The old Worcester jug

"BE SURE YOU COME AGAIN."

"Bless you, child, we'll take good care of them for you," said Mrs. Griffin, touched by this mark of childish confidence. "You may trust us to do that. And come and see me again soon, will you? Tell Mrs. Cook she must not send you to the House till she has seen me. Tell her Mrs. Griffin of the Old Curiosity Shop says so."

Maggie nodded, and a more hopeful look came to her white little face.

"Good-bye: you are very kind," she said; and with a sudden movement of gratitude, she held up her face to be kissed.

All the mother in Mrs. Griffin awoke at that moment. She drew the child close to her, and kissed her fondly, uttering gentle words of pity as her hand stroked the soft dark curls. But the renewed sound of knocking overhead reminded her of her wifely duty.

"Good-bye, my darling, I must not stay now," she said; "be sure you come again."

But still she lingered for a moment to watch little Maggie pass down the lane.

"Dear little child," she murmured, "how my heart goes out to her! She's just about the age of my little Polly. To think of such a child being sent to the workhouse! And the poor mother! I must tell Griffin about her."

CHAPTER IV.

John Griffin makes a Vow.

HURRYING upstairs with many prickings of heart for having left him so long to himself, Mrs. Griffin came breathless to her husband's bedside. She found him looking flushed and uneasy.

"Who have you been chattering to down in the shop?" he asked, very crossly. "I should think you might have cut short your gossip for once."

John Griffin was far from being ill-tempered; but even the most good-humoured of men are apt to get rather bearish when enduring severe pain.

"It was such a dear little girl," began Mrs. Griffin, scarcely heeding his irritable tones in her eagerness to tell the news; "she's brought your plates, and oh, John, her mother's dead!"

"What do you mean? Whose mother's dead?" he asked, his tone sharper than before.

"Why, you know that poor widow who sold you the jug you was so pleased with," said Mrs. Griffin; "and the plates we thought you wouldn't get, the child has brought just now. The reason she did not bring them before was because her mother died that very night."

"What night?" he asked.

"Why, Monday night, of course, after they got back from here," said his wife; "the poor soul was lodging at Mrs. Cook's. Her death must have been awful sudden. The child says she broke a blood-vessel. You noticed that she looked very ill, and you remember how she coughed. The poor little girl says she is to be taken to the workhouse, for she's left all alone in the world with no one to look to."

Mrs. Griffin's words were checked by a deep groan from her husband.

"What's the matter?" she asked, anxiously. "Is the pain worse?"

"Mortal bad," he replied; "it cuts me like a knife."

"Dear, dear," said his wife, full of pity; "I'll get you another hot poultice; p'raps that 'll ease it."

And as she hurried about to attend to his wants, she said no more of the widow or her child. Griffin could not have heeded her words had she spoken. All his powers of mind and body were held captive by acute pain. But his wife's words had had their effect on him. The news of little Maggie's sudden bereavement had suggested to him the possibility that death might be near for him also.

The doctor looked grave when he came that evening, and found old Griffin worse; graver still the next morning, when the patient's temperature was higher than before, whilst his strength was diminished by a restless night of pain.

Dr. Thornton was a young and handsome man, but with the thoughtful, quiet demeanour which befitted his profession. He was very kind-hearted, and his straightforward manner quickly won the confidence of his patients. He had not been long in practice, and his work lay mainly amongst the poorer classes; but he did not think it beneath him to give poor people his best attention, nor to employ for their advantage every alleviation which his knowledge and skill could devise. He cherished an enthusiastic belief that his profession was the finest one in the world, and he shrank from no self-denial which its pursuit might demand. Leslie Thornton's friends often spoke of him as a "good fellow," and never was the epithet more justly applied.

When he had carefully examined his patient, and given the wife every instruction she needed, he stood silent by the bed for a few minutes, his face wearing a look of grave deliberation. He had sent Mrs. Griffin away, that he might feel free to speak as he would to his patient; but still he hesitated, debating with himself whether it would be better to tell the old man what a critical point his malady had reached, or to leave him unprepared to meet death, if death should come. Whilst he hesitated, old Griffin's voice decided the question for him.

"I be very bad, doctor," he said feebly; "I never felt anything like it before. I'm as weak as a baby. But I suppose you're going to set me up again. I haven't got to the end yet?"

His last words were uttered as a question, and the doctor could not meet them with equivocation.

"I don't give up hope for you, Griffin," he said; "I've seen men pull through worse illnesses than this; but at your age such an attack is a serious thing. It is only right I should tell you that it may be beyond my power to save you."

The change which passed over old Griffin's face was very slight. His eyelids drooped, his lips quivered for a moment, that was all.

"Perhaps, if you wished it, it would be well for you to see a clergyman," suggested Dr. Thornton.

"No, no, I want no parsons," said the old man, with sudden fierceness; "I've done very well without them all my life, and I'll do without them to the end."

"Then you're not afraid to die?" asked the doctor.

"No, I'm not afraid," said the old man, doggedly; "what would be the good? If I am to die, I must die. It'll be hard for the poor old wife; she's had a sight of trouble in the past with losing her babies and little Polly, and she won't like to lose me too. But sending for a parson wouldn't make it any better."

