he long summer days passed all too quickly, and autumn came again.
The days began to shorten, and the evenings to be cold. Nelly felt the
change in an unmistakable manner, for her cough returned worse than
ever, and her appetite and strength began to fail rapidly. But the
hopeful little child battled bravely with her growing weakness, and
each morning went forth to earn her daily bread.
One afternoon in October Benny was down on the pier, when he saw Perks coming towards him, and not wishing to have anything to say to him, he was about to turn away, when Perks called out,
"Does yer want to hear a bit o' news?"
"No!" said Benny.
"Yer wants to 'ear what I knows, I'm sartin."
"Well! what is it?" said Benny, carelessly.
"Your Nelly's killed!"
"It's a lie!" said Benny, paling to the lips.
"'Taint a lie, neither; she's been run over with a 'bus, an' 'ad her yed cut off."
"You lying thief!" said Benny. "If yer not out o' my sight in a minit I'll pound yer to a jelly."
And Benny made a rush towards him. But Perks was not to be caught, and was soon out of sight.
Benny did not believe a word Perks had said; and yet, somehow, his words troubled him, and very long seemed the time till four o'clock, when he would meet her in the shadow of St. George's Church.
If Perks' only object was to plague and annoy Benny, he could not have been more successful, for try as he would, he could not get Perks' words out of his head. Punctually at four o'clock he was standing by the church, but Nelly was not there, and a dull pain crept into his heart, such as he had never felt before. Five minutes pass—ten minutes—fifteen minutes pass, and still Nelly had not come, and Benny began to fear that something had really happened to her.
Just then he saw Bill Tucker—a boy of his acquaintance—coming towards him.
"Have yer seen Nelly, Bill?" he shouted, when the lad got within hearing distance.
"Ay; ain't yer heerd?"
"Heerd what?" said Benny, growing paler than ever.
"Why, she's got hurt," said the other.
"Are 'e sure, now?" said Benny, great tears starting in his eyes.
"Ay, quite sure. I seed the perlice myself takin' her to the 'firmary."
"Oh, no! 't aint true, are it, Bill? Say yer a-foolin' me," said Benny, trembling from head to foot.
"I wish it weren't true," said, the lad, "but I seed 'em pick her up mysel', an' I's 'feared she's dead; she looked like it."
"Did a 'bus run over her?"
"No. A big dog runned agin her, an' she fell with her yed on a sharp stone."
"Yer quite sure, Bill?"
"Ay, quite," said the lad; "but go to the 'firmary an' see for yoursel'."
"Which way?" said Benny.
"Haaf-way up Brownlow Hill, an' roun' to the left; a mighty big 'ouse."
And off Benny started, like the wind. By dint of many inquiries he found himself in the right street, but looking in vain for the Infirmary.
Just then a policeman came up.
"Could yer tell me where the 'firmary are, please?" said Benny, doffing his cap.
"Why, there, right afore your eyes."
"What, that?" said Benny, pointing to the huge building.
"Ay, to be sure," said the policeman.
"Oh, lor'!" was the reply, "I thought that wur the 'ouse the Queen lived in."
The policeman was about to laugh, but noticing Benny's troubled face, he said,
"Do you want to get in?"
"Ay," said Benny, "that I do."
"Then go up this street. There's the lodge door on your left; you can't miss it."
"Thanks, sir," and off Benny started. In response to his timid knock the door was opened by a kind-looking man.
"This are the 'firmary, ain't it?" said Benny.
"Yes, my little man," was the answer. "What do you want?"
"I wants to know if Nelly are in 'ere?"
"I don't know. Who is she?"
"My sister," said Benny, the tears starting in his eyes.
"When was she brought here?"
"To-day. Bill Tucker said as 'ow she was hurt in the street an' brought here."
"Yes, a little girl was brought in two or three hours ago."
"Wur she very white, an' had long hair?"
"Yes, my little man."
"Oh, that wur Nelly. Let me see her, please."
"You cannot to-day, it's against rules; you can see her to-morrow morning, after ten o'clock."
