He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust.
--MACBETH.
It was Tuesday, the 22nd of December, and late in the day. Not a
pleasant afternoon. The grey snow-clouds hung low; the air was keen and
raw. It was already growing dark, and Alice was sitting alone in the
firelight, when two little feet came running round the corner of the
house; the glass door opened, and Ellen rushed in.
"I have come! I have come!" she exclaimed. "Oh, dear Alice! I'm so
glad!"
So was Alice, if her kiss meant anything.
"But how late, my child! how late you are."
"Oh, I thought I never was going to get done," said Ellen, pulling off
her things in a great hurry, and throwing them on the sofa; "but I am
here at last. Oh, I'm so glad!"
"Why, what has been the matter?" said Alice, folding up what Ellen laid
down.
"Oh, a great deal of matter; I couldn't think what Nancy meant last
night; I know very well now. I shan't want to see any more apples all
winter. What do you think I have been about all to-day, dear Miss
Alice?"
"Nothing that has done you much harm," said Alice, smiling, "if I am to
guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good Spitzenberg yourself."
"That's very funny," said Ellen, laughing, "for Aunt Fortune said awhile
ago that my cheeks were just the colour of two mealy potatoes."
"But about the apples?" said Alice.
"Why, this morning I was thinking I would come here so early, when the
first thing I knew Aunt Fortune brought out all those heaps and heaps of
apples into the kitchen, and made me sit down on the floor, and then she
gave me a great big needle, and set me to stringing them all together,
and as fast as I strung them, she hung them up all round the ceiling. I
tried very hard to get through before, but I could not, and I am so
tired! I thought I never _should_ get to the bottom of that big basket."
"Never mind, love; come to the fire; we'll try and forget all
disagreeable things while we are together."
"I have forgotten it almost already," said Ellen, as she sat down in
Alice's lap, and laid her face against hers; "I don't care for it at all
now."
But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable colour Miss
Fortune had spoken of; and weariness and weakness kept her for awhile
quiet in Alice's arms, overcoming even the pleasure of talking. They sat
so till the clock struck half-past five; then Alice proposed they should
go into the kitchen and see Margery, and order the tea made, which she
had no doubt Ellen wanted. Margery welcomed her with great cordiality.
She liked anybody that Alice liked, but she had besides declared to her
husband that Ellen was "an uncommon well-behaved child." She said she
would put the tea to draw, and they should have it in a very few
minutes.
"But, Miss Alice, there's an Irish body out by, waiting to speak to you.
I was just coming in to tell you; will you please to see her now?"
"Certainly, let her come in. Is she in the cold, Margery?"
"No, Miss Alice; there's a fire there this evening. I'll call her."
The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. She was young,
rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but unwashed, uncombed,
untidy; no wonder Margery's nicety had shrunk from introducing her into
her spotless upper kitchen. The unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about
her, the hood brought over her head, and on the head and shoulders the
snow lay white, not yet melted away.
"Did you wish to speak to me, my friend?" said Alice pleasantly.
"If ye plase, ma'am, it's the master I'm wanting," said the woman,
dropping a curtsey.
"My father? Margery, will you tell him?"
Margery departed.
"Come nearer the fire," said Alice, "and sit down; my father will be
here presently. It is snowing again, is it not?"
"It is, ma'am; a bitter storm."
"Have you come far?"
"It's a good bit, my lady, it's more nor a mile beyant Carra, just right
forgin the ould big hill they call the Catchback; in Jemmy Morrison's
woods, where Pat M'Farren's clearing is; it's there I live, my lady."
"That is a long distance, indeed, for a walk in the snow," said Alice
kindly; "sit down and come nearer the fire. Margery will give you
something to refresh you."
"I thank ye, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the night; and
when one's on an arrant of life and death, it's little the cold or the
storm can do to put out the heart's fire."
"Life and death? who is sick?" said Alice.
"It's my own child, ma'am; my own boy; all the child I have; and I'll
have none by the morning light."
"Is he so ill?" said Alice; "what is the matter with him?"
"Myself doesn't know."
The voice was fainter; the brown cloak was drawn over her face; and
Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she kept from
bursting out. They exchanged glances.