"Have you no sins to repent of?" asked Dr. Thornton.

"Repent?" repeated the old man, feebly. "Why should I repent? I've been no worse than other people. I've always worked hard, and supported myself honestly. I've done nobody any harm."

But even as he spoke there came to the old man's mind a vision of the pale, sad-looking widow, and her little dark-eyed girl. Could he say he had done no one any harm, when he remembered how he had dealt with them? And the poor woman was dead. Perhaps he would meet her in that other world of which he had some dim notions.

"Do you believe in a God?" asked the young man, presently, curious to know whether this strange old fellow had any religious belief whatever.

Griffin made a slight movement of the head, which seemed to signify affirmation.

"Do you ever pray?" asked Dr. Thornton.

"Not since I was a boy," was the reply.

"You have heard of the Lord Jesus Christ?"

"May be, I dare say I have; but I don't know much about Him," said old Griffin, dully,—"religion was never in my line."

His words startled Leslie Thornton. It seemed marvellous that in a town notorious for the number of its Christian sects, living within sound of the bells of many churches, and with several places of worship of different kinds only a short distance from his door, one could be found so ignorant of spiritual things as this man appeared to be.

There was silence in the room for a few minutes. The young doctor was conscious of a painful sense of embarrassment. He asked himself whether he ought not to make an effort to enlighten the dull, dark spirit of this man, who lay on the borderland of death. But never had speech seemed so difficult. A sense of his own ignorance and uncertainty kept him silent.

"I am not fit to talk to you about these things," he said, at last, very awkwardly; "but you ought to hear about the Lord Jesus, who died for us sinners. I wish you would send for a clergyman."

"No, thank you, sir," said the old man, stolidly; "I am much obliged to you, but I shall do very well as I am; I want no parson."

And so the doctor left him apparently undisturbed by any qualms of conscience. But Dr. Thornton's words had made more impression than he imagined. Old Griffin was not so stoically indifferent to the possible approach of death as he had chosen to appear. A vague feeling of uneasiness had been awakened, which grew more clearly defined as his thoughts wandered back into the past, and many an incident of bygone years came to mind again.

He fought against the fear of death. He was not going to give up hope yet. The doctor had said that he might recover, and he did not mean to die if he could help it. But still he could not banish from his mind the thought of that solemn possibility.

The doctor had asked him if he had not sins to repent of. Certainly he had sinned; he could not deny that; but his sins were not worse than the sins of most people. Would God remember them against him? Would He punish him for his sins? Weak and worn though he was, Griffin tried to examine himself concerning the evil he had done. He had not always been strictly honest in his dealings; but then what man of business was? There were tricks in all trades. He had sometimes told a lie in order to further a sale; but there had seemed no great harm in that. The sin which lay most heavily on his conscience, as he reviewed the past, was his dishonest transaction with regard to the old Worcester jug. It was mean of him, he owned to himself, not to have given its full value to the poor widow who was evidently sorely in need of money. Could the same thing happen again he would certainly act differently. He wished it were possible now to make amends. But the poor woman was dead; he could do nothing for her. Still there was the child; could he help her? He would thankfully do it if he could, and so get rid of this burden, which pressed so heavily on his mind.

And thinking thus, John Griffin made a vow—a solemn vow—which he hoped that God would hear and approve. If his life were prolonged, and he rose from this bed of sickness, he would early make it his business to inquire into the little orphan's state, and befriend her, if he found that she needed a friend.

"Old woman," he said to his wife, a little later, "do you think I've been a bad man?"

"A bad man, John? By no means," said Mrs. Griffin, emphatically; "you've never drank nor swore, nor done anything very bad that I know of. You've always worked hard enough for two men; and I'm sure you've been a good husband to me. What makes you ask that?"

"There's things I could wish undone," said old Griffin, feebly; "if I get about again I'll try to do different."

"Don't ee talk like that, Griffin," said his wife, beginning to cry; "it cuts me to the heart."

"Don't cry, old wife," said her husband, gently; "if I should go, you won't be left so badly off. I've saved a nice little sum. There's money in the savings bank, and money invested in the funds, and the stock of old china in the shop is worth a good round price."

"Oh, John, what good would money do me, if I was left all alone?" sobbed the poor woman. "I hope I should soon follow you. I couldn't live long without you, I know. If little Pally had lived, it would have been different perhaps but now—"

Her words were lost in a choking sob.

Griffin drew a weary sigh, caused by pain, both bodily and mental. What had been the good of his toiling and saving all these years, if this was to be the end? The rare old china and antique ornaments below could give him no comfort now. They seemed worthless, like everything else in this short, vain life. He knew that his wife set no value on them. She would have been happier as the wife of a poor man with a house full of children.

He closed his eyes, and sighed again. Presently he sank into an uneasy doze. His wife sat by his side, and watched him anxiously. By-and-by he began to murmur in his sleep.

Bending close she caught the words, "the little maid."

"He's thinking of our Polly," said the mother to herself. But she was mistaken. The little white face, with sad, beseeching eyes, which haunted the sufferer's dreams, was not the face of little Polly.

CHAPTER V.