"Oh, do let me jist peep at her."
"I cannot, my little fellow; and besides, it would do her no good."
"But it ud do me good," said Benny, gulping down a great lump in his throat. "She is all I has in the world."
"I'm very sorry, my boy, but you can't see her to-night."
"Not for jist a minit?"
"No, not to-night."
"She ain't dead, then?"
"No, but she is unconscious."
"Will she get better?"
"I hope so. Now run away and come again to-morrow, and rest satisfied that your little sister will be well taken care of."
"Oh, please," said Benny, making a last appeal, the great tears running down his cheeks the while.
"I cannot let you see her, however willing I might be," said the man. "Now run away, there's a good lad."
"Oh, dear," groaned Benny, as he stepped out into the darkening street. "What shall I do? what shall I do?"
He had tasted no food since noon, but he never thought of hunger. He had been on the tramp all the day, but he felt no weariness. There was one great pain in his heart, and that banished every other feeling. Nelly was in that great house suffering, perhaps dying; and he could not speak to her—not even look at her. What right had these people to keep his Nelly from him? Was not she his own little Nell, all that he had in the wide, wide world? How dared they, then, to turn him away?
Hour after hour he wandered up and down in front of the huge building, watching the twinkling lights in its many windows. How could he go away while Nelly was suffering there? Could he sleep in his snug corner while his own little Nell was suffering amongst strangers? It could not be.
So when the great town grew silent around him, he sat down on a doorstep nearly opposite the entrance, and waited for the morning.
The night was chilly, but he felt not the cold; his heart felt as if it would burn through his body. How long the night seemed, and he almost wondered if morning would ever come.
Suddenly a thought struck him. Had he not better pray? He remembered how Nelly prayed every night ere she lay down to sleep, and once he had prayed and felt all the better for it. He would pray again.
So he got up and knelt on the cold flags, and looking up into the silent heavens, where the pale stars kept watch over the sleeping earth, he said, "Oh, Mr. God, I's in great trouble, for Nelly's got hurt, and they's took her into the 'firmary, an' won't let me see her till to-morrer, but You knows all about it, I specks, for Joe says as how You knows everything. But I dunna want her to die, for Joe says You takes people who dies that is good to a mighty nice place; nicer'n Eastham by a long chalk, an' how You has lots an' lots o' childer; an' if that be the case, I's sure You needn't take little Nell; for oh, Sir, she's all I's got in the world. Please let her stay an' get better. Oh, do now! for I'll break my heart if she dies. An' 'member, I's only a little chap, an' I's no one but Nelly; an' 'tis so lonesome out here, an' she in there. Please make her better. If I was in Your place, an' You was a little chap like me, I'd let Your Nelly stay. I would for sure. An' oh, if You'll let my Nelly stay an' get better, I'll be awful good. Amen."
Benny waited for a few moments longer in silence, then got up and crept to the doorstep, and in five minutes after he was fast asleep.
He was aroused in the morning about nine o'clock by the door being opened suddenly, against which he was leaning, and he fell into the passage. He got up as quickly as possible, but not in time to escape a fierce kick dealt him by a hard-featured woman.
Poor child! it was a painful awaking for him. But he was thankful it was broad day. He was cold, and almost faint for want of food, yet he was not conscious of hunger.
When at length he was admitted into the Infirmary he walked as one in a dream. At any other time he would have noticed the long corridors and broad flights of stairs. But he saw nothing of this to-day. He kept his eyes fixed on the nurse who walked before him, and who was leading him to his little Nell.
He was told that he must be very quiet, and on no account excite her, or it might prove fatal to her, as she was in a very critical state. She had recovered consciousness on the previous night, but she was so weak, and her nervous system had received such a shock, that she could not bear any excitement.
Benny only partly understood what it all meant, but he had determined that he would be very quiet, and make no more noise than he could possibly help. So he followed the pleasant-faced nurse as silently as possible into the Children's Ward. He noticed the two long rows of beds between which they were passing, but he had no eyes for the occupants.