"Sit down," said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon the wet
shoulder; "sit down and rest; my father will be here directly.
Margery--oh, that's right; a cup of tea will do her good. What do you
want with my father?"
"The Lord bless ye! I'll tell you, my lady."
She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial that
Margery offered her.
"The Lord bless ye! I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a stronger, nor a
prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn't be, nor he was when we left
it; it'll be three years come the fifteenth of April next; but I'm
thinking the bitter winters o' this cowld country has chilled the life
out o' him, and trouble's cowlder than all," she added, in a lower tone.
"I seed him grow waker an' waker, an' his daar face grew thinner an'
thinner, and the red all left it; only two burning spots was on it some
days; an' I worried the life out o' me for him, an' all I could do, I
couldn't do nothing at all to help him, but he just growd waker an'
waker. I axed the father wouldn't he see the doctor about him; but he's
an 'asy kind o' man, my lady, an' he said he would, an' he never did to
this day; an' John, he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor,
an' looked so swate at me, an' said for me not to fret, for sure he'd be
better soon, or he'd go to a better place. An' I thought he was like a
heavenly angel itself already, an' always was, but then more nor ever.
Och! it's soon that he'll be one entirely, let Father Shannon say what
he will."
She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on, silent and
pitying.
"An' to-night, my lady, he's very bad," she went on, wiping away the
tears that came quickly again; "an' I seed he was going fast from me,
an' I was breaking my heart wid the loss of him, whin I heard one of the
men that was in it say, 'What's this he's saying?' says he. 'An' what is
it thin?' says I. 'About the jantleman that praaches at Carra,' says he;
'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a praast at all
at Carra, an' I thought he was draaming, or out o' his head, or crazy
wid his sickness, like; an' I went up close to him, an' says I, 'John,'
says I, 'what is it you want?' says I; 'an' sure if it's anything in
heaven above or in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for ye,'
says I, 'ye shall have it,' says I. An' he put up his two arms to my
neck, an' pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot wid the faver,
an' kissed me, he did; an', says he, 'Mother daar,' says he, 'if ye love
me,' says he, 'fetch me the good jantleman that praaches at Carra till I
spake to him.' 'Is it the praast you want, John, my boy?' says I; 'sure
he's in it,' says I; for Michael had been for Father Shannon, an' he had
come home wid him half-an-hour before. 'Oh no, mother,' says he, 'it's
not him at all that I maan; it's the jantleman that spakes in the little
white church at Carra; he's not a praast at all,' says he. 'An' who is
he thin?' says I, getting up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or
how will I get to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him thin the night,
Kitty Dolan,' says my husband; 'are ye mad?' says he; 'sure it's not his
own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little hiritic, he is,'
says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to the praast in yer own
house.' 'I'm maaning none,' says I; 'nor more he isn't a hiritic; but if
he was, he's a born angel to Michael Dolan anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the
kiss of his lips on my face wouldn't I do the arrant of my own boy, an'
he a-dying? by the blessing an' I will, if twenty men stud between me
an' it. So tell me where I'll find him, this praast, if there's the
love o' mercy in any sowl o' ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word
for me, not one of them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till
here I am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor boy?
for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here."
"Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she was
speaking. "Wait but one moment."
In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth to their
walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them.
"It storms very hard," she said, "and he has not had his tea! But he
couldn't wait. Come, Ellen love, we'll have ours. How will he ever get
back again! it will be so deep by that time."
There was a cloud on the fair brow for a few minutes, but it passed
away, and quiet and calm as ever she sat down at the little tea-table
with Ellen. From _her_ face all shadows seemed to have flown for ever.
Hungry and happy, she enjoyed Margery's good bread and butter, and the
nice honey, and from time to time cast very bright looks at the dear
face on the other side of the table, which could not help looking bright
in reply. Ellen was well pleased for her part that the third seat was
empty. But Alice looked thoughtful sometimes as a gust of wind swept by,
and once or twice went to the window.
After tea Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself contentedly
down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her. Silent for very
contentment for a while, she sat looking gravely into the fire; while
Alice's fingers drove a little steel hook through and through some purse
silk in a mysterious fashion that no eye could be quick enough to
follow, and with such skill and steadiness that the work grew fast under
her hand.
