KATE DONALDSON.
OWING to various causes, some time elapsed before Peter Marshall was able to avail himself of Matthew Reardon's permission to call and see the children. It was not that he resented, or even remembered its ungraciousness, but because he really had had no time.
The old man was a busy worker in the crowded wilderness of human life, where the harvest is so great and the labourers—alas! that it should be so—but few; and where he had worked all the harder of late, from a presentiment he had that the night, or rather the dawn, was at hand.
Matthew had not been to the office for several days, and the kind-hearted old man remembered how ill he had thought him looking the last time he was there, and determined to go and see what had become of him.
"That poor girl, too," thought he, "I should like to meet her again. Who knows but what the Lord may be pleased to give me a word for her."
It was a strange fact—and yet not strange either, for the same thing is constantly happening, if the children of God would only observe and ponder it in their hearts more frequently than they do—that no sooner had Marshall turned into the street in which the Reardons lived, than he saw Kate Donaldson standing at the door. He knew her at once by her shawl—the same thin gay-coloured shawl. But he could not have distinguished it if she had not been standing immediately under a gas-lamp, the night being foggy, while a cold drizzling rain fell fast and drearily.
The girl started when he spoke.
"Isn't it late for you to be abroad, my child?"
"Not later than usual," was the careless reply.
"But that should not be."
"Are you going to see your friend?" asked Kate. "You'll find him at home to-night safe enough. He won't be out again in a hurry."
"I was afraid that he was worse."
"He'll be worse before he's any better, I'm thinking," said the girl.
"You think he will die?"
"I don't know anything about it. It's nothing to me—only I found her crying to-day on the stairs—not liking, maybe, to let him see her fret."
"His wife? And you were sorry for her?"
"She would not have cared for my pity, however much I had felt," replied Kate. "But I won't keep you, sir. You can help them a bit, perhaps."
"And you—is there nothing that I can do for you?"
"Nothing; thank you kindly," added the girl, after a pause, and moving away as she spoke.
"One moment," said Marshall, stepping inside the door, which was generally left open until late for the convenience of the numerous dwellers in that large gloomy house. "You will be wet through if you stand there."
"It won't be the first time by many if I am," answered Kate, recklessly.
But she followed him, nevertheless, into the spacious and dimly-lighted vestibule.
"It was only this evening," said the old clerk, "that I was thinking of you, and wondering whether the tender and loving Saviour, who is not willing that any should perish, but rather that they should come unto Him and be saved, might not have a word for his poor wandering sheep, and if so, whether He would be pleased to send it by me."
"You brought me a message once before," said the girl. "A hard message about the wrath of God. I have been trying to forget it ever since, but I can't. I don't want to hear any more."
"Poor child!" murmured the old clerk. "It was a pity that you did not also remember the way of escape of which I told you."
"Yes, I remembered—but it did not seem meant for such as me."
There was a moment's pause—just long enough for the brief prayer,—
"Lord, help me,"
And the speedy answer, "I will," to ascend and descend between heaven and earth. And then the old clerk spoke again, using his Master's words in preference to his own.
"'If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth
is not in us; but if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to
forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness!' *
'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ
Jesus came into the world to save sinners'—even the chief! ‡ And lest
any poor trembling sinner, notwithstanding these gracious promises,
should be afraid to come to Christ, our blessed Lord Himself adds, 'Him
that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'" †
* 1 John i. 8, 9. ‡ 1 Timothy i. 15. † John vi. 37.
The young girl sat down upon the stairs and buried her face in her hands, while Marshall stood silently and reverently by her side praying for her in his heart. Every now and then he could hear Matthew Reardon coughing in the room above; and then the little children began to sing a hymn, while the ceaseless hum and tread of human life went on in the busy street without.
Presently a footstep approached, descending the stairs from one of the upper rooms, and Kate arose quickly, pushing back the bright hair which had fallen over her face, and glancing round with a startled look.
"You won't go out any more to-night?" said Marshall, laying his hand on her thin, damp shawl.
"No," answered Kate, dreamily. "I don't think I'll go out any more. Thank you for bringing the message."
Marshall took a card from his pocket and gave it to her. "This is my address," said he. "If you should want a friend at any time—you won't lose it?"
"No fear of that, sir; I haven't so many friends that I can afford to lose one."
At that moment, an elderly woman appeared in sight. She walked slowly in consequence of being somewhat lame, and glanced curiously from one to the other.
Kate nodded to her, and ran upstairs without even wishing the old clerk good night.
"Were you wanting anything, sir?" asked the woman.
"All right, thank you," replied Marshall. "I know my way."
But she stood and watched him nevertheless.
"A friend of the Reardons," murmured she, as Marshall knocked at the door. "I didn't know they had a friend."
THE WORN-OUT COPYING MACHINE.
WHEN Marshall went in, he found Matthew Reardon sitting crouching over the dim fire, with his wife's shawl thrown over his knees to help to keep him warm, and looking greatly changed even in the short time since he had last seen him at the office.
"I am glad you are come," said he, holding out his thin wasted hand. "I was afraid you wouldn't after the very pressing invitation I gave you."
"If I remember rightly, I invited myself," returned Marshall, cheerfully. "At any rate, here I am. But I'm sorry to find you so unwell. Wouldn't he be better in bed, Mrs. Reardon?"
"I wish you could persuade him to think so, Mr. Marshall."
"What's the use of going to bed?" interrupted her husband, impatiently. "It only makes the cough worse. And so you came to look after me?"
"Yes; I was afraid that something was the matter by your staying away."
"What did Mr. Heighington say?" asked Matthew. "Did he think that I had been drinking again?"
"He did not say anything," replied the old clerk.
"Oh! He did not say anything—did not even miss me, I suppose?" continued Matthew, with flushed cheeks, and eyes that glittered strangely. "Mr. Marshall, you know that old copying machine at the office?"
"The copying machine?—Yes, of course I know it. There have been several new ones invented, but it answers our purpose."
"What do they do when it gets wrong and won't work, as I have known it to do several times of late?" asked Matthew.
"Get it repaired and put right again," was the reply.
"And when it is worn-out and not worth repairing?"
"Send it away and get one of the new ones, I suppose," said Marshall, with a puzzled air.
