places
of worship that were half empty, Sunday after Sunday.

It did not matter in the least to her that these places were many a
mile away from the people who had none within reach. She would not be
convinced because she did not want to be.

Ask her for a missionary subscription, and she said: "There are
heathens enough at home without sending men to be killed by savages in
foreign parts;" and if some one hinted that she might then visit some
of these native English heathens, she replied, "I do not care to have
people that I know nothing about coming to my house, and I am not going
to push myself where I might not be wanted."

At length every one gave up trying to enlist her services, or to obtain
contributions from her, for the support of any good cause. And Mrs.
Crook bestowed all her thoughts, her affections, her time, and her
means, on the only person she thought worthy of them all—namely, Mrs.
Crook herself.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

THE SILENT MESSENGER.

IT may be doubted whether, under these circumstances, Mrs. Crook was
truly "comfortable." Probably many poorer people, on whom she would
have looked down—if she had condescended to look at them at all—would
not have cared to change places with her.

Mrs. Crook tried to think that she was very wise and prudent in thus
caring for her own interests, and did not believe it possible that she
could be mistaken. Yet there were times during the lonely hours—of
which, by her own choice, she had so many—when a voice would seem to
whisper, "Is your life the happiest you can possibly lead in this
world? Has Time nothing better to give? Days and years are passing.
Death must come to you as to others. What about eternity?"

When this last question recurred, Mrs. Crook tried to put it out of her
mind. It was the one she disliked more than all the rest, yet it was
the one which would repeat itself again and again, and for which she
had no answer ready. She found her greatest comfort in thinking that
she belonged to a very long-lived family.

Her grandmother had died at eighty-three; her mother at eighty-seven;
and some of her relatives had attained still greater ages. Why not she?

"Let me see," said Mrs. Crook, when one day this unpleasant question
had persisted in obtruding itself upon her loneliness: "I am just
fifty-eight, and I feel as strong as ever I did in my life. I cannot
remember having had a week's serious illness in all those years. I am a
far stronger woman than mother was, and she lived to be nine-and-twenty
years older than I am now. There is no reason why I should not reach
ninety, or even a hundred. But if it were, say, eighty, which is not a
great age in my family, I have two-and-twenty years to look forward to."

These calculations brought a look of satisfaction to Mrs. Crook's face.
Twenty-two years is a long time to look forward to, and she thought
she was very reasonable indeed not to have settled on twenty-five or
thirty, with the example of her kinsfolk before her.

Then Mrs. Crook was somehow led to consider her mode of life. She had
always been satisfied with it, so far. No one could say she was not
religious. She always attended church when the weather was dry and not
too cold. She could not risk her health by going out in the rain, or
when an east wind was blowing. She would have regarded such doings as a
tempting of Providence.

The collector never had to call twice for her pew rent. In fact she
prided herself a good deal on the amount she thus contributed towards
the maintenance of public worship, seeing that she paid for three seats
and only occupied one.

Mrs. Crook liked to have a little pew to herself. It looked genteel,
and she was not inclined to sit beside "nobody knows who," even at
church.

He would have been a bold apparitor who had shown a stranger into
one of the unoccupied seats, for Mrs. Crook, having paid for them,
considered she had a right to keep them empty if she chose. She never
considered how the minister would feel if everyone did the same, and
expected him to preach to nearly empty pews.

It was just when Mrs. Crook had finally decided that she had a good
two-and-twenty years of life to reckon upon, that her servant, Fanny,
managed to upset all the feelings of satisfaction with which she looked
forward thereto. She brought in the tea-tray to the minute, but as she
placed it on the table, Mrs. Crook noticed that the girl's eyes were
full of tears, and she heard a smothered sob.

"What is the matter with you, Fanny?" she asked, testily. "Toothache
again, I suppose? But if it is, you need not be a baby, and cry about
it. Girls are so frightened of themselves, that if a little finger
aches they go sniffing and crying about a house, and making everybody
miserable!"

Poor Fanny had lately borne a great deal of pain with much patience,
and had gone about her work as usual, when her nights had been sadly
disturbed, and she had been unable to take a proper amount of food.
Knowing that her mistress would be more likely to grumble than to
sympathise she had said little about her sufferings, and Mrs. Crook had
either been, or pretended to be, ignorant of them, until the girl asked
permission to go to a dentist.

Happily, she had obtained relief, and was able to answer:

"My face is all right, thank you, ma'am."

"Then what is the matter? I suppose you think you have something to cry
about. If you have no troubles, you make them. You don't see me cry
about every little thing, do you?"

Fanny could not call to mind any occasion when she had seen her
mistress shed tears, and she said so. Nevertheless, this fact did not
stop the flow of her own, as she answered:

"It is not about myself that I am crying; it is for Miss Lawton. They
say she is dying. And she is so good and so young—only twenty-two,
three years older than I am. They say she never had a day's illness in
her life before; and this is inflammation, that came on all at once,
and there's no hope of her getting better. Mother used to say to me
sometimes, 'Young folks may die soon, old ones must.' But I never
thought Miss Lawton was a bit likely to be called away. What a blessing
she is ready! There will be plenty to grieve after her, though she does
not fret about herself, but is just willing to live and work for God,
if it please Him to spare her, or to depart and to be with Christ,
which is far better."

Fanny's tears prevented more words. Miss Lawton was very dear to the
girl's heart. She had been her Sunday-school teacher, and if her
mistress would have allowed it, Fanny would have remained a member of
the select class which the young lady taught, after she went to service.

But Mrs. Crook ridiculed the idea of a grown-up girl going to a
Sunday-school, so Fanny had to content herself with an occasional sight
of the dear young lady, to whom she owed so much. It was a comfort that
Mrs. Crook attended the same church, and that in service the girl would
still worship under the same roof as her parents, and the friends who
were dearest to her.

Often had this young servant, who was also a humble disciple of Jesus,
spoken to her dear teacher about Mrs. Crook. There never was a lover of
the Saviour who was not a lover of souls also, and to Fanny it was a
real sorrow that her mistress never spoke of Him.

"How nice it would be if Mrs. Crook were like Miss Lawton!" thought
Fanny. "She would have me reading the Bible to her, and she would help
me to understand it better. And she is so lonely, poor lady! She seems
to care for nobody, and nobody cares for her. Yes, I do, though she
would never think it. I feel sorry for her many a time, and wish she
were even as happy as I am.

"This is not one of the brightest houses in the world to serve in, but
I have a deal to be thankful for. The place is respectable, the work
is regular, and what I can do easily; hours early, and the wages paid
to the day. I am near father and mother, and the old school, and, best
of all, Christ is always near to me. But it must be awful quiet and
lonely for her, poor thing, though she says nothing, and seems as if
she wanted to have no neighbours!"

The "her" was Mrs. Crook. Fanny could not believe that her mistress
was a happy woman, or that she could be so without Christ. Many a
prayer did the young servant offer on her behalf, and chief amongst her
desires and petitions for Mrs. Crook was this: "Lord Jesus, let Thy
Holy Spirit show my mistress that she wants a Saviour, and then show
her Thyself, and make her very happy in Thee."

Mrs. Crook had no idea of Fanny's feelings towards herself. She knew
she had a good, steady, truthful servant, who required no telling about
keeping corners clean, or polishing pans. She put these things down
to her mother's training, which had been excellent, but never dreamed
that, as the girl moved about the house, she strove to bear in mind the
words "Thou God seest me," and tried to do the humblest household task
as unto the Lord.

Fanny did not see Miss Lawton very often, but they sometimes met in
the street, at others when coming out of church, and once or twice the
young teacher had ventured to call at Mrs. Crook's and ask permission
to have a few minutes' conversation with her former scholar. The girl
almost trembled at the idea of announcing such a visitor, for her
mistress's household rule was "No followers" in its most comprehensive
sense.

As, however, Miss Lawton asked Mrs. Crook's leave in such a nice
straightforward way, and was so very kind in her inquiries after the
mistress as well as the maid, she obtained it. After all, Mrs. Crook
considered it was creditable to herself that Miss Lawton, who was a
real lady, thought her servant worth looking after.

Moreover, the visitor had shown a wise discretion in staying only a
short time with Fanny.

"And this was not because she was in a hurry," said Mrs. Crook, "for
when I invited her into the parlour, she came in and chatted so
pleasantly, that I felt sorry when she had to go."

Whether the meeting was only for a few seconds in the street, or one of
these privileged interviews under Mrs. Crook's roof, Fanny always felt
better and stronger for the performance of her duties, after having
seen Miss Lawton.

It is easy to understand why she was thus influenced, for the meeting
left sweet memories of good advice, lovingly spoken, of sisterly
sympathy, though in a worldly sense the teacher and scholar were widely
separated, and of cheery words, which seemed to ring in the girl's ears
after the speaker was lost to sight.

It was Fanny's darling wish that Miss Lawton's visits should be blessed
to her mistress, and the young lady, deeply stirred at the thought of
Mrs. Crook's loneliness, earnestly longed to be of use to the solitary
woman.

"If only I might be the messenger of glad tidings to her, how my heart
would rejoice!" she thought. And during those occasional visits, she
strove to introduce the subject which lay nearest to it, namely God's
great love in giving His dear Son to die for sinners.

All to no purpose. She might speak of the weather, the crops, the
hoped-for good harvest, the flowers, of which even Mrs. Crook was so
fond, and their conversation would be animated enough.

But let her speak of Him who giveth to all meat in due season, and who,
beside giving bread to nourish our bodies, has given the "Bread of
Life," to some poor perishing sinners, and Mrs. Crook's interest was
gone. She looked either indifferent or unconscious; she answered in
monosyllables, as if the subject were nothing to her, and Miss Lawton
felt convinced that any allusion to a possibility either of sinfulness
or of need in herself would give deadly offence, and close Mrs. Crook's
door against her for the future. So she could only pray, and wait, and
hope.

