CHAPTER XXII.
HOME AGAIN AT NO. 8.
"SO I have all my flock safe," said Dr. Arundel, glancing round the table where the greater portion of his family were assembled. Even Tom had petitioned to come down to tea for once, and poor little Dolly's eyes had looked very wistful as he was lifted out of the nursery.
"Another night, dear," Nellie had said gently; "but it will be too much for mamma, will it not Mary, to have all down?"
"Yes, indeed," said Mary; "poor mamma! Besides, Dolly, see what cook has sent us up for tea—some of her nice buns; and yours is here, look!"
Dolly peeped her chin over the edge of the table, and being somewhat satisfied, she pushed her high chair nearer, and climbed up by the baby.
"That's right," said Mary, "and it is nice to be at home, after all."
So the others felt, and the tongues flew as fast or faster than the knives and forks.
Christina and her aunt had been prevailed upon to accompany them home, and to stay with them for a few days till they could meet with apartments; so they were seated in the place of honour, and were included in all the plans and projects of the next few weeks.
"To-morrow," said Christina, turning to her aunt, "we must search for apartments, and then, if we find them, Nellie and I are to have an expedition to Hampstead. I shall not drag you about, Aunt Mary, till I see something very suitable."
"Very well, my dear; and perhaps I can be thinking over what new furniture you will want."
"Yes," said Christina; "for I can't put little clodhopping shoes on crimson damask chairs."
They all laughed; and Netta said, "Are the chairs you are going to buy crimson damask?"
"Not those I am going to buy, but those I have; they are stored away carefully somewhere, waiting for me."
"Oh, I see!" said Netta.
"You will have to come and see me, Tom dear, when it is all done," said Christina.
"I," asked Tom, colouring; "can I really?"
"Yes," answered his mother; "we will arrange it somehow."
Directly after tea, Dr. Arundel rang the bell, and told Simmons to collect all for prayers.
"We will unite in thanking God for our happy reunion," said their father.
"May we have a hymn, papa?" asked Nellie.
"Oh, to be sure! Can you sing without the piano?"
"Oh, yes! We have got quite used to it at South Bay."
So they all gathered together. Even baby came down, as he always did in the morning, and sat very still on his mother's knee, looking round gravely at the unusual sight of lamps at prayers, which he could not make out at all.
The next morning, true to their intention, Christina and her aunt started forth on their lodging-hunting expedition. They were not very long gone, but returned in about an hour, having found what would suit them very well, for the few weeks before they could expect to settle into the new home. So after dinner, Christina asked Nellie if it would be possible for her to get away for the "house-hunting," and Mrs. Arundel answered for her, that she should go by all means.
"Will you like to come with us, Ada?" said Christina.
"Oh, thank you! I should very much," said Ada, "if I should not be in the way."
So the three went together, and when at seven o'clock they returned, they had to confess that they were thoroughly tired.
"What success have you had?" asked Walter.
"Pretty fair," answered Christina, "the only objection being that the house we like is almost taken!"
"What a bore!" exclaimed Arthur.
"Tell us all about it," said Dr. Arundel.
"Well," said Nellie, "we saw large and small, all sorts; but at last we came to this one that Christina thinks would do. It is old-fashioned, with quite a large garden; and there are fruit trees, and vegetables, and plenty of flowers."
"That would be very nice," said Mrs. Arundel.
"It is all I could wish," said Christina. "The front is dull; but the back windows look out on the garden and on the Heath. Oh, such a view! No wonder Nellie praised it up!"
"But then it is almost let?" said Dr. Arundel. "Yes; they will know in a day or two."
"I hate waiting," said Ada, sighing.
"It is hard for everybody," said Walter; "but sometimes it is just the lesson God has for us to learn."
His eyes rested for an instant on Christina, and he felt Nellie's hand slipped into his lovingly.
"I do not know anything much harder," said Dr. Arundel. "I see a great deal of that by the bedsides of my patients."
CHAPTER XXIII.
"MOTHER'S EYES ARE VERY TIRED."
"YOU have come to see me," said Christina rising, as Margaret Fenton was shown into her sitting room in Gower Street.
"Yes, ma'am," answered Margaret, looking up in the face of her future mistress.
"Sit down," she said, "and I will explain what I should want you to do. I hear you are very fond of children."
"Very indeed, ma'am; I was a nurse for many years till I married."
