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

David listening to the preacher in the church porch.

LITTLE KING DAVIE

OR

"Kings and priests unto God"

BY

NELLIE HELLIS

Author of "Little Gladness," "Roving Robin," "Bennie, the Bread-Winner,"
"Martin Drayton's Sin," "Rob and Ralph," etc.

ONE HUNDRED AND NINTH THOUSAND

INTER FOLIA FRUCTUS.

LONDON

JARROLD & SONS, 10 & 11, WARWICK LANE, E.C.

[All Rights Reserved]

1897

TO THE

REV. WILLIAM JOHN KNOX-LITTLE.

CANON OF WORCESTER, ETC.,

TO WHOSE TEACHING SHE OWES MUCH,

THE AUTHOR IS GLAD TO DEDICATE

THIS LITTLE STORY,

WHICH IS FOUNDED ON ONE OF HIS SERMONS.

AND ON

A CERTAIN INCIDENT IN HIS OWN LIFE.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

I. DAVIE'S HISTORY

II. A DAY'S WORK AND ITS WAGES

III. DAVIE HEARS STRANGE NEWS

IV. IN THE HOSPITAL

V. DAVIE GAINS A NEW NAME

VI. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

VII. THE LONGING REALIZED

VIII. HOME, SWEET HOME

IX. GOOD-BYE TO LONDON

LITTLE KING DAVIE

Or, "Kings and Priests unto God."

CHAPTER I.

DAVIE'S HISTORY.

IT was a cold uncomfortable evening in January. Certainly the frost of the last few days had broken up, but the raw chilliness that had come with the thaw was far more unpleasant than the sharp biting atmosphere of yesterday. To make it worse, a drizzling rain had set in at dusk, which, if not "soaking" in its effect, caused the passengers to feel damp and cold to their very bones, and made them hurry along on their several ways, regretful that the frost was over, and anxious to get home to a warm fireside as quickly as possible.

But it is an ill-wind that blows nobody any good, and this change in the weather was hailed with delight by one class, if by no other. While the frost had lasted, there had been no sweeping to do, and boys and girls (for to become a crossing-sweeper needs no apprenticeship, and age and size are of little consequence) were thankful enough when the thaw turned the hard frosty roads into streams of mud and gave them plenty of work once more.

Among those who had shouldered their brooms that morning, and had gladly gone forth to their old occupation again, was little Davie Scott. To look at him nobody would have thought he was twelve years old, nevertheless that was Davie's age. Poor little fellow! During the greater part of his life he had lived in a close, stifling street in Westminster, and want of fresh air and insufficiency of food had stunted his growth, and given to his face that old, pinched expression which is too common, alas! among the children of the poorer classes in the great metropolis.

With this, there is generally a look of something else—of slyness, of cunning, and of depravity—which comes from a life already inured to sin and hardened in evil doing. It is pitiful to see it; for, ignorant, untaught, often homeless, half-starved, and for the most part wholly uncared for, what wonder is it that our little street Arabs lead the lives they too often do? But Davie, although he swept a crossing, and, in order to gain a few pence, not unfrequently sang in the streets, was widely removed from this class of children. Poor as he was, in one thing he was rich; he was rich in the love of a good mother. There is no greater blessing than that. Indeed, it is such an influence for good that however adverse the surrounding circumstances, it rarely fails to produce a truthful and upright life in the child.

Mrs. Willis had been twice married. Davie was born during the lifetime of her first husband, who was a sober, industrious man, who thought nothing too good for the wife and little son, whom he loved so dearly, and for whom he worked so hard. Looking back upon past times, Mrs. Willis always regarded those four years of married life as a happy dream from which her husband's sudden death had rudely awakened her.

Davie, of course, had no recollection of his own father, but he had a clear, and by no means an agreeable one, of the man whom Mrs. Scott had accepted for her second husband. Poor woman! She never made a greater mistake than when she took James Willis "for better, for worse." It proved to be all "worse" and no "better." He was a drunkard, and the years that followed were such that Mrs. Willis always shuddered when she thought about them. She soon found that if she would not starve, she herself must earn the money for her own and Davie's support.

Indeed, Davie was a sore point between husband and wife. "He was no child of his, and she might keep him," he used fiercely to tell her. As for the boy himself, he was terribly afraid of his step-father—as he had reason to be—and on those rare occasions when James Willis was in the house, poor Davie would creep out and wander for hours in the streets.

It was while thus aimlessly loitering about one evening that he followed a stream of people into Westminster Abbey. That was the beginning of a new life for the boy. He had always been fond of music, a street-organ afforded him untold delight. And he was never tired of humming over the tunes that were thus taught him, for having heard them once, Davie's ear was sufficiently good to enable him to retain them correctly in his memory. But this music in the Abbey was unlike anything that he had ever listened to before. The voices that, clear, and rich, and sweet, rose high at times above the low tones of the organ, and again were all but drowned in the crash and the thunder that vibrated through the grand old building till the very roof seemed to echo to the sounds, thrilled him with delight and awe. Davie had never dreamt there "could" be anything half so beautiful.