The news of Miss Lawton's illness was a sore trial to Fanny. It was
through God's blessing on her teaching that the girl had been brought
to the feet of Jesus, and who can forget such a service as this?

No wonder that Fanny's tears fell fast as she told the sorrowful tale
to Mrs. Crook, and then summoned courage to ask if she might go to see
Miss Lawton.

It was not her night out, and the household rules, as to leave of
absence, were us rigid as those about followers. Still Fanny thought if
Mrs. Crook would relax them, it would surely be for Miss Lawton's sake.

"How do you know the young lady is not likely to get better?" asked
Mrs. Crook sharply.

"The letter says so, ma'am," replied Fanny.

"Letter; what letter?"

"One the postman brought me a few minutes before I came in with the
tray. It is from Miss Lawton's maid, and she was told to write, because
Miss Lawton knew I should be so grieved if I heard about her on a
sudden," said the girl, her tears flowing afresh.

"It is not likely the family will want you going at such a time, Fanny.
If the young lady has been kind, that is no reason you should take
liberties. I do not see that I ought to let you do it," returned Mrs.
Crook.

"Oh, but, please ma'am, Miss Lawton wants me to go, and sent word that
I am to ask your leave. And there is a message for you too. Will you
read it for yourself?"

"A message for me! Well, give me the letter if you like, I will look
over it, and make up my mind whether you can go or not, whilst I am
getting my tea."

Fanny handed the little note which had brought her such sad tidings,
and went downstairs with the thought in her mind, "It will speak to
mistress better than I can."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

READY AND UNREADY.

MISS LAWTON had only employed her maid's hand to write as she dictated,
and her own name was signed at the bottom, though Fanny could at first
hardly believe that the signature was really that of her dear teacher.
The writing was so sadly different from that in the prizes she had
received, and which she so greatly valued as Miss Lawton's gifts.

Mrs. Crook looked eagerly for the message to herself, and she soon
found it, for the note was not a long one.

   "Give my kind love to Mrs. Crook, and say that I shall consider it a
great favour to me, if she will allow you to come and see me to-night.
I say to-night; because, though my life may be spared for a few days,
there is no certainty when I may be called to be with Jesus. I should
like to see my old scholar once again, but if we should not meet here,
I pray that we may meet in His presence, to part no more. I know you
love Jesus, dear Fanny, and I trust that each day you may become more
truly His, and more like Him. I can ask nothing better for you than
this, that you may grow in grace and in the knowledge of our Lord and
Saviour Jesus Christ.

   "Come to me, if you can, but do not displease Mrs. Crook if she
refuses permission. I should like to see her, too."

Here the note abruptly concluded.

"To think Miss Lawton should send her love to me!" exclaimed Mrs.
Crook, as usual, thinking most of what referred to herself. "How
strange that she should care so much about a common servant-girl like
Fanny! I must let the girl go, though it is not her night. If the young
lady should die, it would be very unpleasant for me to think that I had
denied her such a small favour. One doesn't like to say 'no' to a dying
person."

So when Fanny was summoned to clear away the tea things, Mrs. Crook
said, "I will let you go to Miss Lawton's. You need not stay to wash
the china before you go, because there is no saying what may happen,
according to this letter."

Fanny uttered a thankful exclamation as her mistress gave the desired
permission, but her eyes filled with tears again, at those last
foreboding words.

It was evident that Mrs. Crook realised that Death might be
hovering near to Miss Lawton, though she deemed he must be at least
two-and-twenty years distant from herself.

"Shall I give any message from you, ma'am?" said Fanny. "Miss Lawton
sent her kind love to you."

True; and this had puzzled Mrs. Crook. "What could have made her send
it?" she asked herself.

She hesitated, unwilling that Fanny should take no return message. Mrs.
Crook was truthful. In fact she prided herself on telling the whole
truth, when sometimes it was likely to give pain, and silence would
have been better than such plain speaking.

At last she decided on her message. "You may give Miss Lawton my best
respects, and say I am very sorry to hear she is ill, and I do wish her
better."

Mrs. Crook could say this much truthfully. She did respect Miss Lawton.
She was more sorry to hear of her illness than she could have believed
possible; and she even concluded that she should be willing to give
something out of her own pocket, if by so doing she could insure the
fulfilment of her wish for the young lady's recovery.

Before Fanny was well out of sight, Mrs. Crook was wishing she had sent
her love to Miss Lawton, instead of her best respects. Her thoughts
were so fully occupied by the sick girl, that she could not settle
to work of any kind. She usually spent her evenings at her knitting,
because it did not try her eyes.

One of Mrs. Crook's great subjects of comfort was her excellent sight,
and she strove to preserve it. However, she could not endure to sit
still, and she walked up and down the room, whilst comparing Miss
Lawton's position with her own.

"Only two-and-twenty," said she to herself. "I have lived more than
twice as long. Eight years more and I should be three times Miss
Lawton's present age. How curious that I have just been reckoning that
I ought to live at least two-and-twenty years, for I am only in my
prime as yet!

"Fanny says that Miss Lawton is quite ready to die, if it should be
God's will, and, though she is so young, she neither grieves nor is
frightened at the prospect; whilst I—"

Mrs. Crook stopped and shivered perceptibly. Conscience told her that
the very thought of death filled her with terror now, and that during
her fifty-eight years of life she had always tried to put it away from
her mind. If she were even to live twenty-two years more, would she
be better prepared to die than at this moment? She had certainly not
made up her mind to begin any preparation; and though, on the whole,
Mrs. Crook was well satisfied with herself, she could not say that she
needed none. The very best people reckoned that something had to be
done, and she had certainly never quite understood what the something
was.

There was another thought suggested by Fanny's words. The girl had said
so many people would grieve to lose Miss Lawton, though she was not
sorry at the prospect of death.

Mrs. Crook thought it was most desirable that there should be a fair
amount of weeping at a funeral. There was something respectable in
being very much lamented. To have it said that "nobody shed a tear,"
was almost a certificate of bad character with regard to the departed.
And yet, when she began to reckon up her own acquaintances, she could
not think of anybody who was likely to shed many tears at her funeral,
whenever it might take place.

A further self-examination, and Mrs. Crook was fain to confess that she
had done nothing to call for any.

It was certainly a very humbling view she was getting of herself and
her deservings. Why, even the very money she had saved, and which she
could not carry away with her, was more likely to cause rejoicing in
the hearts of those who inherited it than sorrow for her loss. She had
a tidy sum well invested, far more than any one would have supposed;
but even small savings grow satisfactorily, when it is all putting in
and no drawing out, either of principal or interest. Besides, Crook had
left what he did without any restrictions as to its final disposal.
She could make somebody more than comfortable in turn, if she chose to
bequeath all to one person.

But, so far, Mrs. Crook had never liked any individual well enough to
make a will in his or her favour. Crook had no relatives, or a certain
sense of hard justice might have disposed her to leave the money to
them. The few relatives she had were very distant ones, both as to
kindred and place of abode, and clearly had no claim upon what came by
her husband.

She had been saving for somebody; but she had no idea for whom, and she
did not like to picture any person in possession of this pretty home,
filling her favourite chair, even wearing her best dresses.

Mrs. Crook had many a time felt certain that people were "making up
to her," for the sake of her money, and the moment this thought took
possession of her mind she had "given them the cold shoulder," as she
expressed it, and let them see they need not come canting round her for
the sake of what they could get.

But the world is not quite so selfish and mercenary as Mrs. Crook
pictured it. There had been many warm-hearted, kindly Christian people
who, during her ten years of widowhood, had felt honestly anxious to
brighten a life that seemed so lonely and so self-absorbed. People,
too, whose own worldly circumstances might have placed them above being
suspected of wanting to benefit by Mrs. Crook, and whose sole desire
was to do her good and make her happier.

They had all been driven away discouraged, and, in some cases, pained
and grieved, by ill-disguised taunts. Now, as the "comfortable" widow
paced up and down her parlour, she could remember no acquaintance or
friend who would be likely to shed a tear if she died to-morrow.

"Really," thought Mrs. Crook, "I believe that little simpleton of a
Fanny cares more for me than anybody else does. She is a soft-hearted
thing, and I tell her sometimes that her tears lie very near her eyes.
But she is true, and there is no crocodile crying or deceit about her.
I wonder what it is that makes her different from so many of the girls
I have had. Most of them would be fair to my face and cheat me almost
before my back was turned. I had to spend half my time looking after
them to see that they did the work properly, but it makes no difference
to Fanny, whether I am at hand or no. She never leaves speck or spot
that hard rubbing will remove. As to talking back again! She never
gives me a saucy word when I find fault."

By Mrs. Crook's own confession, strictly private and made only in
her own mind—it became evident, even to herself, that she did not
behave with strict justice towards Fanny. If the girl did her work so
conscientiously, surely there was little room for fault-finding; and
yet, it was so much the mistress's habit to grumble, that Fanny had
often to bear the weight of her tongue, whilst feeling that she did not
deserve to be scolded, and that at times, try as she might, she could
do nothing right.

Fanny could not, however, know that scolding at regular intervals was
a matter of principle with Mrs. Crook, who had long ago settled in her
own mind that if a girl were not idle and careless to begin with, she
would certainly become so, unless kept up to the mark by judicious
fault-finding. Girls needed to be "taken down," or they would become so
conceited there would be no bearing them.