"I thought so!" exclaimed Matthew. "As long as the copying machine suits your purpose—as long as it can be repaired and made to work, it is all very well. But the moment it becomes worn-out, and past mending, you send it away and get a new one. Don't you understand, old friend?" continued he, observing his companion's bewildered look. "Why, you're a copying machine, and I'm a copying machine, and we are both of us pretty near worn-out, I take it?"
"Is he often thus?" asked Marshall, as the sick man leant back exhausted.
"Sometimes, towards evening. I think it must be from want of sleep," answered Mrs. Reardon. "It is best not to take any notice of what he says."
"Has he had any advice?"
The poor wife shook her head.
"What is it?" asked Matthew, quickly. "I don't want a doctor; I don't believe in them; I shall be better soon—quite well, I hope—well enough to come down to the office, at any rate. Or if—if I shouldn't be for a day or two longer, you won't let Mr. Heighington turn me off to get some one else in my place; you'll wait a bit for me, won't you?"
"Yes, yes," answered Marshall, soothingly; "to be sure we'll wait. But it will be of no use if you won't let any one mend you up a bit and set you all right again."
"What if I should be worn-out and past mending?" asked Matthew, in a low voice.
"I hope not, my friend, for their sakes," replied Marshall, glancing at his wife and children. "Otherwise, 'to depart and be with Christ is far better.'"
"It's very well for you to talk like that," said the sick man, with a weary sigh; "but I can't feel as you do."
"It is not to be expected," replied Marshall. "An old man like me, alone in the world. But I am sorry for you, Matthew; indeed I am."
"I believe it," said his companion. "You always spoke kindly to me; but he never did. Do you think he knew that I was going to be ill when he raised my wages?"
"Mr. Heighington. No, how should he?"
"He might have guessed that there was little chance of his being called upon to pay it very long—not even the first quarter, perhaps."
"He won't be hard upon you, I'll answer for that," replied Marshall; "and don't you be hard upon him."
"I don't want to be hard upon any one," said Matthew, wearily. "All I want is to get well and go to work again."
"And you will see the doctor I am going to send?"
"Yes, I'll see him. But I can't pay him; not just yet, at least."
"Never trouble yourself about that," said Marshall, kindly; "he's an old friend of mine, and won't mind waiting."
"Who knows," exclaimed the sick man, "but what this friend of yours may mend me up again, and make me last for years, in spite of Mr. Heighington?"
"Mr. Heighington would be very glad."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, he never mentioned your name; I don't think he even missed you. Mr. Heighington is a young man, Reardon, and has never known what trouble is; but he has a kind heart, and I verily believe that he'll be one of the Lord's people yet."
"May I ask what makes you think so?"
"Because the Lord Jesus is a prayer-hearing and a prayer-answering God, and I have been praying for young Master Frank ever since he was a child."
"It seems to me," said Matthew, "that you have been kept waiting a long while for the answer."
"His ways are not our ways," replied the old clerk, meekly, "nor His time our time. 'Though it tarry, wait for it, for it will surely come.' The Lord's way is ever the best way, and His time the best time."
"Pray for me, too," said Matthew, after a pause, "will you?"
"Surely—surely I will, my friend."
"Pray that I may be well again soon."
"Or, rather," said the old clerk, "that whether you live or die you may be the Lord's."
"I would not talk any more if I were you, Matthew," interrupted his wife, "if Mr. Marshall will excuse my saying so."
"Certainly," said the old man; "you are quite right. It's time that I was going, only I must just say a word to the children first. I heard them singing their little hymns as I came upstairs."
"Their father likes to hear them."
"It soothes him, I dare say."
"Yes, it sends him to sleep when nothing else will," replied Mrs. Reardon.
Polly and Bessie were very soon quite at home with their new friend, the former sitting close to him, and the latter on his knee, while all three spoke in whispers, for fear of disturbing Matthew Reardon, who had fallen into a troubled sleep, while his wife, as usual, watched and worked by his side.
Bessie was telling him of a wonderful book, which their teacher had been reading to them lately about a certain man called Christian, who left his home and children to go on pilgrimage. She did not understand it very well, she said, or what going on pilgrimage meant, for they were not always able to go to school now that their father was so ill; but the story evidently possessed a strange interest for both the children.
The old clerk told her that he knew it well, and could remember reading it when he was about her age. It was called "The Pilgrim's Progress." He believed he had the book still; if so, he would bring it with him the next time he came, and she might keep it as long as she pleased. And when he added that it was full of pictures, Bessie's joy was complete.
"Polly will read," exclaimed she; "I can't read yet. How happy we shall be!"
"But Polly must have a present too," said the kind old man. "Tell me, my child, what you would like best for me to bring you."
Polly thought for a moment.
"I know what I should like better than anything," said she—"a pair of boots for father. Mother thinks he would not have been so bad as he is if he had not got his feet wet through the last time he was out."
The old clerk bent down and kissed the little wistful face which was raised so earnestly to his.
"You shall have the boots," said he, "and something else besides for thinking, of your poor father. You pray for him, too, I hope?"
"Yes, sir; we both pray for him," answered Polly, with grave simplicity.
"Shall I tell you what we say?" whispered Bessie, folding her little hands together: "'Please, dear Lord Jesus Christ, to bless father and mother; and make father better and keep the wolf from the door.' Is that a good prayer?"
"Yes," answered Marshall, "a very good prayer, my child." But he could not help thinking that it was also a very curious one.
Just then Matthew Reardon woke up and began to cough. And the old clerk hastened to wish him good night lest he should be tempted to talk any more.
"You'll come again, Mr. Marshall?" said the sick man eagerly.
"If the Lord will," was the reply.
He nodded kindly to the children as he went out, and they never saw him any more on earth.
The wind came sweeping and moaning up the wide staircase when the old clerk opened the door. Bessie whispered to her sister that it was the wolves. And truly it did sound as if a whole pack of them were howling without.
THE WONDERFUL BOOK.
UPWARDS of a week passed away, during which Matthew Reardon was still confined to his chair, for nothing could persuade him to take to his bed. He was not worse, he said, but then he was no better. A little paler, and thinner, and weaker, perhaps; at least his wife thought so; but he did not perceive it himself, or rather, would not admit that he did. And all that time no doctor had ever called; neither had they seen or heard anything of the old clerk.
"He must be ill," said Matthew.
"He is like the rest of the world," thought Mrs. Reardon, in the bitterness of her disappointment.
While the trembling children whispered together of their firm belief that the wolves had eaten him up that wild night when he went away.