"So I heard. Now, you know, the place I want you to fill is not exactly a nurse's situation, it is more that of a matron. I am very lonely, and I am going to take care of a few little children, and try to bring them up to be useful and happy; but above all things I wish to teach them to love our Saviour."
Margaret's eyes looked very sympathising, but she did not speak.
"I have almost settled on a house at Hampstead, and I shall want, I believe, three servants; that is, a nurse-matron, a cook, and a housemaid. My own maid Ellen has consented to be the housemaid, at any rate for a time, and if you are willing to be nurse, there only remains the cook to find. But first I must tell you that I shall not be rich, so your wages will have to be moderate."
"Oh, I am quite willing!" exclaimed Margaret. "To have my child with me, and to be engaged in such work, I should only want just enough to keep me respectable."
"You shall have that, you may be sure. But I mean this: I shall not be able to pay you according to the amount of trust I put in you, but rather according to what I can afford."
"I quite agree," said Margaret earnestly. Then, hesitating, she said shyly: "Have you made up your mind, ma'am, what sort of person you wish to have for a cook?"
"Not at all. Do you know of anyone?"
"It has been my only trouble in accepting your kind offer, ma'am—my mother-in-law; she will, I fear, be so very strange without me and Maggie; but I did not know if she would be too old. She is very strong and able, ma'am, and an earnest Christian woman too."
"I should be most thankful to find such an one. But when could I see her?" asked Christina, while an inward thanksgiving rose to the Father who was helping her forward step by step.
"Well, ma'am, as it happens, she has come up to town with me to-day. I had earned an extra shilling or two, and I gave her and Maggie the treat, as I thought it might be a long time before I could again."
"I am so glad," said Christina; "where is she now?"
Margaret went to the window and looked out, and Christina also glanced down the street, and in a minute the grandmother and child appeared pacing slowly on the opposite side of the way.
"There they are!" exclaimed Margaret. And hastily asking permission, she ran down, and soon touched her mother-in-law on the shoulder.
"Come in, mother," she said breathlessly, "she wants to see you."
Christina was struck with the calm face of the elder woman as she turned to cross the road; her white plaited cap-border setting off the peaceful face and neat hair; and again she thanked God and took courage.
"So here is Maggie," said the ringing voice, while the beautiful face bent down and kissed the little one. "Maggie is to be my first little niece; eh, Maggie?"
The child drew back a little shyly, and her mother spoke. "Maggie dear, this is the lady that is going to give us all such a nice home! You will like to speak to her."
"Is it?" said Maggie, looking up.
"Yes, Maggie," said Christina; "and I shall love you so much; and you, and mother, and perhaps grandmother, will be so happy, I hope."
Maggie came forward under the influence of those kind eyes, and laid her hand in Christina's. "Thank you, ma'am," she said, "'cause mother's eyes are very tired with that work."
Christina kissed her again, and thought of their talk about the clean children being the nicest, and then she turned to the grandmother. It had all to be explained again; but Mrs. Fenton did not accept it as quickly and readily as her daughter-in-law and Christina expected.
"It is a great change in my life, ma'am," she said at last; "and I think I must have time to consider it well. I should like very, very much to do it; but I would not wish to break up my little home, and lose what work I have now, and then repent it!"
"My mother is a laundress," explained Margaret.
Christina looked abstractedly out of the window; a new thought had struck her.
"I wonder," at length she said, "whether we could manage it in rather a different way. There is a gardener's cottage, a very small one, adjoining the house I think of having, and I was going to let it off; but supposing you lived there and did our washing for us?"
Margaret looked anxiously at her mother, as if this must be the very thing for her.
The woman paused again. "I am extremely obliged, ma'am," she said, with great feeling in her voice, "and I will ask my Father about it, and let you know. I cannot go a step without Him, ma'am."
Christina held out her hand kindly and gravely. "You are quite right; and remember we shall all be one family in Him, whatever our different callings may be."
She rang the bell, and told Ellen to give her visitors a comfortable lunch in the dining room, and to ask Miss Arbuthnot to step upstairs.
"Oh, aunt, I wish you had been here, only I was so nervous in anticipation! But she is the dearest old creature you ever saw."
"I met her on the stairs, a sweet face."
Christina then told her aunt all about the interview, and they both hoped the decision would be in favour of accepting her proposal.