"I had such a funny dream last night," said Ellen.
"Did you? What about?"
"It was pleasant too," said Ellen, twisting herself round to talk--"but
very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that was so kind to me on
board the boat--you know?--I told you about him?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don't know where, and he
didn't look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was; and I thought I
didn't like to speak to him for fear he wouldn't know _me_, but then I
thought he did, and came up and took my hand, and seemed so glad to see
me; and he asked me if I had been _pious_ since he saw me."
Ellen stopped to laugh.
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him yes. And then I thought he seemed so very pleased."
"Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems."
"_I_ didn't," said Ellen. "But then I thought I had, in my dream."
"Had what? Kept close to the truth?"
"No, no;--been what he said."
"Dreams are queer things," said Alice.
"I have been far enough from being good to-day," said Ellen
thoughtfully.
"How so, my dear?"
"I don't know, Miss Alice--because I never _am_ good, I suppose."
"But what has been the matter to-day?"
"Why, those apples! I thought I would come here so early, and then when
I found I must do all those baskets of apples first I was very
ill-humoured; and Aunt Fortune saw I was, and said something that made
me worse. And I tried as hard as I could to get through before dinner,
and when I found I couldn't I said I wouldn't come to dinner, but she
made me, and that vexed me more, and I wouldn't eat scarcely anything,
and then when I got back to the apples again I sewed so hard that I ran
the needle into my finger ever so far--see there! what a mark it
left!--and Aunt Fortune said it served me right and she was glad of it,
and that made me angry. I knew I was wrong afterwards, and I was very
sorry. Isn't it strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have resolved
so hard I wouldn't?"
"Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as ours
are--it _is_ strange they should be so evil."
"I told Aunt Fortune afterwards I was sorry, but she said 'actions speak
louder than words, and words are cheap.' If she only wouldn't say that
just as she does! it does worry me so."
"Patience!" said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen's hair as she sat
looking sorrowfully up at her; "you must try not to give her occasion.
Never mind what she says, and overcome evil with good."
"That is just what mamma said!" exclaimed Ellen, rising to throw her
arms round Alice's neck, and kissing her with all the energy of love,
gratitude, repentance, and sorrowful recollection.
"Oh, what do you think!" she said suddenly, her face changing again--"I
got my letter last night!"
"Your letter!"
"Yes, the letter the old man brought--don't you know? And it was written
on the ship, and there was only a little bit from mamma, and a little
bit from papa, but so good! Papa says she is a great deal better, and
he has no doubt he will bring her back in the spring or summer quite
well again. Isn't that good?"
"Very good, dear Ellen. I am very glad for you."
"It was on my bed last night. I can't think how it got there--and don't
care either, so long as I have got it. What are you making?"
"A purse," said Alice, laying it on the table for her inspection.
"It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this?"
"Yes, and these tassels to finish them off."
"Oh, that's beautiful!" said Ellen, laying them down to try the effect;
"and these rings to fasten it with. Is it black?"
"No, dark green. I am making it for my brother John."
"A Christmas present!" exclaimed Ellen.
"I am afraid not; he will hardly be here by that time. It may do for New
Year."
"How pleasant it must be to make Christmas and New Year presents!" said
Ellen, after she had watched Alice's busy fingers for a few minutes. "I
wish I could make something for somebody. Oh, I wonder if I couldn't
make something for Mr. Van Brunt! Oh, I should like to very much!"
Alice smiled at Ellen's very wide-open eyes.
"What could you make for him?"
"I don't know--that's the thing. He keeps his money in his pocket--and
besides, I don't know how to make purses."
"There are other things besides purses. How would a watch-guard do?
Does he wear a watch?"
"I don't know whether he does or not. He doesn't every day, I am sure;
but I don't know about Sundays."
"Then we won't venture upon that. You might knit him a nightcap."
"A nightcap? You're joking, Alice, aren't you? I don't think a nightcap
would be pretty for a Christmas present, do you?"