After that, Davie, when driven by fear from home, betook himself to the Abbey; or if it were closed, he would walk about the streets till he found some other place of worship into which he could creep to hear the music. That was the chief attraction for Davie, though he often wondered what the preacher "was talking about." But if he tried to listen, he never understood. He knew, of course, in a vague childish way, that it was "all about God," and there his knowledge stopped. He had learnt so much at the school to which his mother, when she had a few pence to spare, would send him for a week or two. This, however, happened only at long intervals, and, to tell the truth, Davie was not sorry—to go with only half a dinner was a misfortune that did cause him grief, but to keep away from school was a matter of rejoicing. This irregular attendance was by no means conducive to rapid improvement, and consequently poor Davie was always drudging away in the lowest class.

Again, he hated to be obliged to sit still; he was so singularly active and lithe, and so accustomed to run wild in the streets, that this forced inaction was irksome in the extreme. The singing was the one thing that made it endurable, of course he liked that, and then, home he would go to sing to the baby the song he had just learnt—that is, if his step-father were not in. For Davie, his mother said, was "wonderful handy with a baby," and, when nothing else would do it, his voice would soothe its wailing cries and hush it to slumber.

So the years passed on until Davie was eleven. During that time two little children had been laid to rest in the cemetery, and their places taken by two others—twins—a boy and girl, who were named respectively Tom and Polly. They were only a few months old, when one day Mrs. Willis was hastily summoned to the hospital to which her husband had been carried, apparently lifeless. He had met with a fearful accident while under the influence of drink, and though severely injured, would doubtless have recovered, but the habit of years had so weakened and enfeebled his constitution, that it had no strength to bear up against the shock. For a week or two he lingered on, then for the second time, Mrs. Willis found herself a widow.

After his death, Mrs. Willis's life, though even harder than before, was, at any rate, peaceful and quiet. Davie did his utmost to help his mother. What she would have done without him, she did not know; she "would just have had to go to the house," she supposed. He "minded" the twins while she was at her work, he swept a crossing, and he sang in the streets. He did anything, in short, that was likely to bring in a penny. And then they loved each other so! Perhaps that was the greatest comfort of all to her, for, poor woman, she had not a friend in the world, and had it not been for Davie's love, she would indeed have felt lonely. Somehow, it gave her heart to struggle on.

Yet it grieved her that he was obliged to work so hard for her, and that she should never again be able to send him to school. He was a very intelligent boy, and she felt sure that if he had proper training, he would be able to earn his living in a very different way from that of sweeping a crossing. She taught him as much as she could, to be honest and truthful, and gentle in his speech and manner—"just as his father used to be," she would say to herself with a sigh—but more she could not teach him. "She" thought it was very little, but in reality it was a great deal; of a still higher and holier life she could tell him nothing, for she did not know herself.

So mother and son struggled on together until a year had passed since James Willis's death. During the summer months they had the greatest difficulty to make both ends meet, but now, in the depth of winter, it was terribly difficult to find the wherewithal to live. For days and days they were obliged to go with little food and less fire. Piece by piece the furniture had been taken to the pawnshop, and on that morning when Davie had gone to his crossing, with broom in hand, matters were so bad that it seemed impossible they could be worse. And that brings us back to the beginning of the story. But the history of that particular day, or rather evening, shall have a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER II.

A DAY'S WORK AND ITS WAGES.

ALL day long Davie had swept a crossing in Harley Street—he knew better than to sweep in a neighbourhood where the inhabitants were not rich—and in that long day's work had only earned fivepence-halfpenny. It was very little, less than he usually had, but there seemed no hope of getting more. The passengers were few on such a wretched night as this, and as it was eight o'clock, Davie came to the conclusion that he had better make his way home, and hope for better luck to-morrow.

Had he been more fortunate, he would have run quickly through the streets, but Davie's heart was heavy, and light feet never keep company with a heavy heart. So he went slowly on his way, wishing that he had more than four-pence-halfpenny in his pocket—he had been obliged to buy some bread with one of the pennies—and wondering what they "should" do if his mother had not been able to finish and take back the four pairs of trousers which she had had from a wholesale tailors' firm.

It was her business to sew on the buttons, make the button-holes, put in the lining and pockets, and, in fact, do everything except the machine work, which had been done before they were given to her. For the four pairs she would have one shilling and four pence. If she had taken back her work there would be a fire and a supper awaiting him on his return, but Davie doubted very much that any such pleasure was in store for him. His mother had been so ill during the last few days that she had often been obliged to put aside her work and lie down for an hour or two.

That morning she had been worse than usual, Davie could hardly bear to look at her, she seemed so weak and poorly. And forcing himself to speak cheerfully, he had told her "she wasn't to fret if she couldn't finish the trousers, for that he was sure he should come home with a heap of coppers in his pocket—enough to last them for ever so long." After such a speech it was dreadful to go back with only fourpence-halfpenny.