Mrs. Crook was like many other people who are past middle age, and
who take no trouble to remember their own young days. They expect an
amount of patience and forbearance from the girls who serve them, which
they, as mistresses, are by no means willing to exercise in turn. And,
knowing the unreasonableness of such expectations, they can hardly
believe the fact when they are occasionally realised.

A good many little scenes which had taken place between herself and
Fanny, passed before Mrs. Crook's mind's eye during her little maid's
absence. Memories of sharp words, followed by sharper still, because
the girl did not retort, but lifted up tearful appealing eyes that
seemed to plead, not for indulgence but justice.

"I am afraid I have sometimes been a little hard on Fanny," mused Mrs.
Crook; "though, if I have, it has been for her good. I dare say she
would feel a sharp word sooner than some of those brazen-faced things I
had before she came, for though she is full nineteen years old, she is
as simple in her ways as a child."

Mrs. Crook's mode of comforting herself, when conscience reminded her
that she might have been kinder to the honest, tender-hearted girl who
faithfully did her best, was by no means peculiar to herself.

There are many amongst us who admit that the inward monitor was right
to remind us of our hardness towards some dependent fellow creature.
But we make ourselves quite comfortable, nevertheless, by insisting
that the motive was right, and the hard words calculated to benefit
their object.

Thought is rapid, and, though Fanny was not long absent, her mistress
got through a deal of thinking before her return; moreover, her
cogitations were of a very unwonted character.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

NOT WITH EYE-SERVICE.

"WHY, Fanny, you must surely be bringing good news!" exclaimed Mrs.
Crook, as she caught sight of the girl's face. "You look quite bright.
Is Miss Lawton better?"

Truly the girl's countenance shone with a new light, yet her tears
seemed about to flow again at her mistress's question.

"She is not really better, ma'am, only she is not in so much pain now.
In that way, the doctors say the worst is over, but there is no hope
of her getting better. She may live for weeks, but she will gradually
wear away; but, oh! It was beautiful to see my dear teacher so calm and
happy at the thought of going to be with Jesus! Looking at her sweet
face, I seemed to forget about death, and think only of glory to come.

"I felt, as I stood by Miss Lawton's bed, that if I only could be just
like her, I should be willing and glad to change places with her that
minute."

Mrs. Crook was astonished, and well she might be. As she gazed on the
girl's glowing face, and heard her earnest words, she thought it was
very strange for a young thing like her to talk in such a manner about
death—the subject which was above all others hateful to herself. She
was ready to take offence and to chide Fanny for her presumption; but,
on second thoughts, she had not the heart to do it. The girl might be
mistaken, but she was evidently very happy, and for once her mistress
hesitated to meddle with her joy.

Fanny was not one to take liberties, and, as Mrs. Crook asked no
further questions, she went to the kitchen and completed the household
duties she had been permitted to leave undone when she went to see Miss
Lawton. These finished, she tapped lightly at the parlour door, and was
told to come in.

"I only wanted to thank you again for letting me go out, and Miss
Lawton said I was to give her love, and say how much obliged she was to
you, both for sending me and for your kind message, ma'am."

"It was not so kind as hers was to me," replied Mrs. Crook. "I wished
afterwards that I had sent my love. I suppose you did not give it by
mistake?"

No. Fanny had exactly repeated her mistress's words, but, encouraged by
her unusual gentleness of manner, she said—

"Will you go and see Miss Lawton, ma'am? I am sure it would do anybody
good to be with her, even for a little while."

"I should never take such a liberty, Fanny," returned Mrs. Crook, with
a severe look.

"But, ma'am, Miss Lawton said how much she should like to see you
again, only she knew you were not fond of getting out much, so was
afraid to ask you to take the trouble. 'I shall never be able to go to
Mrs. Crook's,' she said, 'but I do not forget how kindly she always
received me, when I came to look after my old scholar.'"

Fanny's eyes were dimmed with tears, and she could not see very
distinctly, but surely Mrs. Crook's were wet also, or why did she wipe
them? And there was a strange trembling of the voice, such as the girl
had never noticed before, as she answered quite softly—

"Miss Lawton is right. I do not care for running from house to house.
But I would go farther to see that dear young lady's face again."

Fanny's duties ended; she went early to bed. Early hours were the rule
at Mrs. Crook's, there being no likelihood of late callers, or of
visitors who would interfere with the order of the little household.
Sleep came to the young servant almost as soon as her head touched the
pillow, but it was longer in visiting her mistress.

Mrs. Crook's mind was full of Miss Lawton. She had never been so near
loving anybody for many a year past, and now this young life, so
precious to many, was drawing to a close. She felt as though she would
like to ask that it might be spared, but she knew not how to frame
such a petition. She certainly said her prayers night and morning, but
they consisted of a few set sentences which she never varied, and "Our
Father" to finish with.

If Mrs. Crook had been questioned as to whether she really thought of
what she said, or wanted what her lips asked for, I am afraid she would
have been obliged to answer "No," for she was a truthful woman, despite
her many other failings.

"If I were to ask, and if other people better able were to pray that
Miss Lawton's life might be spared, from what Fanny says, she might not
be pleased. I cannot understand it. Surely the girl must be mistaken in
thinking that the young lady is willing to die. She has everything to
make her want to live. Such a beautiful home, such kind loving parents,
and, by all accounts, no end of friends that want to keep her. And she
cares for them and her scholars too. I cannot understand it. It is not
natural."

Mrs. Crook was quite right. If it had been natural for the human heart
to be submissive to God's will, surely she, who was so much older
than Miss Lawton, ought to have the feeling in a much greater degree,
especially as she was almost alone in the world, and had no close ties
of kindred or friendship to bind her affections more firmly to earth.

"What is it that makes the difference?" Mrs. Crook kept asking herself;
but no experience enabled her to answer this mental question.

There was another problem presented to her by the conduct of her
little maid, which puzzled Mrs. Crook, and this was the difference
between Fanny and most of her predecessors. She, as mistress, had been
accustomed to scold, and equally, as a matter of course, her servants
had given her cross looks, saucy words, and grudging service. Some
of them had needed constant watching, not only to ensure the proper
performance of their duties, but to keep them from gossiping, and from
bringing in forbidden guests to the kitchen.

It had never struck Mrs. Crook that it was natural for the young to
yearn for companionship, and that to live in such a quiet house, with a
mistress who never dreamed of sympathising with them, either in joy or
sorrow, or troubled herself about their affairs or their friends, must
be rather trying.

It would have been an easy matter for Mrs. Crook to brighten things for
her handmaidens by allowing a little indulgence in the way of visitors;
but such an idea never crossed her mind. Surely what was enough for her
ought to satisfy them! At any rate, if they wanted anything different,
they would not get it under her roof!

There had, however, always been a struggle between mistress and maid
for the little privileges which the younger combatants longed for, and
the elder was resolved not to grant. Then, when both were weary of the
contest, one or the other gave a month's notice, and the interval was
too often spent in mutual aggravation. Fanny had proved herself the
single exception. She was conscientious, honest, truthful, painstaking,
patient, and a daily puzzle to her mistress.

"If she had been like this for a week or two I could have understood
it," thought Mrs. Crook. "One expects good work from a new broom, and I
am used to it. But the longer Fanny stays, the better she works; and if
I go out, I come back to find that she has done almost more and better
whilst I was away than she does when I am looking after her. She falls
into my ways without grumbling, and never contradicts me."

Fanny's good conduct was becoming monotonous, almost aggravating;
for it deprived Mrs. Crook of the only thing she had in the shape of
domestic excitement. It was now depriving her of nightly rest, as
if to compensate for the too great peace of the daylight hours, and
interfering with the clockwork regularity of her habits.

Whatever caused the difference between Fanny and her former servants
Mrs. Crook felt was in some way owing to Miss Lawton, and she
determined to find out the secret if possible.

An almost sleepless night was so unusual with Mrs. Crook, that it
affected her very unpleasantly. Instead of feeling inclined to rise
at her usual hour, her aching head seemed to cling to the pillow. It
needed a great deal of self-communion before she could determine to
have her breakfast brought upstairs, instead of going down to it.

She had not breakfasted in bed for many a year past, indeed she could
hardly remember the last occasion, and she hated to be put out of her
way.

Besides, only sick people ought to be indulged in such a manner, and
she dreaded the very thought of illness. She had often said that half
the people who died were killed by being fussed over and doctored,
and because they gave in for the first little ache that came to them,
instead of facing small ailments, as they would other little troubles.

However, Mrs. Crook remembered that Crook's doctor had once told her
that if people would take care of themselves and nurse up at the
beginning of a cold, it would never get any farther. No doubt her
headache would be cured by a little extra rest, and she would take it.

Fanny came in answer to her summons, and really it might have been a
pleasure to the girl to have something out of the common to do for
her mistress, though it went sadly against the grain as regarded Mrs.
Crook herself. Yet the girl persuaded her to let her sponge her face
and hands and smooth her hair, instead of making the effort to wait on
herself.

These little services were rendered so tenderly and deftly that when
they were completed, the object of them felt much more comfortable and
inclined for the cup of tea and round of toast which followed.

It was a comfort too, that Fanny did not creep about in the stealthy
way that some people consider the proper one in a sick-room, but
moved quickly though quietly. Neither did the girl look doleful. She
was kind and sympathetic, but not at all sad, and discerning a look
of satisfaction on the face of her mistress, she ventured to smile
cheerily back again, and say:

"I am so glad you are not very poorly, ma'am. I believe it is just
the loss of sleep that has made your head ache. I nearly always sleep
well, but if I do lose any rest at night it is sure to give me a bad
headache, and I do not get rid of it till I have made up the loss."