At length the nurse stopped by the side of a little cot, and with a sudden bound he stood by her side. He could hardly repress a cry that rose to his lips, and a great lump rose in his throat that almost choked him; but with a tremendous effort he gulped it down, and brushed away the tears that almost blinded him.
There in the cot was his little Nell, pale as the pillow on which she lay, yet with a look of deep content upon her face, and just the shadow of a smile lingering round the corners of her mouth.
Benny was about to throw his arms around her, but the nurse held up her finger. Nelly's eyes were closed, so that she did not know of their presence, and Benny was made to understand that he must wait until she should open her eyes of her own accord.
So he stood as motionless as the little figure on the bed, gazing with hungry eyes at his little sister, who was silently slipping away from his grasp. He had not to wait long. Slowly the great round eyes opened, the vanishing smile came back and brightened all her face, the lips parted sufficiently for her to whisper "My Benny." And with a low cry Benny bent down his head, and the little wasted arms were twined about his neck, and then the round eyes closed again, and the nurse saw two tears steal out underneath the long lashes, and roll silently down her cheek.
For a few moments they remained thus in silence, then Benny, unable longer to restrain his feelings, sobbed out—
"Oh, Nelly! I can't bear it; my heart's breaking."
"Don't give way so," she said softly. "It's so comfortable here, an' the good Lord'll take care o' you, Benny."
"But you will soon be better, Nelly, won't you?"
"Yes, Benny, I'll soon be better, but not as you mean it. I's going to Jesus, and shall never have no more cough, nor feel no more pain."
"Oh, no! you's going to get better. I axed the Lord last night to make you better an' let you stay."
"No, Benny, I shan't stay long. I's known it for months, an' I's willin' to go, 'cause I know as how the Lord will take care of you."
"But I canna let you go," said Benny, sobbing louder than ever.
Then the nurse came forward, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. "You must not excite your sister," she said kindly, "for that is not the way to make her better."
"Oh, but she's all I has," he sobbed.
"Yes, poor boy, I know," she replied. "But if your sister leaves you she'll be better off, and will not have to tramp the streets in the cold and wet; so you must think that what is your loss will be her gain."
Nelly raised her eyes to the nurse with a grateful look for talking to Benny in that way. And before he left he had grown calm, and seemingly resigned. It was a painful parting; but Nelly did her best to cheer him up, reminding him that in two days he would be able to come and see her again.
Granny was in great trouble at the absence of the children, and it was no small relief to her when, about noon, Benny put in an appearance at Tempest Court. One look at his face, however, was sufficient to convince her that something had happened, and when Benny told her what had befallen his little Nell, the old woman sat down and cried; for she knew very well that never more would the little face brighten the dingy court. And granny had got to love the sweet, patient little child as her own; and though for months she had been convinced that the little flower was marked to fall, yet it had come in a way she had not expected, and, like Benny, she felt it very hard to give her up.
After dinner Benny went out again to face the world. It was with a very sad heart that he did it; for he felt that from henceforth he would have to fight the battle of life alone.
The morning flowers displayed their sweets,
And gay their silken leaves unfold,
As careless of the noontide heats,
As fearless of the evening cold.
Nipt by the winds unkindly blast,
Parched by the sun's directer ray,
The momentary glories waste,
The short-lived beauties die away.
—S. Wesley.
oe Wrag heard the news in silence. Benny, who had gone to him to tell
him what had happened to Nell, was not half pleased that he said nothing
in reply. But Joe was too troubled to talk. Like granny, he had known
for months what was coming, but it had come suddenly, and in a way that
he had not expected, and the old man, as he afterwards expressed it, was
"struck all of a heap."
Benny waited for some time, but finding Joe was not inclined to talk, he made his way home, leaving the old man gazing into the fire, with a vacant look in his eyes and a look of pain upon his face.
No one ever knew what the old man suffered that night. It was like tearing open the wound that had been made twenty years before, when his only son, as the crowning act of his unkindness, ran away from home, and had never since been heard of.