As Davie went slowly down Regent Street, his attention was attracted by the brilliant light that streamed from the windows of a church. It was not in Regent Street, but a few yards down a narrow turning that opened out into that main thoroughfare. Davie felt that he should like to go inside for a little while, away from the damp and the cold, but he doubted whether he should be allowed to do so, because of his broom. He might, however, be permitted to sit in the porch. It would be better than nothing, and perhaps he would hear some music. That would be something quite new again, for since Davie had regarded himself as a "family man,"—that is, that he had a mother and a baby brother and sister to think about and care for,—he had almost entirely given up going to the Abbey. To creep into the porch then and listen to the music would be quite a treat.

The outer door stood open, and stepping inside, Davie found himself in a large porch. There was a bench running round the walls, and upon this he seated himself, resolving that if nobody turned him out, he would remain to hear the hymn which, he had no doubt, would be sung at the close of the service. But he had not been there very many minutes before he became aware of another sound, the sound of a voice so clear and ringing that at times Davie almost caught the sense of the words as he sat there with the wall between him and it. Then it was so sweet that it quite fascinated him, and he forgot everything in listening intently to the musical vibrations that, from being scarcely distinguishable, rose and swelled till they thrilled him through and through. So absorbed was he in listening, and so bent upon catching every echo of the voice, that he was unconscious of the entrance of an old gentleman, who, on catching sight of the little crossing-sweeper, stopped abruptly in his hurried passage across the porch.

To creep into the porch and listen to the music
would be quite a treat.

"My child, what are you doing there?"

The voice was not in the least sharp, nor was Davie an individual to be easily frightened, nevertheless he was considerably startled. The fact was, that for the moment he had almost forgotten his own existence. The question suddenly awoke him to a recollection of who he was, and where he was.

Starting to his feet, he gasped, "Please, sir, I was only a-listening to what the preacher was a-saying."

"But you can't hear out here, can you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What! Hear every word he says?"

"No, sir, not the words, 'tis the sound of it, the roll of it like, that I was a-listening to." Then emboldened by the kind look that was bent upon him, he added, "Please, sir, I may stay, mayn't I?"

"If you like, you may, but why don't you go inside?"

"I've got my broom, sir, and I thought as how they wouldn't let me go in with that!"

"Well, then, leave it outside."

Leave it outside! No, that would be most unwise. It might be stolen or get lost in some way. Davie's broom was his friend. Once lose it, and he did not know how he should get another, for brooms cost money, and money was very, very scarce. The gentleman saw that he and his property were not to be parted.

"Would you really like to come inside?" he asked kindly.

"Yes, sir, just," and Davie having now thoroughly recovered his self-possession, raised a pair of bright brown eyes to the questioner. Perhaps they, even more than his words, told the gentleman that he was in earnest.

"Come in with me then. If you behave yourself properly, there is no reason why you should not, broom or no broom."

And with that, he turned towards the door, while Davie, in a state of eager expectation, followed closely behind.

What a crowd, to be sure! Nothing but heads, heads, heads, and above the heads, far away at the other end of the church, looking down upon the people from the pulpit, was the preacher. His face was very pale, almost as white as the surplice he wore, and he had large black eyes that fixed themselves upon his hearers as if he would read their very thoughts. All this Davie took in at a single glance, and it seemed to the boy that as he came into the church the black eyes fixed themselves upon him and watched him as he followed his guide—with difficulty, for every available space was crowded with listeners—to a corner under the gallery.

"If you like to stand, you will be able to see as well as hear," whispered the old gentleman, pointing to a vacant seat upon a bench. It was a great wonder that it was vacant, but it was just in the corner, and in such a dark corner too that no doubt it had been overlooked.

"Now, if you'll give me your broom," he continued, "I'll put it under here for you; you won't inconvenience anybody with it then."

So saying he put the broom under the bench, and giving a hand to Davie, assisted him to mount.

CHAPTER III.

DAVIE HEARS STRANGE NEWS.

AND now Davie, instead of being below, was above the heads of most of the congregation, and from his little dark corner under the gallery had a capital view of the whole scene—of the brilliantly lighted church, of the great organ with its golden pipes far away out yonder, of the crowds of people, some standing, some sitting, and above all, of that wonderful face in the pulpit, with the large black eyes that looked straight and full into his. They made Davie feel quite uncomfortable; he was glad when, after a minute or two, they removed their gaze to some other part of the church, for then, free from their fascination, he could listen with delight to the musical tones of the voice that rang from one end of the building to the other.

Then gradually his attention was drawn to the subject of the preacher's sermon. So simple was the language in which it was couched, that, to his surprise, Davie found that he understood almost everything that was said. In that discovery, he forgot the "music" of the voice—except inasmuch as its sweetness made him feel happy in a half-unconscious manner—and began to follow the words. Then by degrees he grew breathless with interest, and listened eagerly to every syllable.

The words that the preacher repeated most constantly were these: "Unto Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father; to Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen."

As Davie not unnaturally and correctly supposed, they were the text. He knew too who was meant by "Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood," though as for understanding it, or in any way thinking that it had a personal reference to him or to any of his acquaintances, Davie did not. "Religion" was a mystery which no doubt the rich people who had money to spend and time to spare, could comprehend easily enough. It was not for "the likes of him," he thought, and consequently he had never troubled himself with the subject.