"He must be ill, I tell you," repeated Matthew, impatiently. "Marshall is not the man to desert a sick friend in the hour of need. He would have come if he could."
"Anyhow," said his wife, "he might have remembered to send the doctor as he promised."
"It does not signify. He would not have done any good, perhaps. It's hard for you, Mary, I know, to sit there working as you do from morning till night for my sake and the children's; but it's a deal harder for me to see it and not be able to help—I often wish I was dead!"
"Oh, Matthew! Don't say that! Please don't!" sobbed his wife. "I can't bear it—it breaks my heart and I have no time to cry!"
She meant that the blinding tears hindered her from working, and made her eyes ache and smart, so that she had great difficulty in seeing to do the fine sewing and stitching which was to win their daily bread. It was a touching lament—the poor have very frequently no time for tears.
"Forgive me," murmured her husband. "I shall be better soon, 'please God,' as old Marshall would say."
Mrs. Reardon tried to return his smile, and then, by way of changing the conversation, asked Bessie what book it was that Mr. Marshall had promised to give her, and of which she was always talking.
"It's called 'The Pilgrim's Progress,'" said Bessie.
"What's it all about?" asked her father.
"We haven't read it all by a great deal yet, father. It's a wonderful book! It was made by one of those men who go about the streets mending old pots and kettles."
"Oh, Bessie!" exclaimed Polly.
"Teacher said so," replied the child, decidedly, "If he did not make it, he dreamt it, which is all the same."
"Never mind how it was made," said her father.
"Well, it's about a certain man named Christian who was always reading and praying, and crying out,—
"'What shall I do to be saved?'
"But no one seemed to have read the Bible, so as to be able to tell him about believing in the Lord Jesus Christ. At last, he made up his mind to run away, and when his wife and children cried after him to come back, he only put his fingers in his ears, and ran all the faster."
"It was a good thought to put his fingers in his ears," observed Mrs. Reardon. "He would never have had the heart to leave them behind else."
"I don't think they wanted to go," said Polly; "but his wife came afterwards, teacher told us, and brought the children with her."
"There was no fear of their mother leaving them behind," said Matthew.
"You should see the picture of Christian, with a great bag on his shoulders!" continued Bessie, eagerly.
"Burden!" suggested her sister.
"Yes, that's the word, Polly. We have all our burdens to bear in this world; and very heavy they are sometimes, enough to break a man's back!"
"Mother has often a heavy burden to carry when she takes home her work," said Bessie, "but I don't think it means that."
"Perhaps it was a bag full of cares," observed Mrs. Reardon, who was pleased to see her husband interested in the conversation.
"No," answered the child, shaking her head gravely, "nor cares either. We know what to do with them. It tells us in the Bible—'Cast all your care upon God, for He careth for you.' It seems as if there was always something about everything in the Bible."
"Bessie is right," interrupted Polly. "I recollect now teacher telling us that Christian's burden was his sins."
"I am afraid he must have been a very wicked man," said Mrs. Reardon.
"I don't know," answered Polly. "It says in the text we have to learn for next Sunday—
"'All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.'"
"It appears to me," said Matthew, "that the more one thinks about this burden, the heavier it would be likely to grow; so that at last it would be more than a man could bear."
"No one need bear it if they don't like," replied Bessie. "They have only to go and leave it where Christian left his, at the foot of the cross. But we haven't come to that yet," continued she. "There's something about a 'wicket gate' first, with the words—'Knock, and it shall be opened' written over it, and which a man he met in the way told him of."
"Why those were the very words that old Marshall used," exclaimed Matthew.
"No, father, it wasn't Mr. Marshall," said Polly. "It was Evangelist. I don't wonder that Bessie could not remember the name."
"And did they open the golden gates when the man knocked?" asked Matthew.
"It does not say anything about golden gates, father, in the book."
"But Peter Marshall said so!"
"I think he must have meant farther on," replied Polly, "when Christian comes at last to the Celestial City."
"But there's a great deal before that," interrupted Bessie. "All about his falling into the pit."
"The Slough of Despond," interposed Polly.
"It was a pit all the same," said Bessie.
"I know it!" exclaimed their father. "I've fallen in myself many a time—I was nearly in to-night—eh, wife!"
The children looked bewildered.
"I think your father had better hear the rest of this wonderful story to-morrow," said Mrs. Reardon, as she folded up her work. "He is tired. You can sing to him if you like, and perhaps he will be able to fall asleep. I am going now to take home my burden."
She lifted up the heavy bundle of work as she spoke, and went away with a smile on her lips, but feeling very weak and giddy nevertheless. It might have been from bending so constantly over her sewing, or in consequence of having eaten nothing that day but a little bread and milk.
Matthew leant back in his chair with closed eyes, and listened to the children singing their little hymns. He did not feel inclined to sleep. There was one hymn which particularly arrested his attention, and which he never remembered to have heard them sing before. It may be that he had never noticed it.
"One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I'm nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before.
"Nearer my Father's house,
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea.
"Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown!
"But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
Is the deep and unknown stream
To be cross'd ere we reach the light.
"Jesus, perfect my trust,
Strengthen the hand of my faith,
Let me feel Thee near when I stand
On the edge the shore of death.
"Feel Thee near when my feet
Are slipping over the brink:
For it may be I'm nearer home,
Nearer now than I think."
"The many mansions," repeated Matthew, "that was what Marshall was speaking of the other day,—and the Saviour Christ having gone before to prepare a place for him, and having only to knock and give in the Lord's name in order to be let in. But there was something more he said about a wedding garment that I did not rightly understand. I wonder what makes me think so much of the old man to-night."
DARK AND CLOUDY DAYS.
WHEN Mrs. Reardon returned home, she told her husband that a doctor was coming to see him on the following day.
"How do you know? Did you meet Marshall?" inquired Matthew eagerly.
"It's some one Mrs. Browne knows. She's going to send him."
"How came she to hear of my illness?"
"I told her. I was obliged. The work ought to have been taken back before, and she wanted to know why I had not got it done as I promised. When I said you were ill, she asked a great many questions, and would hardly let me have any more to bring home. She was afraid lest it should be a fever, or something of that kind, and is going to send a doctor the first thing to-morrow morning in order to be sure. I don't think that we need be very grateful to her, and yet I am glad he is coming. He will give you something, I hope, to relieve and do you good."
"It can't be helped now," said Matthew, "but I would rather have waited and seen old Marshall's friend—not that I have any faith in doctors."
