Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: THE CORNISH FLOWER-FARM.]
LITTLE SUNBEAM
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
AUTHOR OF "GRANFER," ETC.
WITH FRONTISPIECE BY MYRA K. HUGHES
LONDON
NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER
NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE
[All rights reserved]
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
GRANFER, and ONE CHRISTMAS TIME.
Price 1s.
NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY,
Sanctuary, Westminster, S. W.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. KNOCKED DOWN
II. CONCERNING AUNT CAROLINE
III. THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
IV. PEGGY'S FIRST DAY AT LOWER BRIMLEY
V. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
VI. MISS LEIGHTON'S DISCOVERY
VII. A GREAT SURPRISE
VIII. CONCERNING ELLEN BARNES
IX. TEA AT LOWER BRIMLEY
X. GOOD-BYES
XI. HOME AGAIN
XII. AUNT CAROLINE'S DISAPPOINTMENT
XIII. PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS
XIV. CONCLUSION
LITTLE SUNBEAM
CHAPTER I
KNOCKED DOWN
"COME along, Billy. Mother said we were not to be long; and I'm sure
we've been more than half an hour."
The speaker—a little girl of about nine years old, clad in a somewhat
shabby blue serge coat and skirt, with a Tam o' Shanter cap on her
golden curls—tried to pull her brother away from the toy shop window
into which he was gazing longingly; but he resisted, and still lingered.
"There's plenty of time, Peggy," he assured her. "You know we never
have tea till five o'clock, and you can't imagine what a heap of jolly
things there are in this window. I wish you could see them."
"I wish I could," she answered. "Never mind, you can tell me all about
them by-and-by."
It was a cold, dull, February day; but it did not rain, and the street
was thronged with vehicles, whilst the pedestrians—mostly of the lower
classes, for the district was a poor one—hustled against each other
on the pavements. No one took any notice of the two children who had
been standing before a toy shop window for the last ten minutes. And,
indeed, there was nothing about them to attract the observation of a
casual observer, although the countenance of the little girl, with its
finely-cut features and sweet expression, possessed a delicate beauty
which was certainly out of the common. No one looking at Peggy Pringle
would have guessed that she was blind, for her eyes, in colour the
darkest blue, were as clear as crystal; but the sad fact was that the
blessing of sight was denied to her.
It had been a terrible trouble to the child's parents when, some months
after her birth, they had learnt the truth, that the happy baby, whose
rosebud lips seemed formed only for smiles, and whose eyes were "bits
of Heaven's blue" as her young mother had used to declare, would never
see the light of day, and they had grieved deeply. But Peggy had never
appeared to realise how great was her affliction, and at the present
time it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to find a more
contented little girl. "Little Sunbeam" her father had nicknamed her
years before, and a veritable sunbeam in the household she continued to
be.
Peggy and her brother, who was only thirteen months her junior, had
been sent to buy buns for tea, and she was holding the bag which
contained them with one hand, whilst with the other she kept a firm
grip of Billy's coat. She was not exactly nervous in a crowd, for she
had been accustomed to London all her life, and her home was in a
thickly populated district. But she experienced a sense of bewilderment
as she listened to the hurrying footsteps on the pavement and the
continual roll of carriage wheels, and she wished Billy would tire of
looking into shop windows and return home.
"Come, Billy," she urged again, "mother will wonder what is keeping us.
Do come."
Accordingly, Billy took his sister by the hand with an air of
protection, and they walked on. At the corner of the street, they stood
waiting for a favourable opportunity to cross.
"Is there a policeman near?" asked Peggy.
"There's one on the other side of the road," replied Billy, "but we
don't want him. I can manage all right. When I say 'Now,' mind you come
right on."
A minute later Billy cried, "Now!"
So, hand in hand, the children went fearlessly forward. And they would
have effected the crossing in safety had not a private carriage, drawn
by a pair of spirited horses, turned the corner from a side street.
Billy hurried his sister on; but the road was slippery, and, in her
haste, the little girl stumbled and let go her brother's hand. Some
one flung Billy on one side, whilst the coachman driving the pair of
horses pulled them back on their haunches in time to prevent a serious
accident, but not before one of the animals had struck poor Peggy on
the shoulder with its hoof. She was borne to the pavement in the arms
of the policeman whose help Billy had disdained, and in a few minutes a
small crowd had congregated.
"What has happened?" inquired an imperious voice from the interior of
the carriage. "Is any one injured?"
"A little girl," answered the policeman. "I think she's more frightened
than hurt, though," he added, as he set Peggy on the ground, and Billy,
pale and frightened, rushed to her side.
"Was my coachman at fault?" was the next question.
"No, ma'am. He was driving carefully, and had the horses under proper
control; but—"
"That's all I want to know, thank you."
A head was thrust out of the carriage window, and the crowd saw the
face—a haughty, handsome face it was—of a white-haired old lady, who
beckoned to the policeman to approach, which he did.