But this clergyman was talking as nobody else had ever done. He made Davie feel somehow as if he had known Him—the gentle, patient "Man in God," who had been poor, and friendless, and homeless, who had suffered hunger and thirst, who had remained night after night on the cold, bleak mountain top, and who had finally been put to a cruel and painful death.

"And all this He would have done," went on the preacher, "to purchase the life of any single one of us here to-night, ay, for the poorest, most wretched man, or woman, or child, in this vast city of London. But He did not rest satisfied with having bought us with the price of His own blood, with having spent long years of poverty and toil that He might know our sorrows and understand our griefs. No, He did more than that—He made us 'kings and priests unto God!' O think of the grandeur of it, think of the greatness!

"He does not bind us to Him with a bond of slavery, but with the glorious liberty of kingship—'kings and priests unto God and His Father.' Oh! My friends, if we did but bear this in mind, what trouble we should take, what care and pains we should spend, to make ourselves worthy of that honour—an honour that, thank God, can be claimed by all, rich and poor, high and low, learned and ignorant. That little fellow out yonder that sweeps his crossing in the street—" At these words the black eyes travelled once more to the dark corner under the gallery where Davie stood, and it seemed to the boy that the finger of the preacher pointed directly at him.

"That little crossing-sweeper," went on the preacher—while Davie, feeling quite sure now that the clergyman was talking to him, listened with eyes that kindled and glowed, and with a cheek that burned with excitement—"can be as much a king unto God as Queen Victoria upon her throne. Uncared for, ragged, and ignorant, he is dear in the sight of Christ as the child who has been redeemed by His own blood. What signify his rags if he be clothed right gloriously in the robe of righteousness? Of what matter his ignorance if he has the knowledge that will gain him life eternal? And to think that because he has never been told all this, he does not know that he can be a 'king unto God,' and has no idea of the honour which he has a right to claim as his own!

"Oh that I had it in my power to go forth and speak to him, ay, and to every other poor soul that is roaming the streets to-night, and tell them of what Christ has done for them; bid them wash their robes in the blood of the Lamb; show them the high state that is theirs; entreat them to give up the old, and begin a new life worthy of their kingship, and join with me and angels in the grand burst of praise and thanksgiving:—'To Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.'"

In the momentary silence that ensued, the black eyes moved away from Davie's corner. But though their fascination was gone, the words that had been uttered—directly to him, as it seemed—still rang on in his ears. Such a train of thought did they awaken that the rest of the sermon was lost to the boy. What did it all mean? That "he," a little ragged crossing-sweeper, could be a king unto God? Yes, that was what the preacher had said, and somehow Davie felt that whatever "he" said "must" be true. But "how" could he be a king? In what way was the wonderful change to be effected?

If he did but know somebody who would explain it! He would "so" like to understand it all. The preacher knew, of course. Ah! If only he could get hold of "him!" Dirty, ragged, poor as he was, "he" would tell him all he wanted to know, for hadn't he said he "wished" that he could speak to him?

The sermon came to an end presently, then followed a hymn. Though Davie did not know the words, his quick ear for music had made him long familiar with the tune, and had he not been so absorbed in the subject that engrossed his thoughts, he would have been singing away at the top of his voice. But the passing thought had grown into a longing, the longing into a resolution, and he felt that whatever might be the consequences, he must speak to the clergyman. But how was he to obtain an opportunity? That was the question. Two or three plans suggested themselves, but all were dismissed as not likely to prove successful. Then he remembered the gentleman who had brought him into the church. Perhaps he could tell him what would be best to do. But whether he could or could not, he had looked so kind and spoken so gently, that Davie felt sure he would not at any rate be angry with him for having told him of his wish and asked for his advice. Yes, he could not do better, he concluded, than beg the gentleman to help him.

The hymn over, the people knelt to receive the benediction. Then, while the vast congregation began slowly to move towards the door, the organ once again resounded through the church. The crush was great, and Davie found himself so pushed and squeezed, that to get his broom from under the seat was a matter of difficulty. When he had accomplished it, he discovered to his dismay that he had lost sight of the kind old gentleman, who, during the service, had stood within an arm's length of him. So there was nothing for it but to act for himself, and he decided to wait at the church door until the clergyman came out. Then he would go boldly up to him and ask him some of the many questions that he longed to have answered.

To stand at the door, however, Davie found to be impossible; the crowd of people would not permit it. He was quite carried away by the stream, and the utmost that he could do was to take up a position against the wall of the church. But, alas for the little crossing-sweeper! No sooner had he planted himself and his broom in the very position from which he could get the best view of the people as they passed by, than he was addressed by a voice at his elbow.

"Now then, my boy, move on. I can't have you here."