Mrs. Crook was quite glad that Fanny said this. If wakefulness affected
a strong young girl, it was no wonder that it made a little difference
to herself, so she resolved to try and make up for lost time and
restore the balance. She closed her eyes with an unwonted feeling of
thankfulness in her heart, brought there by the thought that with Fanny
in the house she might rest in peace. No need to fear that anything
would go wrong.

With this comforting reflection, Mrs. Crook became unconscious of all
that was around her, and awoke some hours afterwards, refreshed by
sleep, free from pain, and able to dress and go downstairs.

Fanny was delighted to see her mistress apparently well, and Mrs. Crook
found that her confidence had not been misplaced. Her little maid's
daily duty was no eye-service, but done as in God's sight, whether her
earthly employer was present or absent.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

THE INVITATION ACCEPTED.

MRS. Crook was not given to regretting her loneliness, but on that
afternoon she experienced an unusual longing for companionship. Having
no one else at hand, she called Fanny into the parlour, and gave her
some sewing to do which would require her own personal supervision.

When the girl was fairly at work, she began to question her as to the
beginning of her acquaintance with Miss Lawton.

Delighted at the unusual interest shown by her mistress, Fanny told
how, when she was a headstrong troublesome girl, the young lady
persuaded her to join her class at the Sunday-school, though she had
refused to go when her mother wished her.

"I went once and never meant to go any more, but there was no standing
against Miss Lawton's kind words and sweet ways. Mother always said I
was one that might be led, but never driven, and it was true. I felt
that first afternoon that I would not miss a chance of being with my
new teacher for the world. She was so different from other people, for
mostly they did nothing but tell me how naughty I was, and how I should
be certain to get paid back in one way or other."

"What did Miss Lawton say?" asked Mrs. Crook eagerly.

"Instead of telling me what a sinner I was, she told me how God, by
His Holy Spirit, had shown her how sinful she herself was. 'He made me
look into my heart, Fanny,' she said, 'and let me see that it was full
of pride and selfishness. He had given me loving parents, who had no
greater pleasure than to use their means to gratify my wishes and make
me happy. I had all the good things of this world, yet I was neither
thankful to God nor my parents, though I was proud because I had them.
They did not make me really happy. No one can be who does not try to
make others so, and I was so taken up with self that I had not a bit of
room in my heart, either for love to God or my neighbour.'"

If Fanny could have known how her simple story, the mere repetition
of her teacher's words, was being used as a means of enlightening
the heart of her mistress, she would have rejoiced, though almost
with trembling. But it was Mrs. Crook's voice which was tremulous, as
she said, almost in a whisper, "Go on, Fanny," while another voice
seemed to speak within her and ask, "Is not this word-picture a fair
description of your state to-day? What room have you in your heart,
either for God or your neighbour?"

"Miss Lawton said that when she was shown her state as a poor helpless
sinner with nothing good in herself, and nothing to offer to God,
she was very miserable. But soon, by the same blessed teaching, she
learned how God in His great love for poor sinners had given His dear
Son to live for their example, and then to die in order to buy pardon,
cleansing, peace, and eternal life too, for those who had deserved
nothing but death. Oh, how glad it made her! Faith was given her to
believe in Jesus, as the one and only Saviour, and the thought of all
He had done for her, made her love him, and want to be a true child and
servant of God, and to speak about His love to those who did not care
for Him, or for their own souls."

Tears were in Fanny's eyes as she spoke, but her face was bright, and
her tone told of a glad heart within.

"How can you remember all this?" asked Mrs. Crook.

"I can never forget if, ma'am," replied Fanny. "It was through Miss
Lawton telling me about herself, that I found out my need of a Saviour,
and found that, though God had loved me always, and given His dear Son
to die for me, I had never loved Him or tried to do one thing for His
sake. I did learn to believe in Jesus, and I do want to love and serve
Him, but—"

"But what, Fanny?"

"The best I can do is so little, and I am always falling short of what
even I should like. What a blessing it is that we are not saved by what
we do ourselves, but by what Jesus has done for us!"

Fanny's feelings had carried her out of herself. She had spoken from
her heart, forgetful of the distance, usually carefully preserved,
between her mistress and herself; forgetful of harsh words, unjust
fault-findings, of everything in short, save of what had been done for
her own soul, by her Saviour, and of the wish that Mrs. Crook might be
led to believe in Him also.

She felt as if she could not utter another word, but Mrs. Crook could
see that her little maid's fingers trembled, so that she could scarcely
guide the needle, and that more than once she had to wipe away her
tears.

Mrs. Crook was far from being comfortable herself. She was strangely
stirred by Fanny's simple words. She had always said that the girl was
very soft-hearted, and that her tears lay too near her eyes, but just
now she liked her better for these things. They were part and parcel
of a tenderer nature than she had ever before been brought in contact
with, and Fanny had proved herself kind and unselfish.

It was quite contrary to Mrs. Crook's practice to say a word of praise
to one of her handmaidens, but something moved her to tell Fanny that
she was very well pleased with the way in which she did her work.

"Is it because you love Jesus that you do things as well when my back
is turned, as when I am looking at you?" she asked.

"It is only since I learned to love Him that I cared much about
pleasing mother, first, and then my mistress," said Fanny. "If you are
away, I say to myself, 'God sees, God knows,' and if I am inclined to
be idle or careless, I pray for help not to give in."

Mrs. Crook asked no more questions just then, and Fanny plied her
needle in silence until the arrival of the milk-boy called her to
answer the door. Then work had to be put away and tea got ready, but
the little talk was not forgotten. It had given Mrs. Crook plenty to
think about, and made the girl much happier, since it had brought her
mistress nearer to her.

"I hope," thought the latter, "the girl will not take liberties,
because I have made more free with her than usual this afternoon."

Perhaps Fanny divined what was passing through her mind, for Mrs. Crook
noted with pleasure that she was, if possible, more respectful and
quiet in manner than before.

A little later in the evening Mrs. Crook told her maid that she felt
rather afraid to accept Miss Lawton's invitation.

"I know," she said, "that doctors do not like for sick people to be
agitated by many callers. It does them harm, instead of good, and it is
not as if I was a relation or a particular friend of the young lady.
But I do like her, and I should love to see her once more, only I would
not be the means of doing her harm to please myself."

Here was a new thing! Mrs. Crook thinking more of what would be good
for another than of what would be pleasing to herself.

"I do not think you need be afraid of going, ma'am," replied Fanny.
"Miss Lawton scarcely sees anybody but her own family, only she wished
so particularly to see you that the doctor gave in, and let her send
that message by me."

Mrs. Crook was again silent for some time; Fanny's reply had given her
another problem to solve.

Why was Miss Lawton anxious to see her above other people? She could
have nothing to gain by it; she had already everything this world could
give, and was likely to be called away from it ere long.

Why should she care about a mere acquaintance, made through an old
Sunday scholar?

Had she nothing to gain, Mrs. Crook? It might seem not to you, but
the young disciple of Jesus was longing to win one more soul for her
Master. She knew how vain had been the efforts of others to obtain a
hearing for Him. She knew how you, a woman, so much older than herself,
had turned a deaf ear to the warning voice from the pulpit, the loving
invitations of those who wished you well, and to the message contained
in God's Word. And she thought, "Perhaps the sight of one so young as I
am, standing on the very brink of the grave, yet strong in the strength
of Him who has deprived it of victory, and taken the sting from death,
may prove a silent sermon to poor Mrs. Crook."

It was this plea which had overcome the objections of those who feared
that the invalid might suffer from receiving such a visitor, and gained
permission for the invitation to be sent.

It set Mrs. Crook thinking and wondering, but she obeyed the summons,
and to the latest day of her life she will thank God that she did so.

It was not without some trepidation that she entered the sick girl's
room. She had always associated gloomy thoughts with illness, and
shrank from everything suggestive of coming death. But there was
nothing gloomy about that room or the principal figure in it.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

WAITING AND TRUSTING.

AS Mrs. Crook entered, a welcoming hand was extended to her, and the
sweet voice which she had always liked to hear, though she could
scarcely tell why, said, "I am so glad to see you, dear Mrs. Crook. It
is very good of you to come. You will sit near me, will you not? For I
cannot speak loudly or for long together."

"It is very good of you to let me come," said Mrs. Crook, as she held
the white hand gently between both of her own, for a moment, and then
laid it reverently down on the white counterpane. "I was sorry to hear
of your illness. But," she added, in a hopeful tone, "I trust you will
get better. You do not look ill, and you have quite a beautiful colour
in your cheeks. Maybe the doctors are mistaken."

Mrs. Crook knew that it depressed sick people sometimes to be told that
they were not looking well. She was glad that she could honestly say
the contrary to Miss Lawton.

The sick girl smiled, as she answered, "You know the old saying, 'while
there is life, there is hope.' I have so many to love that for their
sakes I might wish to live, but God has enabled me just to leave myself
in His hands. To live and work for Him would be very sweet. To depart
and be with Christ far better still. I have only to wait and trust. All
will be well."

The sweet low tones of the sick girl's voice fell like music on Mrs.
Crook's ear, and they went to her heart and filled it with a strange
new longing—a deep desire to know what it was which filled the
speaker's whole being with measureless content and peace, that made her
face radiant with love and joy, that enabled her to set such little
store by the best this world could offer.

In broken words, which she could hardly recognise as her own, Mrs.
Crook managed to tell Miss Lawton what she felt, and to add—

"I have always hated to think about death, and counted a long life here
as the thing most of all to be wished for; please tell me how it is you
are not afraid to die?"

The sick girl's face grew brighter still as she listened. The inquiring
words were surely an answer to her prayer that Mrs. Crook's coming
might be helpful to the good of her soul. So, once again, she told how
the old (but ever new) story of God's love for sinners had been brought
home to her own heart, and how she had been enabled to see her own
sinfulness and need of a Saviour, and how she had found one in Jesus.