"You had better take the little girl to a hospital, if she is hurt,"
the old lady said, in a tone which expressed neither interest nor
sympathy. "I suppose that would be your duty? Well, you know your
business; it is none of mine, as my servant, you assure me, is
blameless. However, here is my card should you require to communicate
with me."
The handsome old face drew back from the window, and the carriage was
driven away, whilst the crowd dispersed, leaving only the policeman and
one other—an elderly clergyman, who had come upon the scene after the
accident—with the frightened children.
"Where are you hurt, my dear little girl?"
Peggy's shocked face brightened at the sound of the kindly voice, which
she recognised immediately as belonging to Mr. Maloney, the Vicar of
St. John's Church, where her father was the organist.
"It's my shoulder," she answered. "Oh, Mr. Maloney, do please take me
home!"
"Of course I will, my dear," he responded promptly, with a reassuring
nod and smile at Billy. "What happened?" he inquired of the policeman,
who briefly explained, adding that no one had been in fault.
"Billy couldn't have helped it," Peggy said hastily, fearful lest blame
should be attached to her brother.
"No, the little boy was not to blame," agreed the policeman. "Are you
going to take charge of the children, sir?" he asked of the clergyman.
"Yes. I know them well; their father is Mr. Pringle, the organist of
St. John's Church. What is this?" Mr. Maloney questioned as he took the
card the policeman presented to him.
"The lady in the carriage gave it to me, sir. I have made a note of the
name and the address. Maybe the little girl's father will make some
claim—"
"I imagine not," interposed the clergyman quickly; "but I will take the
card and give it to Mr. Pringle. Thank you,"—and he slipped the bit of
pasteboard into his vest pocket.
"Oh, Billy, I dropped the buns!" exclaimed Peggy regretfully. They had
no money to buy more, and the buns had been purchased for a treat.
"The horses trod on them," Billy replied; "but, never mind, mother
won't think anything about them when she knows what's happened. I'm
afraid she'll never trust you out alone with me any more."
The little girl made no response. The pain in her shoulder was making
her feel sick and faint, and her legs trembled as she walked along by
Mr. Maloney's side, her hand in his. He saw she was suffering, and
regarded her with compassionate eyes, whilst he exchanged remarks
with Billy. Soon she began to lose the drift of her companions'
conversation, and when at length, home—a small house, one of a
terrace—was reached, the shock she had received proved too much for
her, and she fell insensible into her mother's arms.
When Peggy regained consciousness, she found herself undressed and
in bed. Everything was very quiet, but she was aware of some one's
presence, and it was no surprise when soft lips met hers in a loving
kiss, and her mother's voice said, "You are better, Peggy dear."
Then she was gently raised in bed, and, to her astonishment, she found
her shoulder was bandaged; but she was not in much pain now, so she
took the bread and milk offered to her, and lay down again, feeling
strangely weak and tired, and disinclined to talk.
"Sleep if you can, darling," her mother said tenderly. "You will be
much stronger to-morrow. The doctor has attended to your poor shoulder.
Thank God you are not more seriously hurt!"
"What is the time mother?" Peggy asked. "Have you had tea? I was so
sorry about the buns. I dropped them, you know."
"Did you? As if that mattered! No, we have not had tea. We have been
too anxious about you to think of it. Now we shall have tea and supper
together. It is nearly seven o'clock—not quite your usual bedtime, but
never mind that to-night. Rest will do you good. I want you to sleep."
"I am very tired," Peggy murmured, "but I haven't said my prayers,
and my head feels so funny that I can't think. I will say my 'little
prayer' to-night.' Then she repeated very slowly and softly:
"Holy Father, cheer our way
With Thy love's perpetual ray:
Grant us every closing day
Light at evening time."
It was a pathetic prayer, coming as it did from the lips of one who
lived in permanent darkness. But it had been one of the first Peggy had
learnt and she had always been very fond of it, calling it her "little
prayer." To-night her eyelids closed as she repeated the last line, and
a few minutes later she had fallen asleep.
Mrs. Pringle remained by the bedside some while longer, tears, which
she had repressed till now, running down her cheeks, though her heart
was full of gratitude to Him Who had spared her child's life. She was a
most affectionate mother, devoted to both her children; but her little
daughter, doubtless by reason of her affliction, was always her first
care. She shuddered as she thought what might have been the result of
the accident that afternoon, and pictured her darling trampled beneath
the horses' hoofs.
"God gave His angels charge over her," she murmured, as she bent her
head once more, and kissed the little sleeper. Then she stole softly
away, and went downstairs to the sitting-room where Billy his father
were keeping each other company, both heavy-hearted, though the doctor
had assured them there was no cause for alarm.
"How is she now?" they asked, with one accord, as she entered the room.
"Sleeping peacefully," she told them, a smile lighting up her pale,
tearful countenance. "You may go and look at her; but please be very
careful not to disturb her. I have every hope that she will be better
after a good rest. We have much to thank God for this night!"