"It is of no use waiting, Matthew," said his wife, in a low voice, "you'll never see Marshall again, or his friend either."
"How do you know?"
"I called at the office this evening," answered Mrs. Reardon. "They were all gone. I knew they would be, but I thought that I might ask the old housekeeper whether he had been there lately."
"And what did she say?"
"Oh, Matthew," continued his wife, "I hardly like to tell you. You remember that dark stormy night when he came here? It appears that the poor old gentleman met with an accident going home, and was much injured, especially about the head and back. The housekeeper did not rightly know the particulars, and she did not believe that any one else did, only that he was taken to the hospital, nothing but a Bible being found in his pockets. He remained there until his master, who had become uneasy at his absence, discovered him. Mr. Heighington has scarcely left him since, but he does not know him or any one else. It is beautiful, for all that, she says, to hear him talking and praying, and some of the patients can't help crying. All yesterday he was sinking fast, and she thought it most probable that by this time all was over."
Matthew buried his face in his hands, and remained silent.
"Polly," whispered Bessie, "do you think it could be the wolves?"
"I don't know," answered her sister, "it seems like it."
"Poor old gentleman!" continued Mrs. Reardon. "We little thought that night that we were never to see him any more. It was very good of him to come. I wish now that I had been kinder to him. I knew you would be sorry, Matthew," said she, laying her hand gently upon that of her husband. "It seems as if we had found a friend only to lose him again directly."
"It was my own fault that he never came before," replied Matthew. "But somehow, I don't think that we ought to be very sorry for him. You heard what he said about its being so much better to depart and be with Christ—and that's where he is now. He told me long ago of the Lord having gone before to prepare a place, but he did not think of going so soon then. 'To depart and be with Christ'—yes, it's better for him. But how will it be for those who die without Christ? Don't be afraid, wife," added he, "I know what I am saying, and what I have been thinking of—and I wish that I had thought of it before."
"I'm very sorry for him too," observed Mrs. Reardon, soothingly. "But it's no use thinking and grieving about it; we can't do any good, and after all, as you say, the poor gentleman is better off."
"'For ever with the Lord;'"
repeated Matthew. "How his face shone when he said those words. It's in one of your hymns—isn't it, Bessie?"
"Yes, father; but I can't sing, I've lump in my throat."
"Poor child!" said her mother, observing that she looked ready to cry. "I don't think we are any of us in a singing humour to-night."
And then, tired as she was, she took them away to their little closet, and having undressed and tucked them in carefully, bidding them say their prayers in bed for once, she kissed the trembling children, and told them to try and go to sleep as fast as they could,—turning back again to take the shawl from her own shoulders and place it over them.
"I can't think what makes them shiver so to-night," thought she, "unless it is these bitter winds."
She little dreamt that it could be from fear, and the children never told her.
Presently Polly spoke in a whisper.
"Are you asleep, Bessie?"
"No," answered her sister, "I can't sleep for thinking."
"I have been thinking, too," continued Polly, "and I don't believe it was the wolves after all. At any rate, they did not eat him up, or how could he be in the hospital?"
"I never thought of that," said Bessie. "But don't you remember our hearing them outside when he went away?"
"It might have been the wind," answered Polly. "It's very high again to-night. Listen to it—how it shakes the doors and windows."
Bessie said that she did not want to listen. And, feeling somewhat reassured by her sister's suggestions, she buried her little head beneath the clothes, and was soon fast asleep.
Dr. Harding called on the following day. He found Matthew worse, and saw at a glance how it was with him.
"Nothing, catching eh, doctor?" asked the sick man, with a grim smile.
"Nothing of the kind," replied Dr. Harding, shaking his head.
"Perhaps you'll tell Mrs. Browne so?"
"Yes; I'll tell her. You have had medical advice, I suppose?"
"No, what was the use of it?" inquired Matthew.
"Not much, to be sure," replied the doctor. "What you want most is plenty of nourishing food. 'Kitchen physic,' Mrs. Reardon, and the more you can persuade him to take the better."
He little thought of the bitter pang which these words inflicted upon the heart, of the poor suffering wife—some doctors seldom do, and yet they are a kindly race of men for the most part. Alas! for the poor if it were not so.
"I think I shall be able to send something to relieve the cough," said Dr. Harding. "I do not see that anything more can be done at present."
Mrs. Reardon went out with him on to the landing.
"Is he very ill?" asked she, in a faltering voice.
"Yes, very ill. All this must have been going on a long time?"
"It has, sir, a very long time, and he appears to get weaker and weaker."
"You must endeavour to keep up his strength," replied Dr. Harding. "Plenty of good beef-tea—anything, in fact, that he fancies. You won't forget?"
"No," answered Mrs. Reardon, "I won't forget." She looked as if she should have liked to ask one more question, but had not the courage; and, while she was still hesitating, Dr. Harding got into his carriage and was driven away.
Mrs. Reardon held her apron to her eyes as she went upstairs, and never noticed a young girl with a pale wistful face and golden hair, who stood aside to let her pass, and looked as if she had been crying also.
When Dr. Harding saw Mrs. Browne, he told her that there was not the slightest fear of contagion.
"The poor man," said he, "is dying of rapid consumption. I should not be surprised to hear of his death at any moment."
"Do they appear to be very poor?" asked Mrs. Browne. "She always draws money for her work before it's quite finished. But many people do that. The poor are so improvident."
"I should say not, so far as I could judge. The room in which they were is as large again as this, with panelled walls old and a carved chimney-piece, quite in the old-fashioned style, although, to be sure, there was not much furniture in it. But the woman appeared to be neatly dressed, and everything looked very clean."
"And you really think that her husband is dying?" asked Mrs. Browne.
"He can't last much longer," replied Dr. Harding. "The poor fellow is wasted away to a shadow."
"I have a great mind not to let his wife have any more work until it is all over," said Mrs. Browne. "She will find quite enough to do, poor woman, with a sick husband to look after, and the work might get spoilt. I'll tell her so the next time she comes."
"I would not mention the reason if I were you," said Dr. Harding. "She does not seem to be aware of her husband's danger, and it was of no use telling her. The blow will come soon enough."
GOING HOME.
WEEKS passed away, and old Peter Marshall was still alive. The doctors had consented to his being removed from the hospital to his own home, where Mr. Heighington, assisted by a faithful and attached domestic, nursed and watched over him with tender care.