She spoke of His life, His love, His death, His tender compassion for a
lost and ruined world, His willingness to receive, His many invitations
to each weary and heavy laden soul, His promise, His victory over sin,
Satan, and the grave, of the glory He had laid down for a time, but
which He had taken again, and which every believer should share with
Him in heaven.

"Believing in His love, do you wonder, dear Mrs. Crook, that, while
I feel it sweet to serve and trust Him here, I feel that it will be
sweeter still to have the precious promises all fulfilled, and to be
with Jesus for ever and ever? In the presence of Jesus is fulness of
joy. Once there, sorrow and sighing would flee away, and I should just
be looking forward to meeting again those I loved on earth, and who
loved Jesus. My dear parents, my Sunday scholars, your and my little
Fanny amongst the rest, and you, too, Mrs. Crook."

A groan came from the person thus addressed, and down the face that
mostly had such a hard stern expression, the big tears chased each
other, whilst in a voice broken by sobs she cried—

"I have never loved Jesus; I have loved nobody but myself! It would be
of no use to look for me there."

Again the girl took up the sweet words of invitation, "'Come unto
me;' 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance;'
'Whosoever will, let him come,'" with many another message which came
straight from the very lips of Jesus when on earth, and told her
visitor how they had been brought home to her own heart. There was no
preaching as it seemed in her way of speaking. It was only just telling
what the Lord had done for her soul, and she could say, "What God has
done for me, He is ready and willing to do for you; His words are, 'Him
that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'"

Happy Agnes Lawton, in being able thus to speak of her Saviour's love.
Happy Mrs. Crook, in being at last made willing to listen to the
precious message.

Not that Mrs. Crook felt glad at heart. On the contrary, she was sorely
troubled; but, though she did not yet realise it, she was on the way to
happiness. The Holy Spirit was striving with her and bringing the words
of the young disciple home with power.

Her hard heart was softening beneath this Divine influence. The eyes of
her understanding were being enlightened, and at that moment it could
have been said of Mrs. Crook for the first time in her life, "Behold
she prayeth," though no human ear caught the sound of words, and only
the great Searcher of hearts knew of the yearning cry for pardon which
was going out from hers.

"Agnes, darling. I fear you have talked too long."

The voice was that of Mrs. Lawton, who, fearing for her daughter, now
entered the room.

"I am sure you would not wish your visit to do her harm," she said,
turning to Mrs. Crook.

"Not for all the world," was the answer, though it was with difficulty
the words were uttered. "I don't know how to thank you for letting me
come."

"It has not hurt me, mother," said Miss Lawton. "I am a great deal
happier for having seen Mrs. Crook," and truly the sweet face shone
with a holy joy as she looked at her visitor.

Mrs. Crook took up the little white hand again and held it tenderly, as
she whispered, "Pray for me. God will hear you."

"And you and all who come in the name of Jesus," replied the girl.

Then she put her disengaged arm round Mrs. Crook's neck, and, drawing
her gently towards her, she kissed her, as a loving child might have
done.

"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Crook," she said. "If we do not meet again here,
may we meet in heaven."

Mrs. Crook had longed to kiss the white hand that lay in hers, but she
felt afraid to take such a liberty. She could hardly believe her senses
when Agnes Lawton's arm clasped her neck, and her lips pressed loving
kisses on her cheeks.

How many years had passed since Mrs. Crook last felt the touch of young
lips there, or indeed of any? She had never been a demonstrative woman,
and her childless condition had helped to dry up any little wellspring
of tenderness in her nature, if any such existed. But that unexpected
embrace, that pure caress, stirred her as she had never been moved
before, not only to thankfulness for the lovingkindness it manifested,
but to regretful thoughts, as she looked into the past and knew what
she had lost by those years of hardness and loneliness.


It is not for us to trace, step by step, the change which had its
beginning, as we have already seen, through the simple words of a
little maidservant, and the love for souls which burned in the heart of
a young disciple of Jesus. We will rather pass by these years, and look
at Mrs. Crook after the interval.

Surely that is she who is making a group of little children happy, by
leading them through her pretty garden and telling them the names of
the flowers which she plucks from time to time, and ties up in small
nosegays which they will carry back with them to brighten their dingy
homes.

Of course these are not all the same children who were once driven away
with hard words and threats, for some of those are at work already,
helping to earn their bread. They look much cleaner too, though their
clothes are poor and in some cases, ragged.

But Mrs. Crook has found that she can influence the little ragamuffins
for good, by means of a gift of flowers, for it is understood that
dirty hands and faces do not match with these fair blossoms, and the
small people vie with each other in holding out a clean palm to receive
them.

Mrs. Crook has found these kind words avail more than sharp ones, and
that a great deal of happiness may be diffused at a very small cost,
not that she grudges anything now for such a purpose.

At church, mistress and maid occupy two seats in the same pew, and the
third is always at the service of any stranger who requires one.

Of course, too, since God opened Mrs. Crook's heart, she has been
willing to open her hand and her purse, and all who work for Him find
in her a willing helper. No more hoarding—Mrs. Crook has become a
cheerful giver.

Her little maid resembles the Fanny of three years ago, but can hardly
be the same, unless time has stood still with the girl.

Mrs. Crook's present domestic is the younger sister of her old one, and
Fanny is the happy mistress of a neat little home of her own, and the
wife of a worthy young man, a neighbour's son.

Miss Lawton's life was considerably prolonged, and she had the joy of
knowing that her words had been blessed to Mrs. Crook.

The latter seems full of love and goodwill to all the world. She once
cared only for herself, but since Christ has filled her heart there has
been no place for self, though there is room in it for everybody else.

Truly the heroine of this little story may now well be called,
Comfortable Mrs. Crook.

                            _____________

It may be added that Agnes Lawton was no ideal character. The original,
a most beautiful girl, was well known to the writer. She died nearly
twenty years ago, but many of her actual words are noted in this little
story.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CAN'T AFFORD TO PLAY.

"WHY, John, can this be you? It is so unusual to see you anywhere
but on the box, that I can hardly believe my eyes. Have you left the
Tramways Company?"

John Carrington took Mrs. Markham's questions in order, and replied,
"Yes, ma'am, it is me sure enough. It is strange to see me walking
about, for I believe most people are so used to notice me a-front of
a tram-car, that they think I sleep on the driving-seat. I have been
driving something or other ever since I grew big enough to take a good
grip of the rains, and that's over fifty years since. I have not left
the Company."

"Then, I suppose, you are having a holiday, John?"

"Queer sort o' holiday," returned John, speaking in a very husky voice,
and from under a thick muffler. "Spent it on my back, in bed. I can't
say but I could have done with a little extra rest, for working hours
are very long. But being in bed is one thing, and resting is another.
I had bronchitis, and when you feel as if you were going to suffocate
almost, and your breath comes whistling out of your throat with a noise
loud enough to serve as a signal to start the horses, you gain very
little comfort by that sort of rest, do you, now?"

"Indeed, you do not, and you ought to be resting at this moment, for
you are still unfit to be out of doors. You should have stayed in on
such a keen frosty day as this, seeing you are not on duty," said Mrs.
Markham.

"Come out to get hardened to it a bit, ma'am. Doctor said it wouldn't
do to go straight from bed to the driving-box."

Mrs. Markham felt troubled at John's words. He was quite the favourite
tram-car driver on that route, and liked by all his passengers. He
was constantly on the lookout for his patrons, and saluted them by
a flourish of the whip, or a touch of his white hat, sometimes even
by a brief remark, when practicable. He anticipated their signals,
telegraphed through the window to know if he were to stop at the usual
place, and managed to do almost double duty as driver and conductor.

A crusty new-comer in the latter capacity would sometimes remark that,
but for collecting fares, there might as well be no guard when John was
on the box, for he didn't seem to know what was his own share of the
work. But John's unfailing good temper and cheery ways were certain to
convert the grumbler into a friend before many days were over.

It seemed to Mrs. Markham such a pity for the man to be out in the keen
air when he was better fitted for bed, and she urged him to go home and
stay indoors a little longer.

John shook his head and replied gravely, "No use talking, ma'am, thank
ye all the same. I can't afford to play. You see, there's my old woman
has been an ailing body for many a year. The doctor has been kind, and
charged as little as he could afford. But a-many things go to making an
invalid comfortable, beside the doctor and the physic. I must go at it
again to-morrow, for certain."

"I thought you tram people had a fund of some kind, so that when laid
by through illness, you would have a weekly allowance," said Mrs.
Markham.

"There is one for the young 'uns. But when I started in the service
there was no such thing, and now there is, I am too old to join."

"That seems hard. Those most likely to need the help are shut out from
it."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but there's no hardship in it. They could not take
on old men members that would come on to the fund very soon after
they began paying, and it would not be fair to the young 'uns. It is
expected that you will pay for a good while before you want anything
back, except through accident or sudden illness. Young and old must
take their chance of such things. The fund is started so that members
may get ready for the rainy day whilst the sky is clear overhead. I
cannot benefit by it myself, but I thank God when I think that, if
these young fellows live to be old and ailing, they will not have to
choose between working when they are not fit for it, or playing and
starving."

John was preparing to pass on his way with a touch of the hat, and
"Good-day to ye, ma'am, and thank ye. A kind word always cheers me up
a bit, and I tell it over again to the old woman," but Mrs. Markham
stopped him to bestow a little sum which would insure him a couple of
days more rest, and left him with kindly wishes for his recovery.

"I can't afford to play."

There is something very touching in the expression when we think of
its meaning, as John Carrington used it. As most of us understand the
word, play means recreation, happy pastime, accompanied by brightness,
enjoyment, and freedom from care for the time.