Miss Arbuthnot had been extremely surprised when Christina had first propounded her plans to her; but she had quick and ready sympathy; she knew the desolation of the young heart; and she had read enough of the life of workhouse children to know that to rescue even a few of these from the deadness, apathy, and sin which prevailed in such places, would be no mean work. So she had consented cheerfully, and Christina had given her a warm, grateful kiss, and had said, "I will try to make your life too as happy as I can, dear aunt."
CHAPTER XXIV.
A BASKET OF FLOWERS.
A WEEK or two passed away. The gentleman did not take the house at Hampstead, and Christina did.
Old Mrs. Fenton consulted "her Father," as she said, and decided to come and make her home in the gardener's cottage, bringing with her her little stock of furniture, her plants, and her washing paraphernalia.
She was soon settled into her tiny home, and after a few days, felt as if she had lived there for years. Her own fender, table, old-fashioned chest of drawers, cuckoo-clock, etc., made her feel homelike at once; and she trusted she had come to a right decision.
One day before Christina left Gower Street, she privately asked Nellie if she could be spared to help her arrange her house; but Nellie answered that it would be impossible, and begged her not to put the question to her mamma. "She would do anything to give me pleasure, and I would not have her asked on any account."
"If you really feel so, Nellie, I shall ask Ada; for I believe it would be an interest for her; only, you know, dear, you are my friend."
Nellie smiled gratefully. "No one could be more pleased," she said, and then blushing deeply, she added softly, "Some day we may perhaps be more than friends."
"Hush!" said Christina, putting her hand in front of Nellie's mouth. "I can't have that spoken of."
"We never have mentioned it," answered Nellie, looking up to see if Christina were displeased; "but I should like to tell you once how happy it would make me."
"Dear Nellie, I know; but it would not make you happy unless I could with all my heart?"
"Oh, no!" said Nellie, looking down.
"Then do not talk of it at present."
And Christina gave her a loving kiss, and left the room.
Ada was enraptured at the invitation which Nellie brought for her that evening; and the only difficulty was how her attendance at her school could be arranged for. After some consideration, and with many promises to take care, Ada was to be trusted to go and return daily by omnibus for the two weeks after her school began; and Arthur willingly undertook to meet her in the morning, before his own school hours, and see her safely into the omnibus again after one o'clock.
Ada thought it was very good of her mamma to allow this, and a few days afterwards packed her box, and went with Christina to "Sunnyside," as the house was called.
The next day there came, by parcel delivery, about two o'clock in the afternoon, a basket of lovely flowers from Christina's garden. It was directed to Tom; and just inside, on a slip of paper, was written, in her clear hand:
"For my dear little Tom; one of the gifts that his heavenly Father
sends him."
Tom's face, when the basket was opened, was eloquent; but he turned away and burst into tears. Never before in his life had he possessed such flowers, and to think they had been sent to him quite overcame him.
When Nellie, with tasteful fingers, was arranging them in all the vases she could muster, he said to her:
"I should like that little boy, Black Tom's son, to have some of them; do you think you could take him a bunch, Nellie?"
"Oh, willingly, dear! And what message shall I take with them?"
Tom was silent; and after a few moments he said: "Could you say they come from a little boy who loves Jesus?"
"Yes, dear, I will; anything else?"
"And say I am like him, but that the Lord Jesus has comforted me, and I don't mind so much now."
"Which bunch shall it be, Tom?" she asked. She held each in turn where he could see them comfortably, and he decided on what he considered the best.
"Then I think I shall take them vase and all," said Nellie, "and tell him I shall fetch the vase when I think they are faded."
"Yes, do; they will look prettier so. I suppose there will be plenty of flowers in heaven," said Tom musingly.
"I should not wonder, for trees are spoken of; but I believe, Tom, above everything else will be the joy of seeing Jesus. It says, 'The Lamb . . . shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shalt wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"
"Yes," answered Tom, looking thoughtfully out of the window towards the clear sky, for he was lying in the nursery; then turning round again, "I would like you to go now Nellie, so that he may see them by daylight."
So Nellie fetched a sheet of silver paper, and standing her vase in it, lightly pinned the corners at the top, and telling her mamma where she was going, set forth.