Many of the patients wept when he was taken away. Unconsciously to himself, he had delivered his Master's message; and the memory of it remained long after the pale lips that uttered it were silent for ever.
The old man spoke but little after they brought him home. He did not appear to suffer, but grew weaker and weaker day by day. His labour of love was ended; and he waited only for the Master's summons—"Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."
Mr. Heighington never left him for long together. And thus it name to pass in that hushed and quiet chamber, where the silent watcher sat with clasped hands and bowed head, with the open Bible before him, a gentle wind arose—that same wind of which we are told that "it bloweth where it listeth, and no man heareth the sound thereof, or is able to tell whence it cometh, or whither it goeth." The blessed teaching of the Holy Spirit wrought out a great and marvellous work at which the angels in the presence of God wondered and rejoiced.
The old man's prayer was answered at last. If he could only have known it! One would almost imagine that he did by the smile on his pale face.
One evening, upon returning after a short absence from the sick room. Mr. Heighington saw a young girl, whom our readers will recognise as Kate Donaldson, standing in the passage and weeping bitterly. She held the card which Marshall had given her in her hand. She had only just heard of his accident and subsequent illness.
A few kind and sympathetic words soon elicited her sad and touching history. She should not have ventured to come, she said, although he had asked her to do so; but a friend of his, residing in the same house as she did, was very ill, and in great distress, and she had sought him on his account.
Mr. Heighington inquired the name of the person to whom she referred as being a friend of Mr. Marshall's. But he was too much occupied with his own thoughts to remember Matthew Reardon.
"You can tell Mr. Reardon," said he, "that his friend has met with an accident, and is not expected to live; but that I will endeavour to call round and see him myself the first opportunity."
"No," replied Kate, shaking her head, "I can't tell. I have never spoken to him in my life. He doesn't even know that I have come. But you won't be long, sir, for he's about as bad as he can be."
"Not longer than I can help," answered Mr. Heighington, as he took down the address on the back of poor Marshall's card. "Is there nothing else I can do for you?"
"Nothing, sir, thank you," replied the girl—"only I should like to have seen him, if I might. I should like to have told him it was all true he said to me that night about the love of Christ to poor sinners, even the chief—and about His not casting them away. If I could only have told him, and thanked him—and I think that he would be glad too."
"It would be of no use seeing him," answered Mr. Heighington, sadly. "He would not know you. He does not know any one. But he will know all in that day when 'they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever and ever.'"
It was raining fast when Mr. Heighington opened the street door to let her out.
"What will you do?" asked he, with a compassionate glance at her thin faded garments. "You will be wet through."
"I don't mind, sir. I'm used to it."
"Can you not ride—a part of the way, at least?"
"I dare say I could," replied Kate, "if I was rich enough. Oh, sir! I did not mean that!" added she, hastily, as Mr. Heighington slipped a piece of money into her hand. "I'm sorry I spoke as I did—and yet if you could spare it, it would make me very happy!"
"All right," replied Mr. Heighington, kindly. "I give it to you for his sake."
"For his sake," repeated Kate, softly. "Indeed, sir, I would not take it for myself. I'm earning my own living now—an honest living—but nothing over, try and stint as I will, and I want money badly just now. Good night, sir, and thank you kindly."
The old servant shook her head as she stood a moment at the door watching the slight, figure of the young girl as she passed with rapid steps through the cold wet streets, and then shut it hastily to keep out the driving rain.
"She'll never ride," exclaimed the woman. "It was a pity, begging your pardon, sir, that you let her have the money."
"Not if it made her happy," was the reply.
"It would have been much better to have given her a decent shawl instead of the trumpery thing she had on—although to be sure she might have pawned it. She looked one of that sort!"
"I don't believe that there is any harm in the girl," said Mr. Heighington.
"I suppose not, sir. But I should just like to see what she is going to do with the money in such a hurry."
It was well, perhaps, that the woman could not see Kate Donaldson, after making a few purchases of tea and other groceries, enter a fruiterer's shop, and singling out one of the most tempting bunches of grapes which she could find, pay the price demanded for it without a murmur.
Even the owner of the shop could not help regarding her with some curiosity, after carefully examining the money.
"It's a dear time for grapes just now," said he.
"Is it! But then how fine they are!" replied Kate, holding them up admiringly.
"Poor thing!" exclaimed the woman, as she went out, carrying them carefully in her hand into the pitiless rain. "I hardly liked taking the money. She looks as if a meal's victuals would have done her more good."
"I don't see that it's any concern of ours," replied her husband, dropping the change into the till as he spoke. "If she wanted a meal's victuals, why didn't she get it instead of a bunch of hothouse grapes fit only for her betters?"
Mr. Heighington did not forgot his promise, but somehow it unfortunately happened that he lost the card upon which Matthew Reardon's address was written, and after a long and vain search was obliged to give up all hope of being able to find the place.
It was strange how old Peter Marshall lingered on from day to day. The hospital doctors, who had taken an interest in the case, and continued to visit him, said smilingly to each other—for they could smile, being used to such things—that they thought that "Death must have forgotten the old man." But he came at last, one cold grey morning just before the dawn. A ray of consciousness stole back to the dim shadowy eyes, and stretching out his hand as one feeling in the dark, he asked in a feeble voice for "Master Frank," just as if he had known that he had been watching over him all the time.
No one knew what passed between them in that brief and solemn interview. By-and-bye the household stir, the business of human life, recommenced; but the old clerk had entered into his rest—"the rest that remaineth for the people of God."
TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF.
MRS. REARDON had followed Dr. Harding's advice, and given her husband plenty of "kitchen physic." It was wonderful what nice strengthening broth, together with other nourishing things, she contrived to make out of an old mahogany press which had been in her possession ever since she could remember, having formerly belonged to her mother. It was not much used of late in consequence of there being so little to put in it, and when sold was scarcely missed, save that it made the large room look still more large and dreary—the more especially as it was soon found necessary to turn one or two other articles of their scanty furniture into money for the same purpose. But the worst of it was that it did not appear to have made him any stronger.
Being greatly occupied in this manner, Mrs. Reardon had had no time to finish Mrs. Browne's work, and was consequently unaware of the heavy trial that awaited her when she should discover that their sole means of support was about to be taken from them. Truly has it been said "that it is a righteous as well as a tender hand which keeps the next day's page carefully folded down."