"If I could only believe that there was the smallest hope o' my ever getting to heaven," he muttered, "it 'ud be easier to bear."
And he hid his face in his hands, while great tears dropped between his fingers to the floor.
"Bless her little heart!" he murmured; "she did not believe as how any wur excluded; she allers stuck to that word 'whosoever,' an' sometimes I wur inclined to think as how she wur right. I wonder, now, if she wur? for sartinly it looks the reasonabler.
"Bless me!" he said after a long pause, "I'm getting mortal shaky in my faith; I used to be firm as a rock. I wonder if it are my heart getting righter, or my head getting wrong. But I mun have a few more talks wi' the little hangel afore she goes."
As soon as Joe was liberated from his watch, he made his way direct to the Infirmary, and bitterly was he disappointed when told that he could not be admitted, and that if he wanted to see the child he must come again on the following day.
His heart was yearning for a sight of her face, and another day and night seemed such a long time to wait; but he turned away without a word, and went slowly home.
Evening found him again at his post of duty, and the next morning found him anxious and sad. The night had seemed so very long, and he was burning with impatience to get away.
The men came to work at length, and off he started with all possible speed. The porter at the door knew him again, and he was admitted without a word.
Nelly was expecting him; she knew it was visitors' day, and she was certain he would come, so she waited with closed eyes, listening for the footfall of her old friend.
She knew without looking up when he stooped beside her, and reached out her wasted hand, and drew down his weather-beaten wrinkled face and kissed him.
For a long time neither of them spoke. Joe felt if he attempted to utter a word it would choke him, for she was far more wasted than he expected to see her, and somehow he felt that that was the last time they would ever meet on earth.
Nelly was the first to break the silence.
"I's so glad you's come, Joe," she said simply.
"Are 'e, my honey?" said Joe, with a choking in his throat.
"Ay," she replied; "I wanted to see yer once more. You's been very good to me, Joe, and to Benny, an' I wanted to thank you afore I died."
"I dunna want thanks, honey," he said, sitting down in the one chair by her bedside, and hiding his face in his hands.
"I know yer does not want 'em, Joe; but it does me good, an' I shall tell the Lord when I gets to heaven how good you've been."
Joe could not reply, and Nelly closed her eyes, and whispered again to herself, as she had often done,
"Seaward fast the tide is gliding,
Shores in sunlight stretch away."
Then after awhile she spoke again, without opening her eyes.
"You'll not be long afore you comes too, will yer, Joe?"
"Perhaps the Lord will let me look at you through the gate," sobbed Joe; "but I'm afeard He won't let sich as me in."
"Oh, yes, Joe," she said, opening her eyes with such a pained look. "Does you think the Lord does not love yer as much as I do? An' won't He be as glad to see yer as I shall?"
"It does look reasonable like, my purty," said Joe; "but, oh, I'm so afeard."
"'Who-so-ever,'" whispered Nelly, and again closed her eyes, while the troubled expression passed away, and the smile that Joe loved to see came back and lit up her pure spirituelle face with a wonderful beauty. And as Joe watched the smile lingering about her mouth as if loth to depart, he felt somehow as if that child had been sent of God to teach him the truth, and to lighten the burden of his dreary life by giving him a hope of heaven.
"'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,'" he muttered to himself.
"Yes," said the nurse, coming softly to his side, "out of the mouths of babes He perfects praise."
Joe looked up in surprise. "Do you think the bairn is right?" he stammered out.
"I'm sure of it," she replied.
"But what about the elect?" said Joe, in a tone of voice that proclaimed how deeply he was agitated.
"I think the elect are 'whosoever will,'" she replied.
"So Nelly thinks," he said, and shook his head sadly, as if such news were too good to be true.
The nurse, besides being a kind motherly woman who dearly loved children, was also a person of strong common sense, and hence she saw Joe's difficulty in a moment.
"You have no children of your own, I suppose," she said.
"I had a son once," said Joe. "I hope he's still living."
"You do not love him, of course?"
In a moment Joe was on his feet.