A short walk brought her to one of the "gone down" and miserable-looking streets which abound in London the moment you turn out of the large thoroughfares. She went down this, and presently came to the house she sought. It was not by any means one of the "dens" of the vast city, but miserable and squalid enough notwithstanding. She rang the top bell of the four, and in a minute, a woman looked out from the bottom room and asked what she wanted.
"Do you think I can see Tom Taylor's boy?" she asked.
"He's at home, safe enough!" said the woman, with not unkind humour. "Go up and find him, miss; you know the room."
"Yes; I'm the doctor's daughter."
The woman eyed the tissue-paper parcel inquisitively, and Nellie said—
"Perhaps you would like to see the flowers I have brought for him."
"Step in, miss."
Nellie entered the dirty little room, and unpinned her parcel on the table. The flowers, with their elegant arrangement, standing on the snowy paper, looked strangely incongruous in the untidy apartment; but Nellie had not brought them in there for nothing.
She looked up in the woman's face, "Who made these, do you think?" she asked her.
The woman shook her head, then smelt at them, and said suddenly, "Why, I suppose it's God Almighty?"
"Yes, God Almighty. He gave them to us, and we should all have had lovely gardens, and every happiness, but for sin; that has spoiled everything. But, do you know, He has made a way by which we may have it all again, and that is by believing in Jesus Christ His Son, and having all these sins forgiven."
The woman looked at the flowers again. "It's a hard world," she said; "I wish I could think there ever could be anything different."
"There will be for those who will look to Jesus," said Nellie. "Think over that, will you? And you will find everything will look altered."
The woman glanced round the dingy room and sighed.
"I'll look in again as I come down, if I can," said Nellie.
So she ascended to the very top, and knocked at the door of the front room.
Tom Taylor's boy might have lived in a very different room from this; but his father's good earnings were spent at the public-house at the corner of the street, and the poor little boy often went short even of the necessaries of life.
Nellie knocked at the door, and a thin, querulous voice bade her "come in."
She entered. In the room were two small beds, and on one of these, at some distance from the window, lay a boy of about ten or eleven years. He was somewhat propped up by two pillows, but still he seemed obliged to lie very flat. Over his shoulders an old worn jacket was drawn and buttoned in the front, which did not however hide the soiled and tattered shirt beneath.
Nellie had been there once before, and she knew the smell of the close little room; but she came forward to the bedside.
"Tom," she said tenderly, "I have been sent to you with a present."
The boy looked astonished. "For me? Who is it from?"
"It is from a little boy who sent you word that 'he loves Jesus.'"
"Oh!" said Tom; "And what is it?"
Nellie set the parcel on a little table which was pushed against the side of his bed, and opened it the second time.
The child looked and looked at it, clasping his thin and wasted hands. "I never saw such beauties, never," he said, and slowly, as he looked, tears trickled down his cheeks, and ran on to the collar of his old jacket. And while he gazed at them, Nellie softly and clearly sang words which melted that hard young heart as much as the flowers had, and completed the work they had begun.
"The great Physician now is near,
The sympathising Jesus;
He speaks the drooping heart to cheer:
Oh, hear the voice of Jesus!
"Sweetest note in seraph song,
Sweetest name on mortal tongue,
Sweetest carol ever sung,
Jesus, blessed Jesus.
"Your many sins are all forgiven;
Oh, hear the voice of Jesus!
Go on your way in peace to heaven,
And wear a crown with Jesus.
"His name dispels my guilt and fear,
No other name but Jesus;
Oh, how my soul delights to hear
The precious name of Jesus!"
The boy listened to every word of the long hymn, looking at the flowers till he was too blinded with tears; then he turned away his head, and hid his face in the sheet. When Nellie had done, there was silence; at last the boy stretched out his hand to draw the flowers nearer to him. He bent his head down, and drew in their lovely fragrance, and then touched one of them tenderly and reverently with his finger.
The child looked and looked at it,
clasping his thin and wasted hands.
"Did you say Jesus sent them?" he asked.
"A little boy who lies helpless like you sent them, because he loves Jesus, and wishes you to love Him too."
"I never did before," said the boy; "I always thought it was so dreadfully hard. But these flowers—" he covered his face again, and sobbed.
Nellie touched his hand. "The little boy sent you another message, Tom."
"Did he? What?" he answered, wiping his eyes again on the sheet, and looking up.
"He said, 'Tell him I am like him; but the Lord Jesus has comforted me, and I don't mind so much now.'"