There was no need to look up. Davie knew it was a policeman, and that whatever he chose to say was a law to be obeyed. Nothing daunted, however, he determined to wait at the top of the street, which was only a few yards distant. On the wide pavement of Regent Street he would be a less suspicious object for vigilant eyes. He felt confident that if he only kept a good look out for the clergyman he would be sure to see him, for it was far more likely that he would turn into Regent Street than into the narrow, dirty thoroughfare at the other end of the side street.

Although the rain had ceased, the pavements and road wore a miserably wet and unpleasant appearance. It was very cold too. Davie shivered as he stood patiently waiting in the chill night air. And he had need of patience, for though the stream of people coming from the church gradually became thinner and then ceased altogether, there was no sign of the clergyman. Davie began to fear that perhaps after all he had missed him. He determined, however, to wait a little longer yet, though there was no need now to keep a very attentive watch, for the foot passengers were not very many, and any person issuing from the side street could hardly have failed to be seen.

But if the foot passengers were few, the road was so full of vehicles, that their slow progress presently came to a complete standstill. Many of the carriages contained gaily-dressed people. But as that was a sight that Davie saw almost every night of his life, it would have failed to excite his wonderment, had he not noticed that most of the occupants were children. That naturally aroused his interest. And then how oddly, and yet how grandly, many of them were dressed!

There was one—a boy of about his own size—who was standing up and gazing out of his carriage window; he was a perfect blaze of jewels, and it quite dazzled Davie's eyes to look at him. Not that he was very near the little crossing-sweeper. Indeed, the carriage was almost in the middle of the road. But it so happened that the rays of a lamp fell full upon the boy as he stood looking out at what was going on around him, so that Davie had the benefit of a splendid view of his small but magnificent person. His tunic of blue and silver was studded with jewels. His broad-brimmed, drooping hat was decorated with a plume of feathers that touched his shoulder, and just in the front was a glittering star of diamonds that shot out brilliant rays of light with every movement of its wearer's head. Davie could just see the hilt of a sword that also was sparkling with gems, as was the gauntleted hand that rested on the window-ledge. It was a sight that almost took away the little crossing-sweeper's breath.

Who could he be? Where was he going, and why were so many of the carriages full of grandly dressed children, though none were so magnificent as the boy in the jewelled tunic? No prince could be more splendid, Davie thought.

In this new interest, he forgot everything else. He even forgot the purpose for which he had taken up his place on the pavement. And when the carriage moved slowly on, he kept pace with it, keeping his eyes fixed upon the boy who still stood at the window. Then all at once he saw another figure—that of a gentleman in a long black coat, who was in the act of crossing the road. It was a dangerous proceeding, but he dodged in and out between the carriages in a manner that showed he was accustomed to crowded thoroughfares.

But why did Davie suddenly start, and, grasping his broom, rush off in pursuit, regardless of horses and wheels? A lamp from one of the carriages had shown him the pale face of the preacher to whom he had been listening in the church. The boy and his jewels were instantly forgotten. Above the roar of the street Davie seemed again to hear the clear, ringing words, "Kings and priests unto God." And there is the clergyman. Davie has him in sight now, but soon it will be too late. If he would carry out that resolve of his, it must be now or never. There is not a moment to lose. Never mind the horses.

He is little and lithe, and can be here, and there, and everywhere in a moment. See, he is under the nose of one, and a wheel goes within an inch of his toes. Now, by a spring, he just saves himself from being trodden underfoot by a prancing steed that has waxed impatient at his own slow progress. Then—then there is a wild shriek—a piercing cry. The boy in the glittering dress is suddenly jolted in his carriage. The next moment he sees the pale face and still form of little Davie as he lies motionless upon the ground, crushed by the cruel wheel that has gone over him.

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE HOSPITAL.

IT seemed to Davie that he had been sleeping a very long while, and that from time to time he had awakened to find himself in a strange place with strange people about him. Gradually these indistinct impressions became clearer, and he began to think that he was in a hospital-ward—at least, it very much resembled the place to which he had gone with his mother to see his step-father after his accident. "That" was a hospital, Davie knew, and so he supposed was this. But how did he get here he had no remembrance of having been brought in.

Was there nobody whom he could ask about it? He would raise himself to see. Oh what was that—that terrible pain which took from him the power of moving, and made him sink back upon the pillow, white to his lips, and wet with the cold perspiration that started to his brow? Again for a while Davie knew nothing. When next he opened his eyes he saw a kind face smiling down upon him. He had seen it before, seen it without thinking about it, but now it somehow seemed to Davie that it was a face he "liked."

"There, now you're all right, but you mustn't try to move, because if you do you will hurt yourself. We all have so much pain that we 'must' bear that it's a pity to make it more of our own accord, isn't it?"

Davie tried to smile back an answer to the bright cheerful look that was bent upon him.

"Please, sir, I'm in a hospital, ain't I?" he asked in a weak, tremulous voice.

"Yes, my boy."

"What's happened to me? Was it an accident, sir?"

"Yes, you managed to get yourself run over and so they brought you here to be made well again. But indeed you must not talk any more. Now take this," and the doctor held a spoon to Davie's lips, "and then go to sleep. Perhaps when you wake you'll be better and able to talk. Though I am sure you won't, if you try to move; that's the very worst thing you can do."