Weary as she was, a ray of hope stole into Mrs. Reardon's heart as she sat at needlework, with the nice savoury broth simmering away on the hob, and the voice of her husband, who sometimes rallied wonderfully towards evening, sounding quite cheerful as he and the little ones conversed together.
"Who knows," thought the poor loving wife, "but what he may be spared to me after all? I don't mind how hard I work, or how poor we are, or what we are obliged to part with, so that we can keep him, and nurse and make him well again."
The children were talking of "the wonderful book," as Bessie called it.
"You never told me," said Matthew, "how it was that Christian got rid of his burden."
"That's just about the most beautiful part, father," said Bessie. "I can't remember it quite as well as it is in the book, only that it was very heavy for him to carry, and all up-hill till he got to the cross."
"I can readily believe," said Matthew, "that it must have been up-hill work getting to the cross with such a load of sins weighing a man down, especially for any one who did not rightly know the way."
"I don't think that Christian knew it very well," said Polly, "for he lost his way a good many times. But he got there safe at last."
"Yes," interrupted Bessie eagerly. "I recollect it all now. No sooner had Christian come up to the cross than the bundle fell off his back and was never seen any more. 'Then was he glad and lightsome, and said, with a merry heart, He has given me rest by his sorrow, and life by his death.' And then he stood awhile to look and wonder until the springs that were in his head sent the water down his cheeks—which means, teacher says, that he began to cry—why, father, you are crying too."
Mrs. Reardon hastily laid down her work.
"You are tired, Matthew," said she. "I was afraid that the children would be too much for you."
"No, it is not that; I like to hear them. It does not hurt me. I am better to-night."
"You really feel better, Matthew? I am so glad. I do believe that this nice beef-tea is doing you good."
"It ought," replied her husband, with a sigh, "considering what it has cost."
"Never you mind about that," said Mrs. Reardon, "all you have to do is to try and get well as fast as you can. But you are sure the children do not tire you?"
"No; I like it, I tell you. Where were we, Bess?"
"At the foot of the cross, father."
"We could not be in a better place, I'm thinking."
"So Christian thought," continued Bessie. "And while he stood there crying for joy, behold three shining ones came to him—"
"Angels," interrupted Polly. "There's a picture of them in the book, with wings on their shoulders."
"I wish you would not put me out, Polly. I forget now how it goes on. But I know they begin by saying, 'Peace be unto you.' And then one said, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee.' And another took away his rags and gave him a change of something—I can't recollect the name—to put on."
"Was it a wedding garment?" asked her father, eagerly. "I remember poor Mr. Marshall saying that we could not get in without a wedding garment."
"It says, 'change of raiment,' father, in the book," replied the child. "But I dare say it's all the same; anyhow, Christian was finely pleased; and after giving three leaps for joy, he went away singing."
"It was enough to make a man sing to be quit of such a burden," said Matthew. "Those were sweet words, Bess, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee!'"
"They are in God's book, father. Jesus says them."
"Whereabouts in God's book?"
"I know," exclaimed Polly, as she ran to fetch her little Bible and began to read, although not without great difficulty and many pauses, the touching history of the poor man who was sick of the palsy, and who not being able to come near unto Jesus on account of the crowd, was let down by his faithful and persevering friends, who uncovered the roof of the house where the Saviour was for that purpose, and so brought him to Christ.
"And when the Lord saw their faith, He said unto the sick of the
palsy, Son, thy sins be forgiven thee. But some doubted and murmured,
which, when Jesus perceived, He said unto them, Why reason ye these
things in your hearts? Whether is it easier to say to the sick of the
palsy, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Arise, and take up thy bed,
and walk? But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power on earth
to forgive sins, (He saith to the sick of the palsy,) I say unto thee,
Arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way into thine house. And
immediately he arose, took up the bed, and went forth before them all;
insomuch that they were all amazed, and glorified God, saying, We never
saw it on this fashion." *
* Mark ii. 2-12.
Poor Mrs. Reardon bent down her head over her sewing, and wept to think that the age of miracles was past.
"Father," said Bessie, after a pause, "have you got the palsy like that poor man?"
"No, Bess; not quite so bad as that."
"But you are sick and ill. Could not God cure you as He did him?"
"I suppose He could," replied Matthew, thoughtfully. "But I don't think that I should care so much about being cured if I could only hear Him saying those sweet words, 'Son, thy sins be forgiven thee.'"
"Didn't Polly read it well, father?" asked Bessie.
"Yes, very well. But I want to hear more about Christian, and what he did when he got quit of his burden."
"I don't know what comes next," said Bessie. "We lost a great deal by staying away so often. I don't recollect any more till he comes to a terrible place called the Valley of the Shadow of Death—"
The child was prevented from saying any more by Mrs. Reardon insisting upon their going to bed at once.
"They'd like a little drop of broth first," pleaded Matthew.
The children shook their heads gravely, although it made their mouths water even to think of it, the more especially upon their attention being thus directed to the savoury smell before alluded to. But they knew, poor things, that it was intended to make their sick father well.
Mrs. Reardon smiled as she filled their little cups, but it might have been noticed that she took none herself.
"We'll have some more to-morrow," said she. "I've nearly finished my work, and hope to get the next lot done quicker."
By-and-bye, when the children had gone to bed, and Matthew and his wife were alone, the husband said:
"I've been thinking a great deal of late, wife; I've had nothing else to do you know. It may be that was what I was laid aside for: and I've been wishing that I could blot out all my past life, and begin it over again quite different."
"But you can't do that, Matthew. And we have had a good bit of trouble in our time; and many a hard struggle that one would not wish to pass through a second time."
"It might have been easier walking," said Matthew, "if we had remembered to lay down our burdens at the foot of the cross. You recollect what the children said about casting all our care upon God, and about his caring for us?"
"Oh, Matthew!" interrupted his wife. "Don't talk in that manner—please don't; it makes me feel as if I was going to lose you. You seemed to be so much better to-night."
"I am better, thank God. But we may as well have it out, wife, and have done with it. I can't help feeling that I have been a great sinner. I know the truth and let it slip away from me in the bustle of life. I forgot God, and it seemed as if God had forgotten me! Nothing that I did prospered. It was not to be expected that it would. It is quick work when once a man begins to go down-hill; but the worst of it was that I could not help dragging you and the children down with me. So things went on from bad to worse, until here I am, a burden instead of a help, and actually eating you out of house and home!"