Maud Platten and Leslie Thornton.

IT was on a Sunday evening that Dr. Thornton had that serious talk with the old china-dealer. John Griffin was the last patient that it was necessary to see that day, and when the doctor left his house, he was about to attend the evening service at church. As he walked quickly up the lane he was pondering the old man's case, and trying to weigh the probabilities of life and death.

He was anxious about this patient, in whom he felt much interest. He had before attended him for a slighter ailment; and being somewhat of a china fancier, had occasionally lingered in the shop to examine Griffin's curious wares, and listen to his description of their age and value. He liked the quaint bluntness of the old man's speech. He had been little prepared, however, to find him in such a state of darkness in regard to spiritual truth.

The discovery shocked Leslie Thornton; for whilst deeply versed in medical knowledge, he was not one of those who try to ground everything upon the verities of their science, and think to prove their high intelligence by refusing to believe all truth which lies beyond the range of natural law. Leslie had been trained in childhood by a Christian mother, whose gentle life had taught him better than her words the glory of righteousness, purity, and truth. He had a deep reverence for the Christian faith, although he had not known how to explain its truth to the ignorant old man whose earthly course seemed so nearly run.

But Dr. Thornton ceased to muse upon old Griffin's ignorance, as turning from the lane, he crossed the busy thoroughfare, and made his way up the hill, which the weary widow and her child had ascended on that last sad day of her life. He was going to church, but he was not going alone, and thoughts of one who was waiting for him made him quicken his footsteps as he heard the church bells begin to ring. He walked quickly till, almost at the top of the hill, he paused before the large many-windowed house at which the widow had lingered on that bitter night. He rang the bell, and when the servant opened the door to him, entered the house with the air of one who felt himself at home there.

"At last!" cried a bright young voice, as he opened the door of the dining-room. "I began to think that some horrid patient was keeping you, and that I should have to give up church for to-night. Not that I should have minded very much, for Mr. Wright does get most dreadfully prosy, and the curate is even worse. Still I am glad you have come."

The speaker was a young girl of most attractive appearance. As she came forward elegantly dressed, her dark eyes shining with pleasure, and her face wearing the prettiest blush and smile, the look of pride and joy which lit up the young man's countenance could be easily explained.

"Thank you, Maud," he said, as he pressed her hand; "you knew I should come if I could, did you not? Where are the others?"

"Oh, papa would go on. You know what a dreadful fidget he is about getting to church in time," said the young lady, laughingly; "but my gloves refused to button, so I thought I would wait for you to do them for me. You are so clever at such things, you know."

No one seeing Leslie as he bent to button the glove across the tiny wrist, need have asked in what relation he stood to the fairy-like little beauty beside him. She was Colonel Platten's daughter, and from many suitors had chosen the handsome young doctor for her future husband. Her father, a proud, stately man of the frigid, unbending temperament which makes few friends, and is often judged more harshly than it deserves, was of opinion that she might have done better, but he did not oppose her choice. He liked Leslie Thornton, who was of good family, and a gentleman in the highest sense of the word, and having had painful proof in the past of the deplorable consequences that may ensue from crossing the will of a high-spirited girl, the colonel had judged it best to allow Maud to gratify the inclination of her heart.

Maud was not the colonel's only daughter, though by many of her acquaintance she was supposed so to be. There had been another, the only child of his first marriage; but she had left his home long since, and marrying in defiance of his will, and under very unhappy circumstances, had been disowned by her father. It was the old story of a high-spirited, self-willed girl rebelling against the rule of an unwise, unloving step-mother. Margaret, or, as she was generally called, Maggie Platten, was twelve years of age when her father married his second wife, quite old enough to prove a most intractable charge to her step-mother. As an only child she had been much indulged and petted, and having loved her gentle mother with all the warmth of a passionate, impulsive temperament, she keenly resented her father's marrying again only a year after the decease of his first wife.

The father and daughter had never learned to understand each other. He loved his child, and believed that he was consulting her interests in marrying again. She judged him hard and unfeeling for so doing. Unhappily, the lady he had chosen for his wife was not of a temper that could smooth matters in the home. It was soon clear that she and her step-daughter would never get on together. So Maggie was sent to a distant boarding-school, and during six long years saw scarcely anything of her home, for, by the influence of her step-mother, it was generally arranged that she should spend her holidays with relatives, or that her father should pay her a visit instead of her returning to form one of the family circle.

But when Maggie was of an age to leave school, it was impossible to banish her longer. The young lady came home in no placable mood. She resented the injustice which for so long had kept her from her place at home, and was determined to visit it upon the head of the chief offender.

A little sister and two baby brothers had been added to the home since she left it. Maggie could have loved them, for she was naturally of a warm, affectionate nature; but in her anger towards her step-mother, she tried to steel her heart against her children. There were constant storms in the house after Maggie's return. It was the common talk of their acquaintance how ill Mrs. Platten and her step-daughter got on together. Many sympathized with Maggie, amongst them Mrs. Allen, her father's widowed sister, who was then residing in the town. Maggie was a beautiful girl, very popular in society, and Mrs. Platten hoped that she would soon marry and go to a home of her own.