"Well, what shall we do, Ellen?" said Alice, laughing. "I made a pocket
pin-cushion for papa once when I was a little girl; but I fancy Mr. Van
Brunt would not know exactly what use to make of such a convenience. I
don't think you could fail to please him though, with anything you
should hit upon."
"I have got a dollar," said Ellen, "to buy stuff with; it came in my
letter last night. If I only knew what!"
Down she went on the rug again, and Alice worked in silence, while
Ellen's thoughts ran over every possible and impossible article of Mr.
Van Brunt's dress.
"I have some nice pieces of fine linen," said Alice; "suppose I cut out
a collar for him, and you can make it and stitch it, and then Margery
will starch and iron it for you, all ready to give to him. How will that
do? Can you stitch well enough?"
"Oh yes, I guess I can," said Ellen. "Oh, thank you, dear Alice! you are
the best help that ever was. Will he like that, do you think?"
"I am sure he will very much."
"Then that will do nicely," said Ellen, much relieved. "And now, what do
you think about Nancy's Bible?"
"Nothing could be better, only that I am afraid Nancy would either sell
it for something else, or let it go to destruction very quickly. I never
heard of her spending five minutes over a book, and the Bible, I am
afraid, last of all."
"But I think," said Ellen slowly, "I think she would not spoil it or
sell it either if _I_ gave it to her."
And she told Alice about Nancy's asking for the kiss last night.
"That's the most hopeful thing I have heard about Nancy for a long
time," said Alice. "We will get her the Bible by all means, my dear--a
nice one--and I hope you will be able to persuade her to read it."
She rose as she spoke and went to the glass door. Ellen followed her,
and they looked out into the night. It was very dark. She opened the
door a moment, but the wind drove the snow into their faces, and they
were glad to shut it again.
"It's almost as bad as the night we were out, isn't it?" said Ellen.
"Not such a heavy fall of snow, I think, but it is very windy and cold.
Papa will be late getting home."
"I am sorry you are worried, dear Alice."
"I am not _much_ worried, love. I have often known papa out late before,
but this is rather a hard night for a long walk. Come, we'll try to make
a good use of the time while we are waiting. Suppose you read to me
while I work."
She took down a volume of Cowper and found his account of the three pet
hares. Ellen read it, and then several of his smaller pieces of poetry.
Then followed a long talk about hares and other animals; about Cowper
and his friends and his way of life. Time passed swiftly away; it was
getting late.
"How weary papa will be," said Alice, "he has had nothing to eat since
dinner. I'll tell you what we'll do, Ellen," she exclaimed, as she threw
her work down, "we'll make some chocolate for him--that'll be the very
thing. Ellen, dear, run into the kitchen and ask Margery to bring me the
little chocolate pot, and a pitcher of night's milk."
Margery brought them. The pot was set on the coals, and Alice had cut up
the chocolate that it might melt the quicker. Ellen watched it with
great interest till it was melted and the boiling water stirred in, and
the whole was simmering quietly on the coals.
"Is it done now?"
"No, it must boil a little while, and then the milk must be put in, and
when that is boiled the eggs, and then it will be done."
With Margery and the chocolate pot the cat had walked in. Ellen
immediately tried to improve his acquaintance; that was not so easy. The
Captain chose the corner of the rug farthest from her, in spite of all
her calling and coaxing, paying her no more attention than if he had not
heard her. Ellen crossed over to him and began most tenderly and
respectfully to stroke his head and back, touching his soft hair with
great care. Parry presently lifted up his head uneasily, as much as to
say, "I wonder how long this is going to last," and finding there was
every prospect of its lasting some time, he fairly got up and walked to
the other end of the rug. Ellen followed him and tried again, with
exactly the same effect.
"Well, cat, you aren't very kind," said she, at length; "Alice, he won't
let me have anything to do with him."
"I am sorry, my dear, he is so unsociable; he is a cat of very bad
taste, that is all I can say."
"But I never saw such a cat! he won't let me touch him ever so softly;
he lifts up his head and looks as cross!--and then walks off."
"He don't know you yet, and truth is, Parry has no fancy for extending
the circle of his acquaintance. Oh, kitty, kitty!" said Alice, fondly
stroking his head, "why don't you behave better?"