"Love him!" said Joe, trembling from head to foot. "I'd lie down an' die for him this blessed moment if it would do him good."
"Ah! he has been a very good son, I expect," said the nurse.
Joe sat down again, and hid his face in his hands. After awhile he looked up and said with evident emotion,
"No, he was what people would call a bad son—a very bad 'un."
"Then if he were to come home again, you certainly would close the door against him?"
"Close the door agin him! Close the door agin my own child, my own flesh and blood! Why, I've been longing for years for him to come home. I wish he'd try me, he should have the best of everything I've got in the house. Oh, marcy! how my poor old heart 'ud ache with joy if he were to come to-night."
Joe had got quite excited while delivering himself of this long speech. So the nurse said quietly,
"So you think, Joe, that you are better than God."
"Better 'n God?"
"Yes; more merciful, and loving, and kind."
"Who said so?" said Joe, staring at her as if he could scarcely believe his own ears.
"Well, you implied it," said the nurse, quietly.
"Me implied it?" said he in a tone of bewilderment. "How so?"
"Well, you say you have a bad son who has been away many years, and yet you say you love him still, so much so that you would willingly die for him; and that, bad as he has been, if he were to come home to-night, instead of driving him from the door, you would give him the heartiest welcome, and think nothing in the house too good for him. And yet you think God will turn away you. So you must admit, Joe," she said with a smile, "that you think you have more love and mercy in your heart than God has in His?"
Joe was silent. And Nelly whispered to the nurse, "Thank you so much."
After awhile Joe got up, and leaning over the crib, he kissed the pale brow of the little sufferer. "Good bye, my purty," he whispered. "We'll meet again, I do believe."
"Ay, Joe, I'm sure we shall."
"I'm main sorry to lose 'e," he said in a faltering voice, and brushing his rough hand across his eyes; "but I ken give yer to God."
"I'll be waiting, Joe, 'gin you come. Now kiss me, for I'll be gone, I reckon, afore you come again."
Silently Joe bent over her, and pressed a last lingering kiss upon her paling lips. Then, sobbing, turned away and left the room.
Granny and Benny called a little later in the day, and found her sinking fast. Her last words to her brother were: "Be good, Benny, an' the Lord will provide, an' we'll meet in heaven." Then she lay as if asleep, taking no further notice of any one.
Once or twice the nurse heard her repeating, "Seaward fast the tide is gliding," and felt that the words were sadly true.
The nurse told granny that the child was dying, not of the blow on the head, but of swift decline. Nothing could save her, she said. The shock to her nervous system had of course hastened the end; but for that she might have lived till another spring, but certainly not longer. She did not seem to suffer in the least. Hour after hour she lay quite still, while the tide of her little life ebbed swiftly out, and the darkness stole on apace; but she did not fear the gloom. The brave little heart that had borne so patiently the frowns of an unkindly world, was now resting in the love of God.
The smile that had so long flickered over her face like firelight on a wall, now settled into a look of deep content. No murmur ever escaped her lips, not even a sigh; now and then her lips moved as if in prayer, that was all.
And thus she lay waiting for the messenger that should still the little heart into an everlasting rest, and listening for the footfalls that should tell of the coming of her Lord.
After her last look at Benny, she was never seen to open her eyes again, but gradually sank to rest.
So fades a summer's cloud away,
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,
So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore.
Two days after, Joe and Benny went together to the Infirmary. But they were too late: the pure spirit had gone to God, and the little tired feet were for ever at rest.
"Cannot we see her?" said Benny.
"No, you had better not," was the reply.
Benny felt it very keenly that he might not see his little dead sister, and yet it was best.
They were told, however, if they would be at the New Cemetery at the east of the town on the following day, they might see her buried, and mark her grave.
It was a cold cheerless afternoon when little Nelly Bates was laid in her grave. There was no pomp or display about that funeral, for she was buried at the public expense. Only two mourners stood by the grave, Benny and Joe, but they were mourners indeed.
Benny went from the grave-side of little Nell to his corner under granny's stairs, and sobbed himself to sleep. And Joe went to his hut to muse on the mercy of God, and to revel in his new-found hope of heaven.