But Maggie was in no hurry to give up her maiden freedom. The suitors whom her father approved were not to her taste. At last, however, Maggie's wayward heart made choice of a lover; but it was a choice which appalled her father. The young man was only a banker's clerk, and though of gentlemanly and pleasant appearance, there were rumours abroad affecting his character, which would have made the colonel deny him his daughter had he not deemed him so vastly beneath her in social position. The colonel forbade the match positively and contemptuously, as something too preposterous to be considered for a moment.

But his wilful, deluded daughter was determined to have her own way. She was now twenty-one, and in possession of some small property which she had inherited from her mother. She resolved to assert her independence of parental control, more especially that exerted by her step-mother. With this object in view, she hired rooms in the house in which her aunt was lodging, and taking advantage of her father's temporary absence from home, removed thither, taking with her all her possessions, and many things which had belonged to her mother.

The colonel's pride and affection were alike wounded by his daughter's action. He never forgave his sister for having encouraged Maggie to take this step, and he held her in a great measure responsible for all that followed. For after a few months of estrangement had passed, the foolish girl put the crowning stroke to her defiance by marrying the young man of whom her father so highly disapproved.

That his disapprobation was not unfounded was soon manifest. A few weeks after the marriage, strange discoveries were made at a certain bank. A long course of embezzlement practised by one of the clerks had suddenly been brought to light in the most surprising manner. The fraud was traced to Maggie's husband, and he only saved himself from the hands of justice by absconding in hot haste.

Colonel Platten's proud spirit was tortured by the shame and disgrace thus brought home to him, and his anger burned fiercely against his daughter. He had no pity for her sorrow. He vowed that she should be nothing to him from henceforth. He wished never to see her or hear of her again; he desired to forget that he had ever had such a bad, ungrateful child.

And he had his wish. He had never seen her since that day, when in passionate, bitter words he thus upbraided her.

Denounced and cast off, Maggie fled from the town where she was so well-known. She could not bear to live on there in disgrace and misery. What became of her no one knew. Some thought that she had gone to join her husband in his retreat on the Continent, others whispered that she had been seen in London. But the mystery was not explained, and soon people forgot to wonder about her. The excitement of the scandal died out in a comparatively short time, and those who had once been proud to boast the acquaintance of the beautiful Miss Platten, no longer mentioned her or even thought of her.

The colonel recovered from the wound to his pride. What the wound to his affections had been, his cold, stern demeanour suffered no one to judge. He never named his elder daughter, nor permitted any one to speak to him about her. She was as one dead, nay, worse than dead, for the memory of the dead is cherished, whilst he desired to forget that such an one as Margaret had ever existed.

The unhappy affair at the bank was hushed up, the bank managers, out of consideration for Colonel Platten, refusing to prosecute. Now, after nine years, the whole sad history was forgotten save by those intimately concerned, and a few busybodies who kept mental registers of all events affecting the lives of their acquaintance. Even Leslie Thornton, in his close connection with the family, was not clearly informed as to the unhappy circumstances which had severed the elder Miss Platten from her relatives.

Maud herself could not have given an accurate account of the matter. She had never troubled herself about the fate of the half-sister whom she could faintly recollect as a tall and beautiful being who had attracted her childish admiration. She was content with her own happy lot as the only daughter of her home. Her father was never demonstrative in his affection towards her; but he treated her with kindness and indulgence, and after her mother's death, which happened when she was about seven, she had things pretty much her own way.

Maud Platten was a lovely, winsome girl, though a few of the colonel's oldest friends, who remembered the beauty of his elder daughter, whispered that Maud was not to be compared with her sister. But Leslie, who had had no opportunity of making such a comparison, thought himself a happy fellow to have won the love of this brightest and fairest of girls. He had already taken a house at a very short distance from the colonel's, to which in a few weeks' time he hoped to take his bride. His heart beat high with hope of future happiness. He had many things to say to Maud about the new home and their new life as they walked to church together on that Sunday evening, and for the time he forgot old Griffin and his anxiety concerning him.

But the old man's words had made a deep impression on him, and they returned to haunt his mind during the course of the sermon, which Maud found so prosy. It was in truth a discourse not calculated to hold the attention or interest the minds of the congregation; and it was little wonder that its young and restless members looked about, and let many thoughts pass through their minds, which the preacher would have judged unsuited to the time and place.

"Maud!" Leslie startled his betrothed by saying, as he walked home with her after the service. "I want your advice about one of my patients; I want you to tell me how I ought to deal with him."

"Leslie! What an idea! What ridiculous thing will you be saying next?" asked Maud, merrily. "As if I could advise you about your patients! I know nothing of medicine."

"I was not going to consult you about medicine, dearest," he replied; "with all due respect for your abilities, I think I can prescribe for him without your aid. But this is a case of ministering to a mind diseased, or rather to a mind that is in darkness. What would you say, Maud, to a poor old fellow stricken with an illness that may end in death for aught that I can tell, and who knows no more than the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, and seems in utter ignorance of the religious truth that you and I have learned from our childhood?"

"Oh, Leslie! How can I tell? What a strange question to ask me!" said Maud, in an uneasy tone. "You should send Mr. Wright to talk to him. I don't see that it is your business to trouble about it."