Be paused a moment to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, and went on in a low voice:
"If I get better, Mary—"
"Don't say if," interrupted his wife. "I can't bear it!"
"Well, then; when I get better, please God, I mean to turn over a new leaf, and—"
There was a sudden silence, for he was fainting. Mrs. Reardon, springing forward, caught him in her arms, and dragged, rather than carried, him to that bed which he never left again.
Poor Matthew! There was no new leaf left for him to turn. He had well-nigh come to the last page in life's volume. But the end was not yet. After a little while, he recovered, and tried to smile, in order to cheer his poor trembling wife; but she would not suffer him to speak; and presently he fell into a troubled sleep.
Mrs. Reardon sat by his bedside, hour after hour, that she might watch him and partly that she might finish the work in hand, for which she was already paid, hoping that Mrs. Browne would again advance her something on account of the new work which she should bring home with her.
THE RAVENS.
MRS. REARDON was very reluctant to leave her husband on the following day, notwithstanding his cheerful assurance of feeling much better and stronger; but there was no help for it. The work had already been delayed longer than she feared Mrs. Browne would approve of. Besides which she really wanted the money which she expected to receive, in order to procure several little necessaries of which they stood greatly in need.
Before she went, she left strict injunctions with Polly, as to the due administration of the small remaining portion of beef-tea, together with many directions relating to her father, more especially if he should be faint, or be ill during her absence, promising not to be gone a moment longer than she could possibly help.
"Never fear," said Matthew, cheerfully. "The children will take good care of me. I shall do very well. There is no need for you to hurry yourself."
Mrs. Reardon went away with a heavy heart, nevertheless. But it was heavier still when she came back, long before they had begun to expect her, pale, weary, and empty-handed, and sitting down before the fireless hearth, covered her face with her apron, and wept aloud.
For a few moments the children stood and watched her, thinking that she had lost the bundle of work; and then, not knowing what to say to comfort her, began to cry also.
The sound of their grief, together with the remembrance of her sick husband, aroused the poor wife and mother to the necessity for exertion. Well knowing that nothing is so hard to bear as suspense, she told Matthew what had happened, for Mrs. Browne, as the reader already knows, had made up her mind to give her no more work.
"If I understand rightly," said he, "the work is only kept back for a time? Mrs. Browne will be glad to let you have it again when—"
"When you are better," interrupted his wife, quickly. "Yes, that must have been what she meant. But how are you to regain your strength, and get better without food to eat—leave alone nourishing food, such as the doctor spoke of? What will become of us now that this hardhearted woman has taken the bread out of our mouths!"
"It mayn't be for long," said Matthew, in a cheerful voice; "somehow I don't think it will. And meanwhile, as the children were singing just before you came in:
"'The Lord will provide.'
"What was the text you were learning, Bess?"
"Though He kill me, yet will I trust Him," answered the child.
"'Though He slay me,'" suggested her sister.
"It's all the same," said Bessie. "Isn't it, father?"
"Yes, it's all the same meaning. 'Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.'"
"It needs a strong faith," said Mrs. Reardon, with a sigh, "to see beyond the present darkness."
"It seems to me," replied her husband, "as if God gave us faith according to our need. Try and sing your mother one or two verses of that hymn, children. It will cheer her, maybe, as it did me just now."
The little pathetic voices rose up clear and sweet in obedience to their father's commands, but they were very sad to listen to, notwithstanding, owing to "the lump in their throats," of which Bessie had before complained.
"Though troubles assail
And dangers affright.
Though friends shall all fail
And foes all unite:
Yet one thing secures us—
Whatever betide.
The Scripture assures us
The Lord will provide.
"The birds without barn
Or storehouse are fed,
From them let us learn
To trust for our bread.
His saints what is fitting
Shall ne'er be denied,
So long as 'tis written,
The Lord will provide."
"It's all very well," said Mrs. Reardon, shaking her head. "But we're not saints; I wish we were."
"Yes; that knocked the wind out of me at first," answered her husband. "But it's all the same, as Bessie says, whether we're called saints or believers. Let's have the last verse, children:
"No fear or doubting
With Christ on our side,
We hope to die shouting,
'The Lord will provide!'"
Mrs. Reardon marked the flushed cheek and glittering eyes of the sick man, and said no more.
All went on as usual that day, just as if nothing had happened. The scanty meals were prepared and eaten; and then Mrs. Reardon took out her sewing—she could never bear to be idle a moment—and began to look over and mend some of her husband's clothes, wilfully blinding herself to the fact that he would never wear them again.
As night drew on, Matthew became somewhat restless and feverish, but would keep talking nevertheless.
"What should you say," asked he, "if I were to go away for a while on pilgrimage?"
"That it was a good thing, Matthew, so long as you took your wife and children with you, but not else."
"You must bring them afterwards, Mary. Why, even little Bessie knows the way—Jesus, 'the way, the truth, and the life!' Old Marshall was telling me about it a little while before he went. There was no fear of our getting out of the right path, he said, so long as we kept near to Christ. Nothing could be plainer than the directions he gave. I have them all by heart.
"Nothing to do but to ask for Jesus' sake, and knock in Jesus' name, and straightway the golden gates will be opened to let us in. No rent to pay in those heavenly mansions, wife; no more death, neither sorrow nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain. Read what it says about it, Polly, at the end of the book; or, perhaps, mother will read it. I don't seem able to wait while you spell out those words!"
Mrs. Reardon took the Bible, and read as well as she could for tears. It was a long time since she had opened that holy book, but she determined that it should never be so long again; and that, if God would only spare her husband, they would read it together every day, and begin, as he had said, "a new life."
Poor Matthew! The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak; and while she still read to him of the heavenly Jerusalem, he fell into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he was already there.
After a time, Mrs. Reardon closed the book, and went on patching and mending with a sad and touching diligence, while the children whispered together as of old.
Presently there was a low tap at the door; so low that it had to be repeated before Mrs. Reardon, who thought at first that it must be a mistake, arose to open it. But there was no one there, only a parcel directed to her in a large scrawling hand, with a paper bag placed carefully on the top. If she had looked up instead of looking down the wide staircase, which she never thought of doing, she might have seen a pale girlish face leaning over the banisters, with a pitiful expression in her large wistful eyes.
When Mrs. Reardon had gone in again and closed the door, the girl came down a few steps and stood a moment, wet and weary as she was, to listen to the joyful exclamations of the children, as their mother, carefully opening the paper bag, took out the bunch of grapes, which our readers may remember to have seen before.