Be what thou seemest: live thy creed,
Hold up to earth the torch divine;
Be what thou prayest to be made;
Let the great Master's steps be thine.
—Bonar.
ow Benny lived through the next few weeks he never knew. It seemed to
him as if the world had become suddenly dark. The one little being who
had been the sunshine of his life was buried up in the damp cold grave,
and now there seemed nothing to live for, nothing to work for, nothing
even to hope for; for what was all the world to him now his little Nell
was gone?
He missed her everywhere, and was continually fancying he saw her running to meet him as he drew near the church where they had regularly met for so long a time; and sometimes he would turn round with a sudden start, and with the word "Nelly" on his lips, as he fancied he heard the pattering of her little feet behind him.
He grew despondent, too. While Nelly lived there was some one to work for, some one to bear rebuffs and insults for; but now what did it matter whether he sold his matches or not? He could go hungry; he did not mind. In fact, he did not seem to care what became of him. There seemed to him nothing to fight the world for—nothing.
But for Joe he would have moped his life away in some dark corner where no one could see him. But Joe taught him to believe that his little sister was not lost, only gone before, and that perhaps she looked down upon him from heaven, and that it might grieve her to see him fretting so.
So he tried to sell his matches or earn a penny in some other way in a listless, hopeless manner. But it was very hard work. And when evening came he would drag himself wearily to his little corner under granny's stairs, and generally sob himself to sleep. He missed his little companion in the evenings almost more than at any time, and wished that he had died with her.
Sometimes he went out to the cemetery to see her grave; and no one knew what the little fellow suffered as he knelt there with clasped hands, dropping scalding tears upon the cold earth that hid his little sister from his sight.
He seemed to take no comfort in anything, not even in the story-books that granny had hunted up for him, and which he was beginning to read so nicely. He was proud of his learning while Nelly lived; but all that was changed now.
And so the weeks wore away, and winter came in dark and cold. But people generally did not seem to mind the darkness nor the cold, for Christmas was drawing near, and they were anticipating a time of mirth and merrymaking, of friendly greetings and family gatherings.
The trains began to be crowded again with homecomers for their holidays; shopkeepers began to vie with each other as to which could present in their windows the grandest display; the streets were crowded with well-dressed people who were getting in a stock of Christmas cheer; and everywhere people seemed bent on enjoying themselves to the utmost of their ability.
All this, however, only seemed to make Benny sadder than ever. He remembered how the Christmas before Nelly was with him, and he was as happy and light-hearted as he well could be. Yet now the very happiness of the people seemed to mock his sorrow, and he wished that Christmas was gone again.
One bitterly cold afternoon he was at his old place, waiting for the railway boat to come up to the stage, in the hope that some one of its many passengers would permit him to carry his or her bag, when he noticed a gentleman standing against the side of the boat with a portmanteau in his right hand, and holding the hand of a little girl in his left.
The boat was a long time coming to, for a heavy sea was running at the time, and the gentleman seemed to get terribly impatient at the delay. But Benny was rather glad of it, for he had abundant opportunity of looking at the little girl, whose pleasant, smiling face reminded him more of his little dead sister than any face he had ever seen.
"Golly, ain't she purty!" said Benny to himself; "and don't that woolly stuff look hot round her jacket! And what long hair she have!—a'most as long as little Nell's," and he brushed his hand quickly across his eyes. "An' she looks good an' kind, too. I specks the gent is her par."
And Benny regarded the gentleman more attentively than he had hitherto done.
"Well now, ain't that cur'us!" he muttered. "If that ain't the very gent whose portmantle I carried the night faather wolloped me so. I'll try my luck agin, for he's a good fare, an' not to be sneezed at."
By this time the gangway had been let down, and the gentleman and his little girl were among the first to hurry on to the stage. In a moment Benny had stepped forward, and touching his cap very respectfully, said,
"Carry yer bag, sir?"
"No," said the gentleman shortly, and hurried on.