"But the old fellow refuses to see a clergyman," returned Dr. Thornton; "he has evidently a strong prejudice against 'parsons,' as he calls them. I feel as if I were responsible for his state, somehow. I don't like to leave him to himself, without trying to say a word that may help him. I wish you would tell me what to say to him, Maud. Women understand these things so much better than men. If my mother had been living, she would have been the one to send to him."

He was silent, waiting for her to reply.

But Maud was silent too. Her lover had never before spoken directly to her about religion, and she felt vexed with him for introducing so distasteful a subject. Neither did she care to hear any of the details of his profession. She thought that it showed want of consideration on his part to speak to one so young and charming as herself of so doleful a thing as an old man's death-bed.

Moreover, Maud was inclined to feel jealous of Leslie's frequent allusions to the mother whom he had loved so dearly. She could almost fancy at times that he deemed his mother to have attained a higher standard of feminine excellence than herself, and wished to hold his parent up as an example to the girl whom he had chosen for his wife. Maud resented the comparison. She felt sure that she could never be good after the pattern of Leslie's mother, and she had no great wish to attain to such goodness. Accustomed all her life to be spoiled and flattered, it would have gratified her vanity to know that Leslie believed her to be absolute perfection, and to hear him tell her that there never had been and never could be a woman to be compared with herself. But, warmly as he loved her, it was not Leslie's way to deal in extravagant compliments.

"What sort of old man is he?" asked Maud, presently, when the silence had lasted some minutes, and she felt oppressed by the sense that she was expected to say something.

Leslie at once began to describe the peculiarities of the old man's home and circumstances.

Maud listened with amusement to his description of the funny old curiosity shop, and made no objection when he suggested that he should like to take her there some day to inspect the old man's store, and judge if he had any bric-à-brac suitable for their new drawing-room. But she was dismayed when he said suddenly: "I suppose you would not like to go and see the old man whilst he is ill, dearest?"

"Certainly not," she replied, hastily; "you frighten me by mentioning such a thing. I have the greatest horror of seeing sick people. I wish you were not a doctor, Leslie, to have to go to such horrid places, and see such horrid sights. I am sure they prey upon your mind, and you are getting—morbid—is not that the word? Yes, you are getting morbid, or you would not talk as you did just now."

"Nonsense, I am not morbid," said Leslie, with a smile; "but a doctor cannot help taking a serious view of life."

"Then don't try to make me take it," said Maud, playfully, though with meaning in her words; "I hate taking serious views of anything. I do not mean my life to be serious; I mean it to be bright and gay. So mind you are not to talk to me about death-beds and sicknesses, or I will not marry you after all."

Of course it was only a joke. Maud laughed merrily when she had so spoken; but her words had a sting in them for Leslie.

"I would not sadden you for the world, darling," he protested, earnestly; "it shall not be my fault if your life is not bright and happy, but you must not say again that you wish I were not a doctor. I don't like to hear you say that."

"I am sorry; I will not say it again if you do not remind me too forcibly of your profession," she promised; "and now I have something very nice to tell you. Papa has agreed to take tickets for the next ball at the Assembly Rooms, and of course you must go with us. I am so delighted, for I want to have another good dance before I become a sober matron."

"Do you think you will ever attain to that dignity?" asked Leslie, lightly.

"I am afraid not," she returned, with a silvery laugh; "but about the ball; you will go with us, will you not?"

"I shall be most happy, if it is possible," he replied; "you do not think I should like you to go without me?"

By this time they were again at Colonel Platten's house. Dr. Thornton would have entered and stayed an hour or two, as his habit was on Sunday evenings, but, unfortunately, a messenger was awaiting him there with an urgent summons to one of his poor patients.

"How tiresome!" murmured Maud, as he hurried away, having lingered to the last moment in saying his farewell: "I wish he were not a doctor." And she went into the house feeling vexed and disappointed.

Leslie, too, as he went on his way, carried a weight of disappointment. He was pained by the manner in which Maud had received his confidence regarding old Griffin. He had counted on finding in his betrothed a friend to whom he could always speak freely about his patients, and who would sympathize with his anxieties on their behalf, and comfort him under the many harassing cares and vexations inseparable from the career of a medical man. He was unprepared to learn that Maud did not like his profession, and did not care to hear any mention of the work to which he gave his time and strength. Would it always be thus, he wondered? Would she always love pleasures and gaieties better than all else, and try persistently to shut her eyes to the serious side of life? No, he did not believe it. Love would not long allow him to think critically of his beautiful Maud. He would not have her other than she was. She would grow wiser in time. When they were married, he felt sure that he should find her all that he could possibly desire, and a far sweeter wife than he should ever deserve.

CHAPTER VI.

How John Griffin kept His Vow.

JOHN GRIFFIN'S illness was not to end in death. At his next visit the doctor saw a slight improvement in his patient's condition. The favourable symptoms continued, and in a few days Dr. Thornton, much to his satisfaction, could pronounce the old man out of danger.