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Bessie. "How beautiful! What are they?"
"And see," added Polly, peeping into the parcel, "tea, and sugar, and rice, and I don't know what besides!"
Mrs. Reardon did not reply. She was watching her sick husband eat the grapes, and crying quietly the while for joy. How grateful they were to his poor parched lips, and how he did enjoy them! It seemed as if he could not eat them fast enough. After a time, however, he remembered the children. They had never tasted, scarcely even seen, a grape before, but nevertheless the poor little things would not touch above one or two, and, when he insisted upon their taking more, gave them quietly to their mother, who put them aside for him to eat in the night.
"Who could have brought them?" said Mrs. Reardon, wonderingly, as she turned over the paper in which they had come, and once more examined the direction.
"It would not be Mrs. Browne, I suppose!" suggested Matthew, who, what with the sleep and the grapes, was feeling greatly refreshed.
Mrs. Reardon shook her head.
"I know who brought them," said Bessie, mysteriously.
"Who was it, Bess?"
"The ravens!" answered the child. "Don't you remember God sending them to feed Elijah, and now He has sent them to feed us—only it does not say that they brought Elijah any grapes."
"I almost forget the story," said her father. "Tell us about it, Bess."
"It isn't a story, father. It's in God's book."
And then in her childish way, Bessie went on to relate that touching episode in the life of the prophet Elijah, when he dwelt by the little brook Cherith that is before Jordan, and God commanded the ravens, and they brought him bread and flesh in the morning, and bread and flesh in the evening, and he drank of the brook.
After which, she went on to tell of the poor widow of Zarephath (only she could not recollect the name), who had nothing save a little meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse, and was gathering two sticks in order that she might go and dress it for herself and her son, that they might eat it and die. And when Elijah bade her make him first a little cake, and fear not, for the Lord would not suffer the meal to waste, neither the cruse of oil to fail, she went and did according to his word, and she, and he, and her house did eat many days, and the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord, which He had spoken by Elijah.
"Bessie is right," said her father, when she had finished. "I do believe that it must have been the ravens. Oh, wife, it seemed hard for you to be able to trust God this morning. It will be easier next time."
"I think it will," replied Mrs. Reardon, softly. "At any rate, I am sure that it ought."
THE WOLF AT THE DOOR.
AN aged minister of Christ told the writer that he always prayed, before leaving home, to be guided in the right way.
"We can never tell," said he, "how much may depend upon whether we turn to the right hand, or to the left."
Thus it was with Mr. Heighington on the day of which we write. Instead of taking the usual road upon leaving his office, he turned aside into a less frequented street in the immediate neighbourhood, and suddenly found himself face to face with Kate Donaldson. Although they had met but once, they recognised one another directly.
"Why, Kate!" exclaimed he. "I have been looking for you everywhere."
"Oh, sir, I am so glad to have met you!"
"How is poor Reardon? No better, I fear, by his not having been at the office."
"He'll never be any better, sir. I have been hoping every day that you would come and see him as you promised."
"And so I would have done, but, unfortunately, I lost the card, and could not find out his address. You may have heard that Mr. Marshall has gone home at last, Kate."
"Yes, sir; his servant told me."
"Why did you not ask her where I lived?"
"I did, sir, but she would not let me know. She would not believe a word that I said. But I don't blame her. I have deserved not to be trusted."
"He trusted you, Kate, and spoke kindly of you at the last. But I must tell you about it another time. By-the-bye, I have a present for you, from him, at the office, which you may as well get at once."
"For me!" exclaimed Kate. "And did he really think of me? I can wait for the present, sir, thank you. But the Reardons were friends of his—if you could help them, sir. They've sold all there is to sell, and the poor little children are pinched for want of food."
Mr. Heighington happened to have a particular engagement that day. But he told Kate that he would go at once, and endeavour to put it off; and that she was to wait for him at the office, and afterwards accompany him to the Reardons, and show him where they lived.
"You won't be long, sir?" asked the girl, anxiously.
"Not a moment longer than I can help," was the reply.
Nor was he; for by the time that Kate had admired and put on the warm woollen shawl which Peter Marshall, with his usual thoughtful kindness, had desired might be given her, together with a neat bonnet, the present of the good housekeeper, Mr. Heighington had returned.
Let us precede them, and glance for a moment into that cheerless and dismantled home. All that there was to sell, as Kate said, had been sold, save the bed on which the sick man lay, for whose death the landlord only waited to turn the poor widow and her helpless little ones adrift in the world.
The ravens brought nothing now, save an occasional loaf of bread, or a little milk for the children. The few sticks had been gathered, and the last meal dressed, so that it only remained to eat it together and die. The barrel of meal had wasted, and the cruse of oil failed, while the faith of the poor weary wife and mother waxed dim and feeble.
The little children had grown pale, and thin, and hollow-eyed, but they never complained.
"The wolf has got in at last, Bess!" said the dying man, as she stood by the bedside.
Among the many troubles which had come to them of late, the poor child had well-nigh forgotten their old enemy. But, now, being weak from want of food, a sudden fear fell upon her, and she trembled as she glanced round the large empty room.
"I don't think he's in yet," said Bessie, in a whisper, "or we should see him. Oh, mother, what can we do to keep him out?"
"I've tried all ways," replied Mrs. Reardon, scarcely knowing what she said; "I don't know what to do!"
"Let us pray, mother," said Bessie, "and ask God to save us as He did David, out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear!"
Mrs. Reardon knelt down, but no words came. She had forgotten how to pray, and felt sick and confused like one in a dream. Polly, too, was silent, wanting courage to say what was in her heart. There was a few moments' pause, and then Bessie folded her little hands and said:
"Dear Lord Jesus, be pleased to take care of us, and keep the wolf
from the door. Don't let him come near to hurt or destroy us. And, oh,
dear Lord Jesus, make father better—and give us this day our daily
bread."
Little Bessie had scarcely finished speaking, when a knock was heard at the door, which, low as it was, made them all start—although they must have known, of course, that a wolf would never think of knocking at the door—end Mr. Heighington entered the room, followed by Kate carrying a large basket of provisions, which she would have left and gone away again had not Mr. Heighington requested her to remain and assist Mrs. Reardon, who was evidently worn-out from fatigue, and want of nourishing food.