"Oh, please, sir, do!" said Benny, his eyes filling with tears. "I's had no luck to-day."
But the gentleman did not heed his tears or his pleading voice. He had been annoyed at the delay of the boat, and he was in no mood to brook further delay. So he said sternly,
"Be off with you this moment!"
Benny turned away with a great sob, for since Nelly died rebuffs had become doubly hard to bear. He did not try to get another fare, but stood looking out on the storm-tossed river, trying to gulp down the great lumps that rose continually in his throat.
"I specks I'll have to starve," he thought bitterly, "for I can't get a copper to-day nohow."
Just then he felt a touch on his arm, and turning his brimming eyes, he saw the little girl he had noticed on the boat.
"What's the matter, little boy?" she said, in a voice that sounded like music to the sad-hearted child.
They were the first kind words that had been spoken to him for the day, and they completely broke him down.
At length he stammered out between his sobs,
"Oh, I's so hungry an' cold, an' little Nelly's dead; an' all the world is agin me."
"Have you no father?" she said.
"No; I's no father, nor mother, nor sister, nor nobody. Nelly was all I had in the world, an' now she's dead."
"Poor boy!" said the kindly little voice. "And how do you get your living?"
"Oh, I sells matches or carries gents' portmantles when they'll let me, or anything honest as turns up."
"Well, don't think papa is unkind because he spoke cross to you, but he had been annoyed. And here is a shilling he gave me to-day; you need it more than I do, so I will give it to you. Are you here every day?"
"Ay, I's mostly here every day," said Benny, closing his fingers around the bright shilling as one in a dream.
The next moment he was alone. He looked everywhere for the little girl, but she was nowhere visible.
"Golly!" said Benny, rubbing his eyes, "I wonder now if she wur a hangel. Nelly said as 'ow the Lord 'ud provide. An' mebbe He sent her with that bob. I wish I had looked more particler to see if she had wings, 'cause Nelly said as how hangels had wings."
More than twenty times that afternoon Benny looked at the bright new shilling that had been given him; the very sight of it seemed to do him good. It seemed to turn the tide, too, in his favour, for before dark he had earned another shilling; and that evening he trudged to his home with a lighter heart than he had known for many a week.
The weather on Christmas Eve was anything but orthodox. There was neither frost nor snow; but, on the contrary, it was close and sultry. Benny had been out in the neighbourhood of Edge Hill with a big bundle for a woman, who dismissed him with three halfpence, and the remark that young vagabonds like he always charged twice as much as they expected to get. So Benny was trudging home in a not very happy frame of mind. He had been tolerably fortunate, however, during the early part of the day, and that compensated him to some extent for his bad afternoon's work.
As he was passing along a street in the neighbourhood of Falkner Square he was arrested by the sound of music and singing. Now, as we have hinted before, Benny was very sensitive to the influence of music, and, in fact, anything beautiful had a peculiar charm for him. The window of the house before which he stopped stood slightly open, so that he was not only able to hear the music, but also to distinguish the words that were being sung.
It was a pure childish voice that was singing to a simple accompaniment on the piano,—
"There is beauty all around,
When there's love at home;
There is joy in every sound,
When there's love at home.
Peace and plenty here abide,
Smiling sweet on every side;
Time doth softly, sweetly glide,
When there's love at home."
Benny waited, as if rooted to the ground, until the song ended; waited a minute longer in the hope that the singer would begin again. And in that minute the little singer came to the window and looked out and saw our hero; and Benny, looking up at the same moment, saw the face of his angel, and hurried away out of sight, as if he had been guilty of some wrong.
The little singer was Eva Lawrence, the daughter of a well-to-do man of business in the town. She was not ten years of age by several months, but she was unusually thoughtful for her age, and was as kind-hearted as she was thoughtful.
As soon as Mr. Lawrence had finished his tea that evening, and had betaken himself to his easy chair, little Eva clambered upon his knee, and, putting her arms about his neck, said,
"Papa, what do you think?"
"Oh, I think ever so many things," he replied, laughing.