Mrs. Griffin's joy at thus being relieved from her terrible dread was unbounded. She overwhelmed her husband with tokens of her affectionate solicitude; and though she was often repaid with scant thanks or impatient words, and found old Griffin in his time of convalescence more irritable and difficult to please than she had ever known him, she took his crossness in very good part. It was but natural, she argued, that, after all he had endured, he should be rather fractious, when he at last began to get well. Griffin was not the first man who had found the slow, tedious process of recovering health and strength more trying to his patience than the acute suffering which had preceded it.

How was it now with John Griffin's vow to befriend little Maggie? Did he forget it, as so many forget the resolutions made in sickness, when the dreaded stroke is removed and the blessing of health restored to them? No, he did not forget it; it abode in his mind as a resolve to be carried out when he was strong and well again, and found a convenient time in which to attend to it. But his conscience did not trouble him so keenly concerning the purchase of the Worcester jug, now that death, which seemed so near, had again receded into the distance.

Still, Griffin truly meant to make inquiries about Maggie, and to do what he could to make reparation to her for the wrong done to her mother, only in his present weak and languid state he did not feel that he could hurry himself about it. He shrank from speaking to his wife on the subject. He fancied that she would not understand his remorse concerning the good bargain he had made, and that she would wonder at his taking such interest in a child of whom they knew nothing.

So he said not a word about little Maggie, though he kept wishing that his wife would mention her again. He would have liked to know if she had heard any more of the child. Yet he did not put any questions which could draw forth the information he desired; and, little guessing what was in his mind, Mrs. Griffin said nothing on the subject for some time.

But though she was silent concerning her, Mrs. Griffin had not forgotten the little orphan. The child had indeed passed from her mind during the worst days of her husband's illness, when his state demanded her utmost care and attention. But as soon as he began to mend, and became less dependent on her, her heart, set free from its painful suspense, had leisure to dwell upon little Maggie, and wonder how she was faring. She said nothing to her husband about the child, for the simple reason that she did not wish to recall to his mind his business affairs, for she saw that Griffin was disposed to fret and worry over the loss of trade which resulted from his illness. He had always managed his shop without aid, save such as his wife could give him. A jealous dislike to teaching any one the secrets of his trade had kept him from taking an apprentice.

So, whilst he had been laid aside, the business had been almost at a stand-still, except so far as his wife's interposition had been able to meet the customers' requirements. John Griffin felt an eager longing to get back to his shop again. He was sure that things must be getting into a terrible muddle there, and feared that some of his treasures might get broken during his absence. But Dr. Thornton laid such stress on his taking care, and not exposing himself to cold, that the old man dared not hurry out of his sick room.

Mrs. Griffin was hoping from day to day that little Maggie would come again as she had promised. But she did not come, and Mrs. Griffin began to fear that the child was already lodged in the workhouse. She longed to put on her bonnet, and slip round to Mrs. Cook's lodgings to make inquiries about Maggie; but she could not get away from home even to go that short distance. It was impossible to leave the shop in the day-time, and towards evening Griffin usually grew so weary and fretful that he could not bear his wife to be out of his sight for five minutes.

Thus it happened that, without their exchanging a word on the subject, similar thoughts were often passing through the minds of husband and wife. At last, however, they came to an understanding.

It was a Sunday evening, and Mrs. Griffin was free from all cares respecting the shop. Griffin had taken a fresh start on the road towards recovery. He had come downstairs for the first time, and was sitting in an arm-chair by the fire, having just partaken with good appetite of a meal of tea, bread and butter, and salted herring. He was looking more like himself, as his wife told him, than she had seen him look for many a day, and some of the bright content which had returned to his countenance was reflected on hers as she sat and watched him. She really might leave him now in safety for a few minutes, if only he would not think her unkind for proposing such a thing.

"John," said Mrs. Griffin, suddenly, "Thursday will be Christmas Day!"

"So it will," returned he; "dear, dear, what a long time I've been ill. It's quite time I got about to look into things again."

"You'll soon be able to now, I hope," said his wife, brightly; then, feeling that there was no longer any need to keep silence, she added, "I do wonder what sort of a Christmas that poor dear child will spend. Did I ever tell you, John, about her bringing her mother's books for us to keep for her?"

"What child do you mean?" asked her husband, though he fancied he knew.

"Why, you know," returned Mrs. Griffin, "the dear little girl who brought the plates, and said that her mother was dead, and that she was going to be sent to the workhouse."

"Yes, I remember," he said, shortly; "but what about her mother's books?"

"I'll tell you," said his wife; and at considerable length, and with much circumlocution, she told him of Maggie's visit, and repeated all that the child had said. "And I asked her to come again, and to tell Mrs. Cook not to send her to the workhouse just at once; but she's not been near the place since, so I suppose they've sent the poor child away. She's a good-for-nothing woman, that Mrs. Cook. I doubt she has misused the dear little thing."

"And so she said that I was a good man," observed old Griffin, musingly; "well, she made a mistake there."

"Nonsense, Griffin," said his wife; "what a queer notion that is you've taken into your head. If you're not a good man, I don't know where I should find one."

Old Griffin shook his head, and was silent.

"I should like to have a look at those books that the child brought," he said, after a while; "fancy her trusting us so, poor little maid."

He sighed as he spoke, for he felt that he was unworthy the child's innocent trust.