We hear it spoken, and straightway we see visions of merry youngsters,
gambolling in the fields, or home, and making the air ring with, or the
walls echo, their joyous shouts and laughter.

But the word in the mouth of working folk carries a sadder meaning. As
a rule it refers to the enforced idleness brought about by the lack of
something for the busy hands to do, and, if long continued, means want
of everything else for wives and children at home.

An anxious, careworn woman in real distress will say, "My husband is
on short time. He has worked three days and played three, every week
for the last two months." Or, "He has played since Christmas and we are
into February."

Such an application of the word gives little heartache to those who
hear it for the first time, and who have hitherto regarded play and joy
as twins.

There are tens of thousands of toilers who, like John Carrington, have
home claims which compel them to go the endless round of daily work,
because they cannot afford to lose an hour's pay, though they are unfit
for labour.

Think of this, you who call your time your own. Who have so much of it
at your disposal that you are put to shifts and contrivances to kill
it, or fritter away the hours which drag on too slowly, whilst you wait
for some new pleasure that you have promised yourselves.

Think of it, you who have never experienced a moment's anxiety about a
supply of the bread that perisheth and all its luxurious accompaniments
which you would call the necessaries of life.

Try to imagine what it would be to go on, on, on, ever repeating the
same tasks in the same place, with nothing new to look at even, no
expectation of anything better, no hope of cessation, except through
sickness which means suffering, or lack of work to do, which means lack
of food also. And all this to support a bare existence of ceaseless
toil, and for the barest bread as its reward.

Have you ever thought that a day's rest to such would be like a
foretaste of heaven? A something longed for, but never hoped-for or
looked for, by tens of thousands? A something you might give now and
then without feeling the cost of it, though, having never been placed
in such circumstances, you could not estimate its value. I do not
mean the giving a day in the country. That kind of change is a very
delightful one, a summer blessing which dwellers in dim city alleys
know how to value. But this day of rest that I mean, would be an
all-the-year-round boon, and would perhaps, be most precious in winter
time, because then, the aching eyes and head of the weary seamstress
suffer more, on account of the small allowance of light. Then the
delicate frames shrink most from the pinching cold; and to have, just
for one day, wages without toil, and food without having first to earn
it, the freedom to sit at ease by a warm fireside, without being driven
back to toil by the voice of necessity, would, I say, be heaven upon
earth to many a deserving worker, who can never "afford to play."

I know a lady who gives this happiness now and then, to some of her
poor acquaintances. When she sees one of them beginning to droop, say
over her sewing machine, she says "What will a day's rest cost. Tell
me, and I will pay for it."

Sometimes there is a press of work, and even the paying would not
secure the holiday, but she bides her time, and waits, till the toiler
would be allowed the day off, if she could afford to take it. Then the
money is forthcoming, only the giver bargains that the day shall be
spent happily and restfully, and the task work entirely put aside. She
gives more than the wages, which are often small enough, so that there
may be food and fire without stint, and advises that part of the time
be spent out of doors, weather permitting, except where the person
helped will be benefited by staying in and enjoying warmth and rest
together.

One poor woman said to her, "You made me promise not to work, ma'am,
and, at first, it seemed so strange to be able to do as I liked, that I
felt quite lost.

"Then, I thought, I might do a bit—not enough to tire me—for we want
so many things, and half a day's wage would be something extra. But I
was vexed at myself for even thinking of breaking my promise when you
had been so kind as to set my hands free and make things comfortable
for the day. So I set to work to enjoy myself. I cooked the dinner,
such a good one! And I had a real play with the children, poor things!
They could hardly believe their ears when they saw my face and heard me
laughing, and we all sat down instead of snatching a bite anyhow.

"After dinner, the sun was shining, and we went for a short walk, and
looked in at shop windows, and after that I nodded in the old chair
whilst they played with some more children in the court.

"I went to bed same time as they did, knowing I must begin again in the
morning, but one day's rest did me more good than medicine, and I felt
twice the woman after it that I did before it, thanks to God and you,
ma'am."

If anybody wants to make a poor toiler happy, let her look round for
some worthy, weary body, and give it a day's rest, by bestowing a
conditional day's wages and the little more which shall spread the
board and brighten the hearth. Such an expenditure pays good and
immediate interest, and the night's rest of the giver will be all the
sweeter for the memory of the drop of sweetness which she has been able
to infuse into the cup of one less favoured than herself.

The Master will not forget the work of love, and those are precious
words which tell us, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least
of these, ye have done it unto Me."



[Illustration]

WALKING TOO BIG.

UNCLE Maurice and his little niece, Minnie, had gone through the whole
book together; looked at the pictures, talked over the stories; and now
there was nothing else to be done but to shut it up and put it aside.
There had been many a laugh during the hour spent upon it, and, though
it was a mere baby book, I doubt if the child had enjoyed the time more
than her tall uncle had done.

Minnie gave a little sigh as she put down the volume, and looked
around, as if asking what was to come next. She was a blue-eyed,
curly-haired, five-year-old lassie; her uncle's special pet and
darling, and I am afraid that, knowing how dearly he loved her, she
was a little bit of a tyrant, and ordered him about as if he were the
child, and she a grown-up aunty.

Uncle Maurice obeyed her commands almost too well. We generally say and
think that obedience is a lesson that should be learned whilst we are
very young, but we are often no longer young when we conquer ourselves,
which is really the same thing.

"What shall we do now, Uncle Maurice?" was the child's inquiry.

"Go for a walk," was the prompt answer, "the same as we did yesterday.
We have been sitting a long time, and I want to stretch my legs.
Besides, it is lovely out."

Minnie shook her head, and with a child's bluntness, retorted, "Your
legs are too long already, Uncle Maurice."

"I am sorry for it, dearie; but I cannot help it. It would spoil them
to cut pieces off. They are better for walking with, anyway, so let us
go."

"No. I don't want to walk with you, because you are too big."

There was something ludicrous in the child's way of measuring her tall
uncle with her blue eyes, so wide open, as she let them travel from the
tips of his toes to the top of a head as curly as her own, and then
down again.

Uncle Maurice looked quite perplexed and troubled by his little niece's
words and actions.

"But, Minnie, darling," he said, "you went with me to the park
yesterday, and I thought you were very happy. If I am big, you can
always reach my hand."

"You walk too big," retorted Minnie, retreating before her uncle's
outstretched arm, and taking refuge by her mother's side, as if she
were afraid of being carried off against her will.

"What does the child mean?" he asked, addressing his sister, for the
little one's manner puzzled him.

Mrs. Payne understood her tiny daughter better than even Uncle Maurice
did, for of course mothers can read their children's thoughts and know
all about their wants, better than anybody else in the world.

"I think she means that you took too long strides," she answered. "Even
if you walk slowly, her little feet would be kept on the trot all the
while. It is not Uncle Maurice that Minnie objects to, as a whole, but
to his long legs which walk too big. Is not that it, Minnie?" she asked
of the child.

Minnie nodded approvingly and said "Yes." Mother, as usual, knew all
about it.

"I remember," replied Uncle Maurice, "that the child seemed hot and
flushed, and complained of being tired. I wanted to carry her, but she
resented the proposal. She was too big for that, she told me. Poor
little woman, I am sorry. The walk seemed nothing to me."

"Nor would it have been to Minnie, if you had accommodated your long
step to her short one. It was the 'walking too big,' that did the
mischief. To-day, now, as you looked over the pictures, you were like
two children together. You brought yourself down to her level, laughed
at what pleased her, and looked sorrowful when her young heart was
stirred to pity. There was true sympathy between you, hence the happy
hour you spent together."

"And yesterday, I was always a little ahead, and Minnie toiling on
behind, and never able to keep beside me, unless she had my hand, or
kept at a steady trot."

"The sitting down in the park was nice, Uncle Maurice," interposed
Minnie, who did not wish him to think that yesterday's struggle had no
bright side to it. "I will go again, only you must walk little, because
I am little."

Uncle Maurice promptly agreed, and once more the two started off
together, to return equally happy. Minnie herself proposing numberless
walks in the future.

When the child's curly head was peacefully resting on her pillow, Uncle
Maurice and her mother sat talking together about the household pet and
her winning ways and quaint talk.

"That was a queer expression of hers, 'You walk too big,' was it
not?" said he, laughing again as he recalled it and her face to mind.
"I should not have understood her meaning but for you. Since you
threw light upon it, I have thought of the many ways in which we all
'walk big' without considering the effect of our so doing upon our
neighbours."

"You are finding out far more in little Minnie's saying than I did,
Maurice, and turning it to better account. What unconscious teachers
are our little ones," responded Mrs. Payne.

"Yes; Minnie set me thinking, first of all how, as a boy at school, I
often walked too big, when I might have accommodated my step to that
of a weaker companion, and perhaps helped him on the road. I had great
strength, and was proud to display it, and the height which was beyond
that of other boys of my age. I liked to look down from it on some
little lad whose growth had perhaps been stunted by illness, or the
want of the abundant nourishment which I had never lacked, and so I
made him feel the difference all the more keenly.

"How often have I, and such as I, put out our God-given strength to
mortify our weaker fellows, boasting, perhaps, 'I can hold you down
with one hand, although you are my senior in years,' and so making the
poor fellow writhe both in body and mind.

"How often have I boasted of God's good gifts which were mine, not
because I deserved them better than the rest, but because He had
graciously given me more! Or been proud of the place in class that I
had attained without effort, when one who had worked ten times as hard,
perhaps, was sighing over his failure. I can see that, as a schoolboy,
even when beside my fellows, I walked too big. I boasted where there
was no real merit, and I discouraged others, when, by slackening my
speed, and shortening my step a little, we might have walked side by
side, cheering and being cheered on the path."