"Tell him then," said the boy, "that his Jesus has comforted me too; for though I cry, miss, it's only because I can't thank Him enough for wanting to save me."
Nellie passed her hand over his forehead, and pushed back the tangled hair. "I will tell him," she answered very tenderly; "and he will be so very glad, Tom. But now I must go, and I will try and come to-morrow, and see if I can make you a little more comfortable."
She made her way down the dingy staircase again, and stopped at the door of the front room, as she had promised.
It stood wide-open, and the woman came forward. She had been busy while Nellie was upstairs, and had whisked away many untidinesses, and had brushed up her hearth, and now stood with a smile of welcome.
Nellie was quick to perceive the change, and said, "You have made it tidy for me; thank you very much." Then stopping short, in her gentle, modest way, she said, "There's another visitor would willingly come in."
"Who, miss? A friend of yours?" then guessing from Nellie's face whom she meant, she sat down in a chair, and exclaimed, "This ain't no fit place for Him!"
"No; but He says He loves to come and dwell in the lowly and contrite heart; and if you are sorry for all the past, and willing to take Him for your visitor, and Saviour, and King, no one will be more glad than He to come."
"Bless you, miss!" said the woman, wringing her hand hard. "I never thought of it; but I will do as you say, and the first thing as ever I do shall be to clean my place up a bit for Him."
Nellie smiled with a glad look. "Ah!" she said. "It's the heart, remember, He wants."
"I know, I know; but He shall have a clean room too!"
CHAPTER XXV.
FATHERLESS BAIRNS.
DR. ARUNDEL'S carriage rolled swiftly towards Hampstead. In it were the Doctor and Mrs. Arundel and Tom, while Arthur found a seat on the box by the coachman. Nellie had already gone by omnibus with Netta and Isabel. They were all going to pay Christina the much-talked-of visit.
Arthur informed them he was "Prince Arthur" going to open and inspect "The Orphanage," and pretended to be very grand. Christina and he had kept up this little joke whenever she had made her flying visits to No. 8. He had told her that, as he was such an august personage, he must not go till everything was ready; but he had kept away with great difficulty, as the accounts from Nellie and Walter made him long to be able to talk it over and enjoy it with them. They had been backwards and forwards a good deal—Nellie to help in suggesting and arranging, and Walter to hang pictures, move furniture, and assist generally in a most wonderful way, Christina thought; for she had never before met a gentleman who could "use his hands," as she called it.
Walter was invaluable, and Ada, who was chief "aide-de-camp," used to suggest sending for him whenever the least difficulty arose. He looked in, however, on them nearly every day, and Miss Arbuthnot, who was ignorant of the episode of that walk along the shore, heartily wished that the two whom she considered so suitable for each other should find it out. She, too, remembered the past; but she had wisdom enough neither to refer to it nor to make any remark as to the present. She welcomed Walter gladly, and thought the day seemed rather blank which had not brought his pleasant face. Did Christina think so? If so she kept it to herself; for nobody could guess.
As Dr. and Mrs. Arundel drove along Seymour Street on this bright afternoon of their visit to Christina, the carriage was brought to a stand by a crowd collected round some object at the side of the road.
"I wonder what it is?" said Mrs. Arundel, leaning forward anxiously.
"I do not suppose it is much," said Dr. Arundel; "but I will go and see."
He got out, and pressed into the crowd. "What is it?" he asked.
"A woman fainted," was the reply.
"Let me in then," he answered; "I am a doctor."
The by-standers made way for him, and he found himself in a moment by the side of a woman who was lying on the curbstone, her head supported by the friendly knee of an elderly woman who had been passing when she fell. Even in her fainting condition she was clutching an infant, who was crying painfully, in her wasted arms.
Dr. Arundel begged the people to stand further away to give her air, while he dipped his handkerchief in a jug of water which someone had brought, and bathed her face and hands, and then sent a message to his carriage for his wife's smelling-bottle. Gradually the poor creature began to revive; and as she did so, she held her baby tighter to her breast.
"Stay, you will hurt it," said Dr. Arundel tenderly; "no one will take it away; do not press it so."
She instantly desisted, but opened her eyes and gazed at his face in a wild kind of way.
"You are better now," he said soothingly.
"Oh, yes!" she answered, trying to struggle to her feet. "Let me go on."