Parry lifted his head, and opened and shut his eyes, with an expression
of great satisfaction very different from that he had bestowed on Ellen.
Ellen gave him up for the present as a hopeless case, and turned her
attention to the chocolate, which had now received the milk, and must be
watched lest it should run over, which Alice said it would very easily
do when once it began to boil again. Meanwhile Ellen wanted to know what
chocolate was made of, where it came from, where it was made best,
burning her little face in the fire all the time lest the pot should
boil over while she was not looking. At last the chocolate began to
gather a rich froth, and Ellen called out:
"Oh, Alice, look here quick; here's the shape of the spoon on the top of
the chocolate! do look at it."
An iron spoon was in the pot, and its shape was distinctly raised on the
smooth frothy surface. As they were both bending forward to watch it,
Alice waiting to take the pot off the moment it began to boil, Ellen
heard a slight click of the lock of the door, and turning her head was a
little startled to see a stranger there, standing still at the far end
of the room. She touched Alice's arm without looking round. But Alice
started to her feet with a slight scream, and in another minute had
thrown her arms round the stranger and was locked in his. Ellen knew
what it meant now very well. She turned away as if she had nothing to do
with what was going on there, and lifted the pot of chocolate off the
fire with infinite difficulty; but it was going to boil over, and she
would have broken her back rather than not do it. And then she stood
with her back to the brother and sister, looking into the fire, as if
she was determined not to see them till she couldn't help it. But what
she was thinking of, Ellen could not have told, then or afterward. It
was but a few minutes, though it seemed to her a great many, before they
drew near the fire. Curiosity began to be strong, and she looked round
to see if the new-comer was like Alice. No, not a bit--how
different!--darker hair and eyes--not a bit like her; handsome enough,
too, to be her brother. And Alice did not look like herself; her usually
calm, sweet face was quivering and sparkling now, lit up as Ellen had
never seen it, oh, how bright! Poor Ellen herself had never looked
duller in her life; and when Alice said gaily, "This is my brother,
Ellen," her confusion of thoughts and feelings resolved themselves into
a flood of tears; she sprang and hid her face in Alice's arms.
Ellen's were not the only eyes that were full just then, but of course
she didn't know that.
"Come, Ellen," whispered Alice presently, "look up! what kind of a
welcome is this? come! we have no business with tears just now--won't
you run into the kitchen for me, love," she added more low, "and ask
Margery to bring some bread and butter, and anything else she has that
is fit for a traveller?"
Glad of an escape, Ellen darted away that her wet face might not be
seen. The brother and sister were busily talking when she returned.
"John," said Alice, "this is my little sister that I wrote to you
about--Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, this is your brother as well as mine,
you know."
"Stop! stop!" said her brother. "Miss Ellen, this sister of mine is
giving us away to each other at a great rate--I should like to know
first what you say to it. Are you willing to take a strange brother upon
her recommendation?"
Half inclined to laugh, Ellen glanced at the speaker's face, but meeting
the grave though somewhat comical look of two very keen eyes, she looked
down again, and merely answered "yes."
"Then if I am to be your brother you must give me a brother's right, you
know," said he, drawing her gently to him, and kissing her gravely on
the lips.
Probably Ellen thought there was a difference between John Humphreys and
Mr. Van Brunt, or the young gentlemen of the apple-paring; for though
she coloured a good deal, she made no objection and showed no
displeasure. Alice and she now busied themselves with getting the cups
and saucers out of the cupboard, and setting the table; but all that
evening, through whatever was doing, Ellen's eyes sought the stranger as
if by fascination. She watched him whenever she could without being
noticed. At first she was in doubt what to think of him; she was quite
sure from that one look into his eyes that he was a person to be feared;
there was no doubt of that, as to the rest she didn't know.
"And what have my two sisters been doing to spend the evening?" said
John Humphreys, one time that Alice was gone into the kitchen on some
kind errand for him.
"Talking, sir," said Ellen doubtfully.
"Talking! this whole evening? Alice must have improved. What have you
been talking about?"
"Hares and dogs, and about Mr. Cowper, and some other things----"
"Private affairs, eh?" said he, with again the look Ellen had seen
before.