And with that the doctor walked away, leaving Davie to fall almost immediately into a heavy sleep.

He awoke in pain, yet feeling much more like "himself" than he had hitherto done, and he quite enjoyed the food that the nurse brought him as soon as she saw that he was awake. Remembering the doctor's caution, he lay still after that, not attempting to move. One of his legs was bandaged; it felt stiff, and odd, and ached very much. What was the matter with it, he wondered. The doctor had told him that he had been run over, but he had no recollection of the circumstance.

Stay, though, hadn't he rushed across a street when it was full of moving carriages? Then little by little it all returned to his memory. The long day spent in sweeping his crossing, the few pence he had gained, the church, the wonderful sermon he had heard, his great desire to speak to the preacher, and the waiting for him outside the church. Then he had seen somebody so grandly dressed that the sight took away his thoughts from everything else, till suddenly he had recognised the clergyman for whom he was waiting. He had darted after him, and—there came a blank. He could remember nothing else. Then he began thinking of his mother, and at that thought grew restless.

Opening his eyes, he met those of the doctor, who had spoken so kindly to him a few hours previously.

"You are better now, I can see; that comes of obeying orders. Well, what do you want to say to me?"

"Please, sir, when shall I be well enough to go away?"

"I can't say: it depends upon a good many things. You will have a great deal to do with it yourself. Do exactly as you are told, and you'll get well all the sooner."

The answer was vague, but the cheerful voice made it sound hopeful, and Davie drew the conclusion that was most satisfactory to himself.

"Please, sir," he began again after a pause, "how long have I been here?"

"Let me see. To-day is Saturday, and you came in on Wednesday. Three days now."

"Three days," and it had seemed to him like a long sleep broken only by short intervals of half consciousness! "Three days!" What would his mother think! How anxious she would be about him! Perhaps, though, she knew why he had never returned home.

A flush rose in his cheek as he asked with trembling eagerness, "Does mother know I'm here, sir?"

"Yes, and she's been to see you."

Davie thought that he could not have heard aright.

"Been here?" he repeated in a low tone of bewilderment.

"Yes, but you were asleep at the time, and so didn't see her. She is coming again to-morrow. Now you may ask me one more question, and I think that must be the last for the present."

Davie thought that he had no other question to ask, then remembered that he had, and one, too, that he wanted very much to have answered.

"Please, sir, am I hurt very much?"

"Not so much, but it might have been more," was the cheerful reply. "Your collar bone is broken—that's why it hurt you so much when you tried to move just now. And I am sorry to say your right leg is broken, but I daresay you will be about again in a few weeks. As for the collar bone, that's just nothing at all. It will be as right as ever in a week or two."

His collar bone and his leg broken! The knowledge of the extent of his injuries overwhelmed him with such a rush of feeling that his eyes suddenly filled with tears, and his lips quivered so much that though he tried hard to speak he could not utter a word.

"I thought you were a brave boy, or I should not have told you all this," the doctor went on after a moment's pause. "Indeed, I've been thinking a good many things about you. Wouldn't you like to know why?"

"Yes, sir," was the scarcely audible reply.

"Well, I've found out something very curious—your name is David Scott, and so is mine. Now, isn't that odd?"

It was indeed. Davie had felt wonderfully drawn towards the good kind man with his cheerful smiling face. But this last piece of information made him feel that he and the doctor were quite friends. He gave him a very bright look by way of answer.

"Ah! That's better, I 'knew' you were a brave boy. Wouldn't you like me to call you David?"

"Nobody ever calls me that. Mother always says 'Davie,' and other people mostly say 'Dave.'"

"Very well, then, I'll call you Davie. Now, Davie, do you know you've actually made me break my own rule? Five minutes ago I said there was to be no more talking, and if I haven't been chatting away to you ever since. That's what comes of having a namesake for a patient."

He disappeared with that, and Davie was left to think over the conversation. How strange that he and the doctor should have the same name! People who had were generally related to each other, but the little crossing-sweeper felt sure that this gentleman could be no "relative" of his. And there he was right; it was merely one of those coincidences which are so often met with in life.

Then what was that he had said about being "brave?" Evidently he expected him to be brave. And so he would; the doctor should not be disappointed in him. He would bear his pain patiently, and do exactly as he was told.

His resolution was no sooner made than it had to be put into practice, for such a paroxysm of suffering came on that it was as much as Davie could do to keep from crying out aloud. Presently, however, the intensity of the attack passed away, and in the exhaustion that followed, the poor little fellow once more fell asleep.

CHAPTER V.

DAVIE GAINS A NEW NAME.

THE next day, in the early part of the afternoon, Davie had a visit from his mother. He cried a little when first he saw her, he could not help that, but he quickly brightened up again, and became deeply interested in what she was telling him. And no wonder, for it was really a marvellous story.

She told him, she had felt so much better after he had left her on the previous Wednesday morning that she was able to finish the trousers, take them back, and get the money for them. With that she had bought some coal, and quite a nice little supper. But, alas! no Davie had come home to help eat it, and all night long she had sat up for him, getting more and more anxious as hour after hour went by.