"Where is your home? You are not fit to be out, my dear," said the kind doctor in his fatherly manner, gently preventing her rising.
"No; I am dying," she said, "dying of starvation!"
The by-standers who could hear this looked appalled, and several hands were put in pockets to draw out some money.
"You are ill, my dear," he said. "Where is your home?"
"I have no home," she answered in a low tone. "I was taking her to the river—when—I can't remember," she said, looking bewildered.
"Were you going to the workhouse?" he asked, not hearing.
"No, no, not there! I was driven to it," she said huskily, "she was so hungry; I had nothing for her—she cried so dreadfully. I had sold everything; I had had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, and I could not see her starve, so I started. But, oh, my baby, it is so hungry!"
She looked down on its wee pinched face, and wrapped her thin tattered shawl closely round it again protectingly, and, oh, so tenderly.
"My poor girl, you are very ill," said the doctor; "but if you will come to a good woman I know of, she will take care both of you and baby; should you like that?"
"Not be separated?" she exclaimed, looking up at him. "Oh, say that again! How can I part with my baby?"
"Yes," he said, "you shall be together. It is not far from here."
The crowd had begun to disperse. Several small coins had been placed in the doctor's hands for the woman's relief, and he looked round now at the shops near. A chemist's was close, and next door to it a second-rate coffee-house. He told the poor creature he would be back in a moment, and hastened in and asked for a cup of coffee. The woman who was serving had seen the commotion, and quickly poured out some, asking, as was natural, "What is the matter, sir?"
"Dying of consumption and starvation," he answered.
"Oh, sir!" said the woman.
"Too true; there is many a respectable woman who goes down, and down, and down, and dies at last, sooner than ask for help."
He took the cup, and returned to the dying woman. He poured a little in the saucer, and put it to her lips.
"My baby first," she said faintly, drawing back.
"Not coffee for her; get some milk," he said, looking up at the coffee-house keeper, who had followed him out.
She hastened back, and soon came with some in a teacup.
Meanwhile the sick mother had with difficulty raised herself from the still-supporting knee, and had settled her babe in her lap, so that when the milk came she might be ready for it. Then she stretched out her wasted hand for the coffee, and drank it eagerly.
When the milk arrived, the young mother took the spoon and poured a little into the poor little mouth. The child stopped crying, and swallowed it; but before she could get ready the next spoonful it began again.
"When was it last fed?" asked Dr. Arundel.
"I had nothing for it," she answered, "so I spent my last halfpenny last night for a hap'orth of milk, and it had the rest of that early this morning."
"Poor little baby," he said pityingly. "Now while you give it a few more spoonfuls, I will go and get a cab, and will take you where I promised."
He went to his wife, who had been anxiously looking out of the carriage window, but could not leave little Tom.
"Starvation!" he said sadly. "Poor things. I cannot go with you, love; I must take her to Cromer Street. What a mercy our little hospital room has a bed vacant!"
"It is indeed; but cannot you come?"
"No; I am so very sorry; but it will be a wonder if she pulls through the next few hours. She is revived now, and we must get her to bed as fast as possible; she is in the last stage of consumption."
"Oh, poor, poor creature!"
"Yes; and I want to speak to her of Christ, so good-bye. Ask Christina if she can attempt a baby three or four months old; for there will be very shortly another little orphan cast on the world."
"I will tell her. Poor mother! Poor baby!"
"Drive on now, love; you can do no good to her; and I shall call a cab at once."
He gave the signal to the coachman, and the carriage once more proceeded on its way.
Tom was very silent. He had heard enough to understand, and he held his mother's hand tightly, but did not like to ask her any questions; for she seemed sad, and Tom kissed her hand softly over and over again, without getting more than a loving pressure in return.
"Poor creature!" she said at last.
"Will she die?" asked Tom, speaking for the first time.
"I fear so. Oh, Tom, what must it be to leave a baby behind on the cold world."
Tom kissed her hand again, and then said softly, "You often say, mamma, we must trust everything to Jesus; I suppose, if she loved Him—"
"Yes, my dear," she answered, rousing herself; "that is the only way. 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee.'"
She bent down and kissed his pale little face.
"So Tom has turned comforter," she said, smiling softly, and looking at him.
"When shall we get there?" asked Tom presently.