"Yes, sir," said Ellen, nodding and laughing.
"And how came you upon Mr. Cowper?"
"Sir?"
"How came you to be talking about Mr. Cowper?"
"I was reading about his hares, and about John Gilpin; and then Alice
told me about Mr. Cowper and his friends."
"Well, I don't know after all that you have had a pleasanter evening
than I have had," said her questioner, "though I have been riding hard
with the cold wind in my face, and the driving snow doing all it could
to discomfort me. I have had this very bright fireside before me all the
way."
He fell into a fit of grave musing, which lasted till Alice came in.
Then suddenly fell a fumbling in his pocket.
"Here's a note for you," said he, throwing it into her lap.
"A note!--Sophia Marshman!--where did you get it?"
"From her own hand. Passing there to-day, I thought I must stop a moment
to speak to them, and had no notion of doing more; but Mrs. Marshman
was very kind, and Miss Sophia in despair, so the end of it was I
dismounted and went in to await the preparing of that billet, while my
poor nag was led off to the stables and a fresh horse supplied me. I
fancy that tells you on what conditions."
"Charming!" said Alice, "to spend Christmas--I am very glad; I should
like to very much--with you, dear. If I can only get papa--but I think
he will; it will do him a great deal of good. To-morrow, she says, we
must come; but I doubt the weather will not let us; we shall see."
"I rode Prince Charlie down. He is a good traveller, and the sleighing
will be fine if the snow be not too deep. The old sleigh is in being
yet, I suppose?"
"Oh yes! in good order. Ellen, what are you looking so grave about? you
are going too."
"I!" said Ellen, a great spot of crimson coming in each cheek.
"To be sure; do you think I am going to leave you behind."
"But----"
"But what?"
"There won't be room."
"Room in the sleigh? Then we'll put John on Prince Charlie, and let him
ride there postillion-fashion."
"But--Mr. Humphreys?"
"He always goes on horseback; he will ride Sharp or old John."
In great delight Ellen gave Alice an earnest kiss; and then they all
gathered round the table to take their chocolate, or rather to see John
take his, which his sister would not let him wait for any longer. The
storm had ceased, and through the broken clouds the moon and stars were
looking out, so they were no more uneasy for Mr. Humphreys, and expected
him every moment. Still the supper was begun and ended without him, and
they had drawn round the fire again before his welcome step was at last
heard.
There was new joy then; new embracing, and questioning and answering;
the little circle opened to let him in; and Alice brought the corner of
the table to his side, and poured him out a cup of hot chocolate. But
after drinking half of it, and neglecting the eatables beside him, he
sat with one hand in the other, his arm leaning on his knee, with a kind
of softened gravity upon his countenance.
"Is your chocolate right, papa?" said Alice at length.
"_Very_ good, my daughter!"
He finished the cup, but then went back to his old attitude and look.
Gradually they ceased their conversation, and waited with respectful
affection and some curiosity for him to speak; something of more than
common interest seemed to be in his thoughts. He sat looking earnestly
in the fire, sometimes with almost a smile on his face, and gently
striking one hand in the palm of the other. And sitting so, without
moving or stirring his eyes, he said at last, as though the words had
been forced from him, "Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable gift!"
As he added no more, Alice said gently, "What have you seen to-night,
papa?"
He roused himself and pushed the empty cup towards her.
"A little more, my daughter; I have seen the fairest sight, almost, a
man can see in this world. I have seen a little ransomed spirit go home
to its rest. Oh, that 'unspeakable gift!'"
He pressed his lips thoughtfully together while he stirred his
chocolate; but having drunk it he pushed the table from him, and drew up
his chair.
"You had a long way to go, papa," observed Alice again.
"Yes, a long way there; I don't know what it was coming home; I never
thought of it. How independent the spirit can be of externals! I
scarcely felt the storm to-night."
"Nor I," said his son.