As soon as possible the next morning she went out in search of him. It had occurred to her that very possibly he had met with an accident, and so she went to hospital after hospital to make inquiries.

"And oh! Davie," she said, breaking off in her story, and speaking in a husky voice, "you can't think how glad, and yet how sorry, I was to find you at last."

He gave the hand he held in both his own a sympathizing squeeze.

"But I found something else besides you," she continued, after a moment's pause, and in a steadier voice. "What do you think it was?"

"I don't see as there 'could' be anything else besides me."

"Yes, but there was—'a five-pound note.' Fancy that!"

Davie stared at her in utter astonishment. He had heard of such a thing, of course, but he had never seen one, and he had always thought of it with something approaching awe. Surely his mother must be joking!

"Ah! You may well look surprised, but it's true, all the same for that."

"'Whoever' gave it to you, mother?"

"It has to do with your accident, dear, and perhaps we'd best not talk about that. The doctor told me I wasn't to say anything that would upset you."

"It won't upset me, mother, dear. I'd like to know."

"Well, it seems that the carriage that ran over you belonged to some rich people, who were on their way to a grand ball that the Lord Mayor was giving to a lot of little ladies and gentlemen. They were that sorry about you, you can't think. Davie, and the gentleman actually got out of his carriage and came along with you to the hospital. And he left a five-pound note, and said that as soon as ever your friends were heard of, they were to have it, and since that—but you are 'sure' this doesn't make you feel worse, Davie?"

"No, it makes me better, because when I'm listening to you, I don't seem to feel the pain so much."

"Not content with that, then, the gentleman came here again the next day. He came himself, Davie, he didn't send a servant. And he asked for my address, and, do you know, his wife, such a grand lady, a Lady something—Lady Cloudesley, that's it—actually came and saw me. The twins were as dirty as they could be, and the room in such a mess, but down she sat, and talked away as free as if she had been a poor woman herself. But oh! She was so gentle and kind, and I declare, if she didn't cry when I told her what terrible straits I'd been put to. And she told me to take heart and not fret, for she would give me work that would pay better than the trouser-finishing, and that it wouldn't be long before she came to see me again. She said, too, that she should come and see you as soon as ever she could."

Davie was right when he told his mother that it made him "better" to listen to her. It drew off his attention from himself, and he made a great many inquiries about the lady on his own account. It pleased him to hear about her and the little boy, for he had often thought of him, wondering what caused him to be dressed up in such a gorgeous fashion, and where he could possibly be going. He eagerly asked other questions about the ball.

"Did 'everybody' go dressed up like that?" "What did the children 'do' when they got there?"

But Mrs. Willis only knew the bare fact that on the memorable night of Davie's accident there 'had' been a ball at the Mansion House, and that the little boy in the carriage was the son of Sir John and Lady Cloudesley, the lady and gentleman who had been so kind to her.

Davie, however, learnt more of the subject, when about a week after that, Lady Cloudesley came to pay her promised visit.

He was very shy for a little while, and his "Yes, my lady," and "No, my lady," the only replies which he ventured to make, were uttered in a whisper.

But presently she began talking to him about her son, her only child, and then Davie plucked up courage to tell her how he had seen him that night of the accident, as "the little gentleman" stood looking out of the carriage window.

Lady Cloudesley took up the story from that point, and went on to say that when she and her boy arrived at the Mansion House, the rooms were already full of children, and how some were dressed like fairies, and some like knights, and some in national costumes.

Davie looked puzzled at that; he did not understand what was meant by "national costumes." And seeing it, Lady Cloudesley paused to explain. Her little son, for instance, was dressed as the royal princes of France used many years ago to dress. Then the children had danced in beautiful rooms that were brilliant with a hundred lights, and she told him what a pretty sight it was to see them gliding over the polished floor, as their feet kept time to the music.

At that word Davie grew more interested than ever. Music? Was there music? Yes. Was he fond of music? Ah! Wasn't he! And that led to such delightful conversation that the little invalid forgot he was talking "to a real lady as had a grand name," and was quite sorry when at length she rose to wish him good-bye.

As she did so, she took from a basket that she carried on her arm, a lovely bunch of grapes, and laid it on Davie's bed within reach of his hand. Certainly he had "seen" as fine in the large shops in Regent Street, but that he should ever "taste" such fruit had never entered his head in his wildest dream. Lady Cloudesley left, promising to come again some day, and well pleased with the boy's evident amazement and delight.

By so small a thing as a word, a look, the simplest action, or a gift so insignificant that it seems hardly worth the bestowal, what happiness do we afford to our poorer brethren! Surely the vibration of their hearts' joy on earth must be sometimes so deep and so full that holy angels in heaven beholding it must feel the beat of the throb, and be thrilled with the gladness that has first entered a human heart.