"Very soon; we are just up the second hill, and soon we shall have a third. That shows how high it is, Tom."
"Here is the Heath," exclaimed his mother; "and here are the donkeys Christina so dislikes! And now we turn down to the left, and shall be there in a moment."
As she spoke they drew up at Sunnyside. There at the gate stood Christina and Ada, while just inside the garden they could see Nellie, Isabel, and Netta, who had already arrived. Walter came forward when he heard the carriage, for he had been specially invited for the grand occasion.
"Where is Dr. Arundel?" said Christina, looking astonished when he did not appear.
"He was prevented at the last moment; we must tell you about it," said Mrs. Arundel.
"What a pity," exclaimed Ada.
"He was so sorry, and so was I. He sent you a message, which I must give you presently."
Mrs. Arundel turned to superintend the lifting out of her invalid; but Arthur and Walter were accustomed to moving him, and now did it very cleverly, so that without a shake, he was laid on the drawing room sofa.
"We got here ever so long before you," said Isabel, bounding in through the French window; "what made you so long?"
Mrs. Arundel explained all about it to a very interested audience, and then gave Dr. Arundel's message to Christina, who looked very grave for a moment when she heard the age of the baby.
"Do you think I could?" she asked Mrs. Arundel.
"I do not see any insuperable objection as you have Margaret Fenton, but if you had not, it would be another thing. It will, however, fill her hands and yours in a wonderful way; you will begin work in earnest then."
"Just what I should delight in," said Nellie; "but, oh, we are forgetting the poor young mother!"
The sad story rather sobered the happy party, and it was some little time before they could turn their thoughts away from it.
"Is not this a nice room, mamma?" said Ada presently.
"Oh," said Christina, "this is not the part you will care about! When Tom is able, we must go into the other room."
Tom soon said he should like to go, so Arthur and Walter carried him between them, while Christina led the way.
The "other room" was "the play-room." The name "nursery" had been discarded, because Ada said, "There might be children of all ages."
Like the drawing room, it had windows to the ground, with a south-west aspect, looking over the garden, the Heath, and the Surrey hills.
The floor was covered with a bright-coloured kamptulicon, while a very ample hearthrug was laid at the fireplace, which had a large wide-barred guard.
The walls were decorated with tasteful pictures, several really good engravings, and half a dozen plainly illuminated texts, which had been Walter's gift. The pictures were all Scripture subjects; for, as Christina said, earliest impressions last the longest.
On one side of the large room three small tables, hardly two feet high, were standing, and near them were six or eight tempting little wooden chairs, of various shapes, which would just suit the tables and the little occupants of the play-room.
Ada sprang forward when her mamma was looking at these. "Now these are my especial pets," she exclaimed; "they are the dearest little tables and chairs. Christina, let me fetch Alfy!"
"Very well," said Christina, smiling.
Ada opened a door at the end of the room, and called, "Alfy! Maggie!"
The little ones, who were with Margaret Fenton in the dining room, came rushing in. And though Maggie was very shy, Alfy feeling he was with old friends, calmly walked to the little table nearest him, and took his seat in a small arm-chair.
He proceeded to open a box of toys which stood conveniently there, and took no further notice of the guests. Maggie, however, kept close to Ada; for her mother had wisely closed the door, and disappeared.
"It is delightful," said Mrs. Arundel; "a most lovely room!"
Near the window were two rocking-chairs and a medium-sized table, the rest of the floor was left unoccupied, except by a few chairs against the wall.
Two large cupboards had been fixed on either side of the fireplace. On the door of one of these was painted in neat letters, "No fresh toy to be taken out till the last one is put away." This had been Nellie's suggestion; for though the children could not read perhaps, the nurse could read it to them.
On the other cupboard was painted likewise, "Each toy to be put neatly into its own box when done with."
Arthur laughed heartily at this, and said, pinching her soft pink cheek, "That's exactly like our Nell—as practical and as tidy as can be."
"Now for the dining room," said Ada.
This was somewhat like other dining rooms, but was also covered with kamptulicon, and a good many high chairs stood round the wall; while Christina's long dining table, sideboard, and handsome chairs gave an air of comfort to the room.
"Shall you have dinner with the children or not?" asked Arthur.
"Sometimes, perhaps; but I have my aunt to think of too; and I fancy we shall perhaps make our lunch when the children have dinner, and then dine alone at six o'clock."