"There are so many ways of doing this walking too big," replied Mrs.
Payne. "In entertaining our friends, for instance. From a children's
party up to one at which we prepare to receive our most honoured guest,
and those amongst our acquaintances who stand highest in the social
scale, we all try to walk big, do we not? Quite lately, our friend,
Mrs. Longworth, gave a juvenile party. She is a large-hearted woman,
and a loving mother. Every child interests her, and she would like, if
she could, to add to its happiness. Moreover, she has a well-filled
purse, and can afford to entertain her friends right royally, old or
young. And she does.

"I will venture to say that it was purely out of this large-heartedness
of hers, and not with a thought of outshining her neighbours, that she
gave her youthful guests a spread fit for a prince to sit down to.

"The rooms were beautifully decorated, and the supper-table was laden
with all sorts of dainties, probably more than the children had ever
seen together before, or dreamed of being permitted to partake of at
will. Professional amusers were engaged, lest the little people should
not be able to amuse themselves and each other. In short, all was done
that kindness could suggest, and money provide.

"I am not in a position to say whether any of the guests suffered in
body after such unwonted indulgence, but I do know that the moral
effect of the entertainment was not altogether satisfactory.

"Some of the children were made envious, some discontented by this
effort to give them pleasure.

"'Why cannot we have as nice things at our party as Mrs. Longworth gave
us?' inquired one.

"'Because,' said his mother, 'we are not so rich.'

"'Then don't let us have a party,' was the next remark; 'I should hate
for the boys to come here and say, "How different it is from Mrs.
Longworth's!"'

"And yet, until then, there had been happy gatherings of bright
children under the roof where the speaker lived, and the unwonted
luxuries seen on the richer lady's table had neither been missed nor
wanted.

"The mother of another young guest ventured to invite her children's
friends to a simpler feast, in accordance with an annual custom, though
she, too, rather dreaded an allusion to Mrs. Longworth's grand doings,
and it came at last.

"'Are you enjoying the party?' said one of the youngsters, who was
looking as happy as possible, to another who was standing aloof, as if
Blind Man's Buff were a degradation after conjurors and marionnettes.

"'Fairly,' was the cool reply. 'But I don't call this a party, it is
only going out to tea, you know.'"

Uncle Maurice laughed as his sister finished her account of the grand
spread and its results.

Dear, kind Mrs. Longworth was, all unconsciously, walking too big, both
for her child guests and their parents. When she racked her brain to
give them pleasure, and neither spared trouble nor purse, she little
imagined that she could possibly do harm by the very lavish nature of
her kindness.

I had a similar experience after a grown-up party where the
entertainment was magnificent, not at all beyond the givers' means, but
such as few of their guests could return in kind. A lady amongst these,
when saying farewell to her hostess, thanked her for the delightful
evening she had spent.

"But," she added frankly, "I shall never dare to ask you to my house
again, because we live so plainly in comparison, and cannot entertain
in similar style."

"Then I shall come without being asked," was the prompt reply. "I
should be grieved indeed if the good gifts which God has bestowed upon
us were to be the means of robbing us of others which we value far more
highly still—the society of our old and true friends."

In this case again, the givers of the entertainment had not thought of
displaying their own wealth and resources, but of honouring and giving
pleasure to their guests. Nevertheless, they too had unthinkingly
"walked too big," for most of them, and made them feel small by
comparison.

"Ah, Maurice, we walk too big in so many ways. In dress, in social
surroundings, even sometimes in our Christian profession and work. For
instance, if I am going to pay calls, I am tempted to consider what
dress is the handsomest and most becoming, instead of combining with
this idea a thought for those I am about to visit; but two old friends
of mine joined in teaching me a lesson.

"One of them is a dear old gentlewoman who has come down in the world,
but who, in her prosperous days, was very fond of rich attire. She
cannot now indulge her taste for it; but she likes to see pretty things
as well as ever. So to her I go in all my bravery. She discusses the
style of my gown, appraises my bonnet, perhaps asks the loan of some
garment as a pattern, and is sure to thank me with a hearty kiss, for
having come in my newest and prettiest things to her little bit of a
place which two people almost fill.

"'But there is room for me to turn you round in, my dear,' she says;
'and light enough to see you by, for, thank God, the window is large
and the sun is sure to shine on me, if it shines anywhere.'

"I come away feeling that all my garments are worth double the price
they cost, and I feel glad for my old friend that poverty has not
changed her bright nature, and that she is large-hearted enough to
enjoy the mere sight of whatever is beautiful or pleasant to look upon,
without envying the possessors. No fear of 'dressing too big' and
thereby paining her.

"I have to deal differently with another old friend, who is similarly
placed, owing to an unexpected reverse of fortune.

"I always walk either too big or too little to please her, and I
invariably enter her presence in fear and trembling. I would not
wilfully pain her for the world, and I have tried to make her
understand this, but I am always wrong. If I go very plainly dressed,
she will scan my garments, and, after the first greetings, remark: 'I
suppose you are not on your way to call on Lady Hope?'

"'No,' I reply cheerfully; 'I set out early in order to have a long
pleasant chat with you, if I were fortunate enough to find you at home
and at liberty;' hoping to please by showing that I did not look in
merely on the way to a luxurious home. I failed utterly.

"'I need not have asked the question,' she answers. 'A glance at your
dress might have told me that you would not call at Hopefield in that
gown, Marian, but anything is good enough for my poor little hut of a
place. It was different when you and I were at school together, for
then, Sir John Hope's father was working for weekly wages, and mine was
member for the county. As to my being at home and at liberty, there is
little fear of my being out. People who have come down in the world are
not overdone either with callers or engagements.'

"I listen in silence and not unsympathetically, for I know it must
be hard for my old friend to compare the past with the present; but
all the while she is speaking, I cannot help contrasting her with
that other clear friend who has suffered similar reverses, but finds
brightness in everything, and is ever looking out for causes of
thankfulness. I try to tell her, perhaps, how well I remember those
old days, and how gratefully I think of the hospitality I received
under her father's roof. I even venture to reproach her for refusing
my invitations, when she knows no guest would be more honoured here
than herself. Then she tells me, with tears, that she cannot bear to
meet people who are mere nobodies, but who would look down upon her on
account of her poverty.'

"What an unpleasant old lady!" said Uncle Maurice. "Have you tried the
effect of going in all your grandeur, or of a little wholesome neglect
in the matter of invitations?"

"I have tried both and with equal success," replied Mrs. Payne. "When
I went in my best bib and tucker, I heard remarks made about the taste
which induced people to flaunt their finery before the eyes of those
whose birth and social position entitled them to similar luxuries, but
whose purse would only provide bare necessaries. I was once so annoyed
at her ungracious reception of my invitations, that I resolved to give
no more, but the result was too terrible."

"Is it worth while to concern yourself about pleasing a person of such
an unhappy temperament?" asked Uncle Maurice. "I feel with you that if
by slackening our pace, or shortening our steps we can strengthen the
weak, encourage the timid, or stimulate the fainthearted to renewed
effort, we ought to make the attempt, but in cases like the former—"

"It is perhaps still more incumbent upon us, and that because they
are so unhappy. I have no doubt that during her solitary hours, my
discontented friend would be more miserable still but for my efforts to
please her, and I am quite sure that I am the happier for having tried
to do it, whether successful or not," said Mrs. Payne.

"True, Marian, and it seems to me that there is hardly any act
in our social, even our religious life, about which we might not
advantageously ask ourselves, 'Am I walking too big?' Sometimes, the
timid Christian is afraid to offer his services, though he is longing
to do something for God's glory and the souls of his fellow-creatures,
because he thinks that others are dedicating five talents while he
has only one. By comparison, his powers are so contemptible. Or, he
does not like to give shillings where his neighbour gives pounds. He
sees him stride on boldly, both in his work and gifts, and he shrinks
into himself and fears to step out at all, because he cannot keep pace
with him. Ah! I have often thought that in addition to the magnificent
generosity of the poor widow who gave her two mites, there was also
magnificent courage in the mode of their bestowal.

"Surely, if ever there was a place when people were trying to walk
big and look big, it was when the rich were casting in their coins by
handfuls, and with an ostentatious clatter into the treasury of God's
house in old Jerusalem! Yet she of her penury gave more than they all,
though it was the least the law permitted, and was all her living.

"She dared to step beside them, and her Lord saw and valued her
offering at true worth."

Uncle Maurice spoke from his heart, and his sister sympathised with his
enthusiasm.

"Yes, dear Maurice," she said, "we have to be careful neither to walk
too big, for the sake of our neighbours, nor too little, for our own
sakes and for God's cause. But, simply remembering that He judges and
rewards every man according to his works, to walk, as the disciples of
Him who left us an example that we should follow His steps, in a manner
worthy of the vocation to which we are called."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

WINKLES.

"PLEASE, missis, have you got a pin?"

The question was addressed to me, in a childish voice, which had,
however, a merry ring with it. I had paused for a moment to gather
up my skirts a little, so as to keep them clear from the mud on the
pavement. As it chanced, the stop took place in front of a shop where
oysters, cockles, mussels, and periwinkles were displayed in tempting
profusion.

I looked to see whence the voice came, and found that the owner of
it was a little fellow, whose head was so overshadowed by an old,
wide-brimmed straw hat that he seemed to be standing under a small
umbrella. I had quite to look beneath this shade to discern a pale face
and a pair of merry black-eyes, fringed with long lashes. He might be a
small-sized five-year-old, for he was only in pinafores. Beside him was
another youngster, evidently under the protection of little Black-Eyes,
who waited with a look of intense anxiety for my answer.