But the excitement caused by Lady Cloudesley's visit had been somewhat too much for Davie, and towards the evening he became restless with weariness and pain. Presently he fell into a light slumber. In an hour or two, however, he awoke, feeling rather worse than better. His collar bone was nearly well now, but his leg ached with a dull, "grinding" pain that was hard to endure patiently. Davie thought that if he sang softly to himself, it might help him perhaps to bear it, and accordingly he began humming an air that he had often heard in the streets. The tones, though low, were wonderfully sweet. They reached the ears of the man on the bed next to that of the little singer, and being fond of music, he listened with delight and eagerness. He and Davie had struck up quite a friendship, so he did not hesitate to beg a favour of him.

"Couldn't you sing a bit louder?" he asked, when there came a pause in the humming.

"Yes, I could, but I was afraid, as it might disturb some of the patients."

"I don't see as how it could disturb them. But don't you know something sweeter-like, not quite such a merry tune. There's my missus, she's precious fond of singing hymns to get the little 'uns off to sleep. Couldn't you sing a hymn now?"

"I don't know the words; I know lots of tunes."

"Well, let's have a tune. After all, it don't so very much matter about the words."

Rejoiced to find that his neighbour possessed "a kindred soul," Davie was anxious to do his utmost to afford gratification, and began ransacking his memory for an old fragment of a hymn that he had learnt long ago in his brief and irregular school-days. He was successful beyond his hopes.

"I know most all of the verses of one," he said, after thinking a few minutes. It begins like this:

   "'Abide with me, fast falls the eventide!'"

"Ah! Let's have that," responded the man heartily; "it's a rare favourite with the missus."

Accordingly Davie began, and now his voice, clear and sweet to a degree, penetrated to the farthest extent of the ward, flooding it with a melody to which many a sufferer listened entranced, and forgetting his pain, lay soothed and comforted.

At a stated hour the patients were permitted to sing, or visitors to sing to them, but it was now late in the evening, a time when almost perfect quietness was observed in the hospital. The nurse, therefore, was on the point of telling Davie that he must reserve his singing till the next day, but glancing around, she perceived that the look of pain on many a face was exchanged for a peaceful and happier expression, and seeing such was the case, she felt she could not silence the strains that were so powerful to soothe. So she let him go on, and in a few moments became almost as spell-bound as her charges, by the rare sweetness of the boy's voice.

"Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
 Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies;
 Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
 In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."

Davie had not sung the whole hymn, but he remembered the closing verse, and encouraged by the silence, and carried away by the feeling that "music" always stirred within him, he put into that last one all the power of which he was capable. The words, "Abide with me," rang from one end of the ward to the other, and left echoes so sweet that one might well have believed that a choir of angels had taken up Davie's song, and that its distant strains were descending lightly to tell us for our comfort how near to this pain-ridden world of ours is that city of God, where "there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying."

The deep silence that followed was broken by a husky voice from the bed directly opposite to Davie's. Its occupant was a middle-aged man, who, though he had been in the hospital only a few days, had already proved himself to be of a singularly refractory and repellent disposition.

"I have often heard that story about Saul," he said, "and how the wicked spirit was driven out of him by David's music, but I never 'understood' it till now." Then in a steadier voice, he continued, "I'd just got regular work, after having had nothing to do for weeks and weeks. And then I must needs tumble off that ladder, and be laid up for I don't know how long, and perhaps be naught but a poor cripple in the end. Ever since I've been in here I've felt as if I couldn't and 'wouldn't' bear it. But, my lad, your singing has brought a better feeling over me. It took me back again to the time when I was a little chap, and used to hear my mother sing as she went about her work. I hope you'll give us the hymn again to-morrow. I guess there isn't one here as wouldn't feel the better for it."

"Ay, you're right there," said Davie's next bed neighbour; "and I think," he continued in a voice that expressed no small delight at the idea, "as how we'd best call him 'King Davie.' He's been our King David to-night as one might say, only somehow it don't seem natural like to say David to Davie here."

"King" Davie! The words stirred up certain recollections in the boy's mind—recollections that were never long absent, it is true, but which now seemed awakened with an electric thrill. In imagination he saw a crowded church, a fervent, impassioned preacher. Again he seemed to be one of the vast congregation, and to be listening to that ringing voice as it cried with an exceeding earnest cry:

   "Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father; to Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen."

He remembered the words and repeated them without a mistake, so great was the impression they had made upon him. The old longing, too, to know what they meant came back with doubled force. He felt instinctively that they bore reference to those things that tended to his eternal peace, and it occurred to him, with a strange sensation of alarm that perhaps he might never get well again.

During the last day or two, he had noticed a grave expression on Dr. Scott's face. And although he always answered his question of "How long will it be before I shall be quite well again, doctor?" with an encouraging "Not so very long, I hope, Davie," it seemed to the boy who was remarkably observant that it lacked the ring of heartiness with which his other questions were answered. Yes, he might die; younger children than he did every day.

On one or two occasions since he had been in the hospital, a lady had come, and sitting down by his bedside, had read to him from the Bible, and talked gently and lovingly about many things of which he had never before heard. She would be able to tell him what he wanted to know, and having resolved to open his mind to her the next time she came, Davie felt comforted.