"I had a long way to go," said Mr. Humphreys; "that poor woman--that
Mrs. Dolan--she lives in the woods behind the Cat's Back, a mile beyond
Carra-carra, or more, it seemed a long mile to-night; and a more
miserable place I never saw yet. A little rickety shanty, the storm was
hardly kept out of it, and no appearance of comfort or nicety anywhere
or in anything. There were several men gathered round the fire, and in a
corner, on a miserable kind of bed, I saw the sick child. His eye met
mine the moment I went in, and I thought I had seen him before, but
couldn't at first make out where. Do you remember, Alice, a little
ragged boy, with a remarkably bright, pleasant face, who has planted
himself regularly every Sunday morning for some time past in the south
aisle of the church, and stood there all service time?"
Alice said No.
"I have noticed him often, and noticed him as paying a most fixed and
steady attention. I have repeatedly tried to catch him on his way out of
church, to speak to him, but always failed. I asked him to-night, when I
first went in, if he knew me. 'I do, sir,' he said. I asked him where he
had seen me. He said, 'In the church beyant.' 'So,' said I, 'you are the
little boy I have seen there so regularly; what did you come there
for?'
"'To hear yer honour spake the good words.'
"'What good words?' said I; 'about what?'
"He said, 'About Him that was slain, and washed us from our sins in His
own blood.'
"'And do you think He has washed away yours?' I said.
"He smiled at me very expressively. I suppose it was somewhat difficult
for him to speak; and to tell the truth so it was for me, for I was
taken by surprise; but the people in the hut had gathered round, and I
wished to hear him say more, for their sake as well as my own. I asked
him why he thought his sins were washed away. He gave me for answer part
of the verse, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me,' but did not
finish it. 'Do you think you are very sick, John?' I asked.
"'I am, sir,' he said. 'I'll not be long here.'
"'And where do you think you are going, then?' said I.
"He lifted one little thin bony arm from under his coverlid, and through
all the dirt and pallor of his face the smile of heaven I am sure was on
it, as he looked and pointed upward and answered, 'Jesus!'
"I asked him presently, as soon as I could, what he had wished to see me
for. I don't know whether he heard me or not; he lay with his eyes half
closed, breathing with difficulty. I doubted whether he would speak
again, and indeed, for myself, I had heard and seen enough to satisfy me
entirely; for the sake of the group around the bed I could have desired
something further. They kept perfect stillness; awed, I think, by a
profession of faith such as they had never heard before. They and I
stood watching him, and at the end of a few minutes, not more than ten
or fifteen, he opened his eyes, and with sudden life and strength rose
up half way in bed, exclaiming, 'Thanks be to God for His unspeakable
gift!'--and then fell back--just dead."
The old gentleman's voice was husky as he finished, for Alice and Ellen
were both weeping, and John Humphreys had covered his face with his
hands.
"I have felt," said the old gentleman presently, "as if I could have
shouted out his words--his dying words--all the way as I came home. My
little girl," said he, drawing Ellen to him, "do you know the meaning of
those sweet things of which little John Dolan's mind was so full?"
Ellen did not speak.
"Do you know what it is to be a sinner? and what it is to be a forgiven
child of God?"
"I believe I do, sir," Ellen said.
He kissed her forehead and blessed her; and then said, "Let us pray."
It was late; the servants had gone to bed, and they were alone. Oh, what
a thanksgiving Mr. Humphreys poured forth for that "unspeakable gift;"
that they, every one there, had been made to know and rejoice in it; for
the poor little boy, rich in faith, who had just gone home in the same
rejoicing; for their own loved one who was there already; and for the
hope of joining them soon in safety and joy, to sing with them the "new
song" for ever and ever.
There were no dry eyes in the room. And when they arose, Mr. Humphreys,
after giving his daughter the usual kiss for good-night, gave one to
Ellen too, which he had never done before, and then going to his son and
laying both hands on his shoulders, kissed his cheek also; then silently
took his candle and went.
They lingered a little while after he was gone, standing round the fire
as if loth to part, but in grave silence, each busy with his own
thoughts. Alice's ended by fixing on her brother, for laying her hand
and her head carelessly on his shoulder, she said, "And so you have been
well all this time, John?"
He turned his face towards her without speaking, but Ellen as well as
his sister saw the look of love with which he answered her question,
rather of endearment than inquiry; and from that minute Ellen's mind was
made up as to the doubt which had troubled her. She went to bed quite
satisfied that her new brother was a decided acquisition.