"Yes, and such a sweet little girl, as she is too," said his wife, warmly; "she reminded me of our little Polly, John. It made my heart ache, to think of her being sent to the workhouse. But I'll fetch you the books."

She went away in search of them, and her husband was left alone, with many strange and unwonted thoughts working within his mind.

"I wonder if it would be a very foolish thing to do," he said to himself, musing over an idea which had occurred to him; "the old woman would like it. I reckon she would say 'yes,' in a moment, if I asked her."

But whatever project Griffin was pondering, until his own mind was decided on the subject, he would not venture to lay the proposal before his wife, whose feelings regarding it he could so well divine.

Mrs. Griffin soon returned with the books. She placed them before her husband—a Bible bound in faded purple morocco, with rims and clasp of tarnished gold, and a rather smaller prayer-book of similar appearance.

Griffin turned the books over in his hands ere he opened them, examining the bindings as if he were trying to appraise their value.

"We shall see what the child's name is here, I reckon," he said, glancing at the writing on the fly-leaf of the prayer-book. "Can you find me my glasses, wife?"

"She said her name was Knight—Maggie Knight," remarked Mrs. Griffin, as she handed him his spectacles.

But the name John Griffin read on the fly-leaf was not Knight. "Margaret Platten, the gift of her mother," were the words written in faded ink, and below was added a date now more than twenty years old.

"Platten!" said the old dealer, thoughtfully. "I've never heard that name before, that I know of. Have you?"

His wife shook her head, saying, "The child said the books were her mother's,—that may have been her maiden name," she observed.

"I tell you what, old woman," said Griffin, in the tone of one who stated an indisputable fact; "these are the kind of books that gentlefolks use, and depend upon it I was right when I said that that widow was a real lady. I knew it as soon as I saw her. There was a way with her that only the quality has."

"But she must have been very poor," objected his wife; "the child was miserably dressed, and I'm sure Mrs. Cook's was a wretched place for a lady to live at."

"That may be," returned her husband; "I'm not saying she wasn't poor; I know well enough she was that; but still I hold that she was one who had known better days. She was a lady who had come down in the world."

"Poor soul!" said Mrs. Griffin, in a tone of pity. "And to think that her child should be sent to the workhouse!"

Griffin had taken up the Bible, and was looking at it. He knew what the book was, for Bibles came to him occasionally in the way of business, but with its contents he was unacquainted. He knew, however, that it was the Book of God, and that teachers and preachers of righteousness founded their denunciations of evil upon its doctrines. As he now carelessly opened it, his eyes were arrested by certain words, which struck home to his conscience like an arrow sent by a sure hand. He felt a thrill of fear as he read them:

   "To turn aside the needy from judgment, and to take away the right from the poor of My people, that widows may be their prey, and that they may rob the fatherless! And what will ye do in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from far? To whom will ye flee for help? and where will ye leave your glory? Without Me they shall bow down under the prisoners, and they shall fall under the slain. For all this His anger is not turned away, but His hand is stretched out still."

What strange words were these? He had never read any like them. He could not understand what they meant; but none the less did they fill his soul with vague dread, and revive the sense of sin which had disquieted him as he lay on his sick bed, but had become less vivid with the return of health and strength. One thing was clear enough. God was angry with those who ill-treated widows or "robbed the fatherless." And he had done it! He was guilty of this sin before God. The threatening language of the Book was such as he deserved. He trembled with the fear of judgment. But he meant well. He had repented. He had vowed that he would make atonement to the child for the wrong he had done her mother, and he must do it without delay, for did not God Himself require it at his hands?

"Whatever is the matter, John?" asked his wife in alarm, for he had uttered a heavy groan as he closed the Bible, and pushed it from him.

"Matter enough," he returned; "wife, what is a man to do, when he has made a great mistake, and done something very wrong?"

"Why, the best thing he can do is to try to set it right, I should say," replied his wife, in surprise; "but you've done nothing very wrong, John."

"Yes, I have; I've done a great wrong," he said, firmly; "and I want you to help me to set it right."

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked.

"It's that child I'm thinking of," he said, hurriedly, in a voice that betrayed agitation; "I cheated her mother shamefully over that Worcester jug. Yes, I can't call it by a fairer name, it was downright cheating, and nothing else. The jug was worth at least four pounds, and I gave her only fifteen shillings for it. She was so poor and miserable-looking,—half-starved, indeed, she seemed; it was a shame of me. It's been lying on my conscience ever since."

For a few moments Mrs. Griffin kept silence, whilst she stared at her husband in astonishment. His words had brought her sudden enlightenment. Strange to say, she had not till now once thought of looking at Griffin's "good bargain" from the widow's point of view. She deemed it only natural, and quite justifiable, that he should try to depreciate and beat down to their lowest price the goods which were offered for sale. Though she had repudiated the idea that money could yield her any comfort in the event of her husband's death, Mrs. Griffin had acquired a habit of saving and hoarding, and had always been pleased to hear that Griffin's business was prospering, and his gains amounting to a good round sum. But during her husband's illness these selfish tendencies, the natural outcome of her dull narrow life, had been checked.