"Supposing I have got a pin," said I, "what then?"

"Oh, please, would you give it us?"

"What for? Why do you want a pin?" I asked.

"Winkles!" was the prompt reply, with a glance towards the open window
of the fish shop.

I understood the position. Black-Eyes and his friend wanted the pin in
order to extract the little sea-snails from their shells with it.

But I could see they had no winkles in actual possession, so whilst
extracting a spare pin from the edge of my cloak, I said, "I can give
you a good strong pin, but where are the winkles?"

"In there," indicating the pile with his thumb. "We've had some. Only
two or three though, yet—"

The thought flashed across my mind, "Why, the little rogues have been
stealing. They watch their opportunity and snatch at odd ones that drop
on to the slab within their reach." I put on a severe look, and said,
"But you ought not to take even one winkle that is not your own."

"Oh, missis, we didn't!" returned Black-Eyes, with a troubled face.
"When the woman measures 'em she 'most always spills one or two, and
they roll out 'o window, and we pick 'em up. She don't want 'em back.
She says so."

The child looked so straight at me out of those wonderful eyes, and
gave such a prompt response, that I felt quite ashamed of myself for
having suspected him. Poor little chap! He had stood there on the
chance of picking up a stray winkle, and even when the first fell
into his possession, groped for on the greasy-feeling pavement, he
had bravely checked the impulse to make it his own, and had asked
the shop-keeper if she wanted it back. From instant observation,
I concluded that the question had gone to her heart, for one or
two winkles rolled off into the street just then, in what seemed a
preventible way, as she served a juvenile customer.

I wondered how the youngsters had got at their winkles at first, or
whether the pin had been too weak and had become hopelessly crooked.

"Here is a good strong pin for you," I said, handing the article,
which was received by Black-Eyes with rapturous thanks, and an attempt
at a bow, which had the effect of jerking off the big hat on to the
pavement, whence it was speedily recovered.

"How about the winkles?" said I. "I suppose a penny would buy you quite
a lot."

"Oh, wouldn't it?" returned Black-Eyes, and then stood as if absorbed
in contemplating a vision of bliss that he could never hope to realise.

"Here, take this penny and buy some then," said I. "I'm sorry, I have
not another pin for you. Good-bye, children."

"Oh, thank you, missis. Say 'Thank you, and take your cap off;'" this
to his wee companion. Then, "You shall have the pin first, Johnny, or
maybe the shop lady will give us another."

Black-Eyes put his arm lovingly round the less child's neck, and led
him into the fish shop in a state of delight which it was worth a good
many pennies only to witness. And I could not help lingering to see the
children with the materials for what would be to them a feast.

Beside, when one thought over this little scene, there were a good many
lessons to be learned from it. Little as the elder child was, he was
guarding a brother or companion weaker, younger, more helpless still.

There was the patience with which he waited for a windfall, and the
sturdy honesty which made him unwilling to use it until he was quite
sure it would be right to do so. There were good manners and gratitude
for a small kindness, which the natural longing for a banquet of
winkles would not let him forget.

There was not only this example to the less child, but the lesson in
civility which made Black-Eyes wait for his companion's thanks to be
added to his own. And there was the delightful unselfishness that
resolved to give the younger the first turn in using the pin, and the
love which threw the guiding arm round his neck.

How easy it would have been for Black-Eyes to appropriate the penny, or
absorb the lion's share of the little coming treat,—to dole Johnny out
a winkle now and then, and to reserve to himself the use of the pin,
so that the other could never have the felicity of extracting his own
dainty morsel.

But, in turning my back upon this little picture, I felt satisfied
that, if anything, the younger would have most and best of what had
to be shared, and that his interests were safe in the hands of his
companion. I left the well-lighted thoroughfare and turned into a dim
side street, but, as I passed on, I seemed still to see the faces of my
little friends, and often since I have recalled, with pleasure, that
scene to my memory.

I witnessed another picture not far from the spot where Black-Eyes and
I became acquainted. I saw it in the broad daylight, and the actors
were two boys, each about a year apart, and as much older than the
former two. This is a world of contrasts, and these street pictures
proved it.

One little fellow—his face streaming with tears and all besmeared
through his frantic efforts to wipe them away with one hand, whilst,
with the other, he tugged at a bit of a handkerchief entangled amid the
varying contents of a small boy's pocket, was running after his elder
companion. What with crying, running, and sobbing out at intervals:

"Willie. Do stop. Do stop!"

The child became exhausted, and coming to a stand-still, he leaned
against the wall and wept bitterly.

He had no real trouble, but it was evident that he had a tender
loving disposition, a clinging nature that yearned for kindness and
companionship. The two children had come out together, and the elder,
a hard-faced malicious-looking boy, but sturdy and self-reliant as one
could see, was tormenting the other by racing off ahead, hiding round
corners, dodging in and out, and keeping him at a continual strain, in
order that he might not lose sight of him altogether.

Perhaps it was very weak and foolish of the child to cry as if his
young heart would break about a mere nothing. Far better to have
strolled leisurely on, and told the other to go on his way. But it
is just the tender loving natures that can bear anything better than
unkindness, and it is such natures that are tortured and played upon,
by those who find pleasure in witnessing the pain they have caused.

A glance at the mocking evil face of the elder lad, sufficed to discern
foreshadowings of a tyrannical manhood in years to come.

When I parted from Black-Eyes, I had thought to myself at what a
trifling cost happiness had been purchased for him and his friend.
Just a penny expended, and two young hearts were gladdened and a happy
memory left to me of two bright faces. "Now," I thought, "I will try
the worth of a penny in drying tears."

So I had a talk with the weeping little man, and did my best to cheer
him, with such effect that the handkerchief having been extracted from
his pocket, he soon effaced the traces of tears and smears from his
rosy cheeks. An occasional sob testified to recent trouble, but a very
genuine smile appeared when I produced the penny and bade him put it
in his pocket and take it home. Down it went under his knickerbocker
museum of treasures, and he kept his hand in too, as he lifted his rosy
face to kiss his thanks.

Next came what made the contrast between the elder boy and Black-Eyes.
Our petty tyrant who had watched the transfer of the coin from round
the corner, began to sidle up to the little one, with pretended
friendship. That penny had made all the difference, and the selfish
rogue was plotting either to share it, or get the whole from his
neighbour.

I turned back, though I could ill spare the time, and sent Master
Willie to the right about, then cautioned the little one against
his wiles. I did not want to make a tender confiding child into a
suspicious one, so I had to give him quite a small lecture, and make
him promise faithfully not to give the penny, or any portion of what he
might buy with it, to Willie. He might share it with another friend if
he liked, for little boys should be generous, only this boy ought not
to be rewarded for naughtiness, I said.

I really believe the tender heart had forgiven its tormentor already,
and that the penny was losing much of its value because it was not to
be shared with Willie, for the child's eyes followed him with a sort
of yearning look. Maybe on some past occasion, the bigger boy had put
forth his strength on behalf of the little one, and the remembrance of
a single benefit could never be forgotten.

The two reminded me of a boy and his dog. The lad may plague the beast
as much as he chooses, but if the creature loves him, he only rushes to
his side with vociferous welcome, to be teased again and again.

Generally speaking, the young master, though a petty tyrant himself,
protects his dog from other boy tyrants, and the animal knows it, and
looks up to him accordingly.

There might be some such bond between Willie and the sorrowful wee man
whose tears I had succeeded in drying.

I had to leave him; but as I went my way, I drew fancy pictures of the
homes and mothers of these my street acquaintances.

I pictured Black-Eyes, for instance, in a poor home with a hard-working
widowed mother. His clothes bespoke poverty, for I was quite sure they
had known other wearers—notably the wide hat—before they were worn by
him. Their cleanliness, and that of both the children, told of a mother
who did her best for the bodies of her little ones. They were kept warm
and tidy to look at.

Then the way in which Black-Eyes protected Johnny seemed to say, that,
mere baby as he was, he had often to take charge of the other baby a
size less still, probably the mother went out to work—compelled to do
it in order to win bread, and left these two to keep house with many an
injunction, and a prayer to God to guard them from harm. Perhaps she
had read the words, "Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve
them alive," and taken them to herself and found comfort in them, as
she went about her daily task.

I am sure she had taught her little ones to be truthful and honest, for
they would not appropriate a stray winkle without the leave of her to
whom it lawfully belonged.

The conduct of Black-Eyes seemed to brighten, by the thought of it, the
dim little side street into which I passed when I bade him good-bye,
and a prayer went up from my heart to God, that He would bless the
children and guide their young feet into the narrow path that leads to
everlasting life.

I could not feel the same about Willie's home, for his conduct was
tyrannical, selfish and mean. He enjoyed the sight of suffering, and
unless he were checked and guided aright, would develop into a cruel
and selfish man. Surely he needed to be prayed for most of all my
street friends, and I remembered him too. One finds so many to pray for
in passing to-and-fro in the world. And are we not all members of the
great human family that sprang from the same Creator? Should we not all
pray that we may become true children of the same heavenly Father?

As to the troubled little heart, he has a good mother, I am sure, and
is loved and cosseted at home. He gets no stinted measure of affection.
One could discern a mother's hand and love in every article of his
clothing, even to the small pocket-handkerchief which took so much
tugging out when most needed.

I know there are wise people who would object to the bestowal of odd
pennies on little street children, and I own that it would not do to
scatter even these broadcast. But when—well I will not argue, but
suggest that, if in going along the streets, we can in any little way
give a glimpse of happiness or a gleam of sunshine to a child, it is
good for ourselves that we do not let slip the opportunity.



Pardon & Sons, Printers, London, E. C.



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