"I am sure that would be wise," said Mrs. Arundel.
The kitchen was next inspected, and there they found the new cook, and Ellen, who looked delighted to see them all again.
"You must see Mrs. Fenton's cottage presently," said Christina.
Next came the bedrooms. There were six—Miss Arbuthnot's, Christina's, a spare room, and a servants' room, while two of the largest had been reserved for the children.
The walls of these were painted a pale green, and "could be washed," as Ada explained. The little beds and cribs were covered by snowy counterpanes, and were so arranged that a single strip of green carpet could be put down the middle of each room. The blinds were green, and the window-hangings, which were devised to take down and put up "with no trouble," were white. The china was also green and white, and everything looked fresh, and countrified, and peaceful.
Tom was deposited in some convenient place in each room in turn, and took a keen interest in it all.
"It is beautiful," said Mrs. Arundel, pleased.
"And here is a bath-room," said Ada, opening a door close by, "with hot and cold water laid on."
Christina opened a drawer in one of the chests, and asked them to look. They all gathered round, and as they peeped in they saw neatly arranged a complete suit of clothes for a little child of about Maggie's size.
"These are all Ada's work," said Christina proudly; "every stitch! and I can assure you she has been industrious to get it done, besides all the other things she has been doing for me from morning till night, and her school too."
Mrs. Arundel was delighted, and could not forbear giving her daughter a loving kiss.
Ada blushed deeply at the praise, but said softly, "It was very little to do after all the goodness and love—"
"Ah!" said her mother, understanding the unfinished sentence. "But He accepts the least thing done for His sake, dear."
"Here is another contribution," said Nellie, for Netta had been squeezing her hand during the last few minutes, and now brought forward a little parcel which she and Isabel had conveyed to Hampstead with the greatest care and pride.
"Why what is it?" asked Christina, bending down and taking it from them.
On being undone, the parcel was found to contain two nicely-made little petticoats, and two list bodies, lined with unbleached calico, which looked as if they would wear for ever.
"Who are these from?" said Christina, looking kindly in the two little faces.
"From us," answered Isabel, "for the little orphans."
They were delighted with the loving thanks which they received, and with seeing their work placed cosily by the side of Ada's.
Walter, who was standing close behind holding Tom's frame safely on one of the little beds, now said to Christina, "Did you hear the sound of a tea-bell?"
She smiled, and said, "I think I did; but they must go round the garden first, or it will be dark. What a beautiful October day it is!"
For it was the first of October, the month that was the last of Walter's holiday.
They then went round the pretty garden and visited Mrs. Fenton's cottage, where Mrs. Arundel would have liked to stay to have a chat with the dear old woman; but Christina stood beckoning to them, and they had to cut their wanderings short.
"Buttered toast is not nice cold," she said, "so let us begin, dear friends."
They had a very happy tea-time; and there was plenty to talk of, and many questions to ask Christina about what she would do, and how she would arrange, while Miss Arbuthnot sat next to her niece, and looked very happy and contented.
"Aunt Mary likes my orphanage better than she expected," she said, laying her hand on her aunt's.
"Yes, my dear, I do; and I feel pleased to try and help in any way. I have no doubt when Christina gets more children, our hands will be very full."
"No fear of there being plenty of children when once you are ready," said Walter.
"But what is this 'hospital room' you were mentioning, where that poor creature is gone?" asked Christina. "I have never heard of it."
"That is one of papa's little quiet bits of 'work for the King,'" answered Mrs. Arundel. "He rents two rooms in Cromer Street, near us, where he has put a sort of Bible-woman nurse, who lives in one of them, and undertakes to nurse and care for any special sick one whom papa may send to her. She is able also to visit a few very poor invalids, who are without the means to pay for even a little attention, and to these her periodical visits are the greatest boon. She settles her own patients comfortably, and then goes out for an hour about eleven o'clock, and again later in the day, to make a bed for someone here, or a little gruel for someone there, and then home again almost before she is missed. We have had several very interesting cases, and the gratitude of the sick for a little kindly nursing is most touching."
"It is a beautiful plan," said Christina warmly, "and so very simple and natural."
"There is the carriage come for us," said Arthur, "and 'the Prince' has been so very interested in everything that he has forgotten to be as grand as he intended! What a pity; but he has enjoyed himself extremely notwithstanding."