Little Maggie's visit, awaking the maternal instincts which had long slumbered in the childless mother's heart, had roused Mrs. Griffin's better, truer self. Love for a little child has often had power to change the whole current of a woman's thoughts. It was so with Mrs. Griffin. She saw the circumstances connected with the purchase of the jug in quite another light now.

"To be sure, John, you were hard upon the poor lady," she said, at length; "I never thought of that before, even though I heard the child say that the money her mamma got for the jug would not pay the rent and all they owed. Ah! The poor soul must have wanted money bad enough! It was a pity you gave her so little. It wouldn't have mattered if she had been a rich body. It's only right to get as much as you can out of the rich, I take it; but one shouldn't be hard on a poor widow."

"It's wrong to pay too little, I reckon, whether it's done to rich or poor," said John, whose conscience had received enlightenment during the weary hours of illness; "anyhow, I'm sorry I did it over that jug. I've repented of that sin at least, and now I'm thinking how I can best make it up to the little maid."

"Oh, John!" exclaimed his wife, eager to make a suggestion.

But he held up his hand to stay her words.

"Wait a bit, old woman," he said; "hear what I have to say first, and then we'll see if we're both of one mind. Do you know, I've been thinking many times of our little Polly, since I was took ill."

"Ah, so have I, John, often and often," cried his wife, the ready tears springing to her eyes.

"How many years is it since the little one died; do you remember?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, John; don't you?" she returned, rather reproachfully; "it'll be one and twenty years come next February."

"So long ago as that, is it?" he replied, with a sigh, to think how fast the years of his manhood were vanishing. "And she was nine years old when she died. She would have been a woman of thirty had she lived—old enough to be the mother of that little dark-eyed maid."

Mrs. Griffin looked wonderingly at her husband. She did not understand to what his words were tending. It was impossible for her to picture her lost child a grown woman of thirty. To her mother little Polly would always be—just little Polly.

"Do you see what I'm driving at, old wife?" asked Griffin, speaking with much embarrassment and hesitation. "I'm thinking that if our Polly had died when she was a woman, and left an orphan child behind her, we should have brought that child up as our own. It might have been just such another as this little Maggie. Perhaps I'm foolish to trouble about the child; but the looks of her took my fancy. It do seem a pity that such a one should go to the workhouse. She's worth taking care of, for she's real good quality, as any one can see, so if you think we could do with her here—"

"Oh, John, John, I see what you mean," exclaimed his wife, eagerly; "you think we could have her here, and bring her up in little Polly's place. No, I won't say that; no child could be like our own little Polly, but you would let her live with us."

"Would you like that?" he asked.

"You know I should like it above everything," she replied; "you know how I love children. But would you like it? Do you really mean it? For I've heard you say sometimes, and it has cut me to the heart to hear you say it, John, that it was a good thing we'd got no children, because p'raps they'd be running in and out of the shop and a-breaking your china."

"Did I say that?" he returned. "Well, well, I hope this little maid wouldn't break things. Any way, we might try the experiment for a week or two; and then, if we didn't like having her, we could send her away. Now, what are you a crying for, old woman?"

"It makes me cry to think of it," said Mrs. Griffin, hastily wiping her eyes; "it's a good thought of yours, John, and I don't believe you'll ever repent of it. But there's no time to be lost. It's full a fortnight since the child was here. Very likely that good-for-nothing Mrs. Cook has sent her already to the workhouse. If you wouldn't mind being left alone for a few minutes, Griffin, I'd run round now and inquire about the child."

"All right, go along with you, the sooner the better," said old Griffin; "I shall be very comfortable here till you come back."

So Mrs. Griffin hurriedly put on her bonnet and shawl, and set off for Mrs. Cook's.

John sat alone by the fire, and pondered the rather hasty decision he had made. Had he done a very foolish thing? It was true, as his wife had reminded him, that he had often of late years thought it an advantage that they had no hungry little mouths to feed, and no restless little hands that might meddle and make mischief amongst his treasures. He had congratulated himself on the saving of expense and trouble which this fact involved.

And now he was about to burden himself with the maintenance of a strange child,—a little girl of whom he knew nothing, save that she was of pretty and winning appearance. A few weeks ago he would have said that it was impossible for him to commit such an act of folly. Yet he could not regret his decision. As he sat and waited for his wife's return, which was delayed far beyond the few minutes of which she had spoken, he felt as eager to take charge of little Maggie as ever he had felt to secure some rare china cup or antique vase. He wondered at the strength of this new, strange feeling.

Well, he had vowed that if he rose from his sick bed he would be a different man, and this was the beginning of it. He knew not how to turn right round and start on a new course; but he was feebly groping towards the light, and in so doing was in a happier, more hopeful state than when he had walked contentedly in darkness. Though he knew not the Son of God, nor His claims upon his love, Griffin was already about to serve Him, for we cannot lay our hand, whether for good or evil, upon even the least of our human family without touching the Divine Brother of man Himself.

And as he sat by the fire, brooding over the past, and resolving to be a better man in the future, old Griffin found comfort in the words he had read in the Book:

"For all this His anger is not turned away, but His hand is stretched out still."

Could it be that the hand of God was stretched out to him—a sinful old man like him?