"Now, you naughty man, you're going to tease again. But I've begun wrong way about, as usual. I want to ask a favour."
"I expected as much, Eva," said her father, smiling. "But how many more Christmas presents will you want?"
"But this is not a present exactly."
"Oh, indeed," he said, pretending to look serious.
"Now, don't be a tease," she said, pulling his whiskers, "for I'm quite serious. Now listen."
"I'm all attention, my dear."
"You want a little boy to run errands and sweep out the office, and do little odd jobs, don't you?"
"Well, who has been telling you that?"
"Nobody, papa; I only wanted to know, you see. So you do, don't you?"
"Well, I shall the beginning of the year, for the boy I have is leaving. But what has that to do with my little girl?"
"Well, papa, our teacher is always telling us that we ought to be little missionaries, and lend a helping hand to the needy whenever possible, and do all the good we can."
"Quite right, my dear; but I can't see yet what my little girl is driving at."
"Well, she was telling us only last Sunday that lots of people would be better if they had better surroundings; and that if something could be done to get those little street Arabs more out of the reach of temptation, they might grow up to be good and honest men and women."
"Well, Eva?"
"Well, papa, I should like for you to give one of those little street boys a chance."
"Who do you mean?"
"That poor boy I gave the shilling to on the landing-stage the other day, don't you remember—when you called me a silly girl?"
"And were you not silly, Eva?"
"No, papa, I don't think I was; for I am sure the boy is not bad, he has such honest eyes. And he said he had no father, nor mother, nor brother, nor sister, and he seemed in such trouble."
"Well, my child?"
"You know now what I mean, papa. I confess I had quite forgotten the poor boy till this afternoon I saw him standing in front of the house. I had been singing 'Love at Home,' and he had been listening, I think; and I fancy it had made him sad, for his eyes were full of tears, but when he saw he was noticed he hurried away as quickly as possible."
"And suppose I should decide to employ this boy, Eva, where should I find him?"
"Oh, he said he was nearly always on the landing-stage. He sold matches there, except when he was running errands."
"Well, I will think about it, Eva."
"Oh, promise, papa, there's a good man."
"I don't believe in making rash promises, Eva," said Mr. Lawrence kindly; "and, besides, I have very little faith in those street boys. They are taught to be dishonest from their infancy, and it is a difficult matter for them to be anything else; but I'll think about it."
And Mr. Lawrence was as good as his word; he did think about it, and, what is more, he decided to give the little boy a trial.
Benny was on the landing-stage on New Year's Day when Mr. Lawrence was returning from Chester. He had scarcely left the railway boat when several lads crowded around him with "Carry yer bag, sir?" Benny among the number.
He quickly recognized our hero from the description Eva gave, and placed his bag in Benny's hand, giving him the address of his office. Arrived there, much to Benny's bewilderment, he was invited inside, and Mr. Lawrence began to ply him with questions, all of which he answered in a straightforward manner, for there was little in his life that he cared to hide.
Mr. Lawrence was so much impressed in the boy's favour that he engaged him at once, promising him two shillings a week more than he had intended to give.
When Benny at length comprehended his good fortune—for it was some time before he did—he sobbed outright. Looking up at length with streaming eyes, he blurted out, "I can't tell 'e how 'bliged I is," and ran out of the office and hurried home to tell granny the news, not quite certain in his own mind whether he was awake or dreaming.
Granny was upstairs when Benny burst into the room, and when she came down the first thing she saw was Benny standing on his head.
"Oh, granny," he shouted, "I's made my fortin! I's a gent at last!"
Granny was a considerable time before she could really discover from Benny what had happened; but when she did discover she seemed as pleased as the child. And a bigger fire was made up, and a more sumptuous supper was got ready in honour of the occasion.
I know not how others saw her,
But to me she was wholly fair;
And the light of the heaven she came from
Still lingered and gleamed in her hair;
For it was as wavy and golden
And as many changes took
As the shadow of sunlight ripples
Or the yellow bed of a brook
—J.R. Lowell.