AILIE FINDING HERSELF USEFUL.
AILIE woke up slowly, wondering at first where she could be. Under the
stairs was her first impression, but then she felt the quilt wrapped
round her, and the little bundle under her head, and she saw the light
coming through the half-open door. She jumped up in a great hurry,
pulled on her ragged frock, and peeped out.
There sat old Job Kippis near the window, with a worn volume upon his
knee, from which he was slowly reading aloud. Ailie hesitated until he
looked up; then, as a smile broke over his face, she came towards him.
"Had a good night, little deary?" asked Job.
"I've slept ever so sound," said Ailie.
"And ever so hungry this mornin', eh?" inquired Job.
Ailie nodded.
"Have some breakfast d'rectly, won't ye? I've a little cleanin' up to
do first, but 'twon't take long. And—well, I'd like to see you doin'
the same thing, Ailie," added Job, with a glance at Ailie's dusky face
and fingers. "I'll give you some water, an' a piece of soap."
"Mother liked me to wash," said Ailie, and Job carried the old tin
basin to her closet, well pleased at her answer. There he left her,
and thence she emerged in a few minutes, a very different-looking
child, with fresh skin, and hair smoothed back as neatly as was
possible without the aid of a brush. Ailie had tried the effect of
water instead, which gave it a plastered appearance, but added to its
smoothness.
"That's a deal better," said Job. "And now we'll come to breakfast."
He propped up the broken chair with a piece of wood kept on purpose,
and balanced himself upon it, while Ailie took her seat on the foot
of the bedstead, and the table stood between them. There was a stale
half-loaf upon it, and a tiny piece of butter, and a small battered
teapot containing some weak tea. Ailie was sure she had never tasted so
delicious a meal in all her life, and Job would not stint her, though
he took less than usual himself, to make up for her ravenous appetite.
She asked for nothing, and would have left off uncomplainingly, but the
hungry eyes were too much for his fortitude, and he gave her as much as
he thought good for her.
"Mayn't I wash up?" asked Ailie, seeing him begin to do so. "Mother
used to let me help her, ever so long ago—afore we had to pawn
everything."
"Why, ye don't know how," said Job, looking down at the child.
"I'd soon learn," responded Ailie, and Job Kippis nodded his head.
"So ye shall, deary, sure enough. Never does nobody no harm to learn.
I'm all for learnin', ain't I, when we've means to do it? So there now,
I'll get to my work, an' you'll tidy up the room for me, like as useful
a maid as ever I see."
Ailie smiled acquiescence, and Job Kippis settled himself to his
tailoring, casting an occasional side-glance at the little maid's
movements. She did not seem at a loss. First the chair was pulled back
against the wall, and the table was with some difficulty restored to
its usual place. Then Ailie set to work to re-make the bed. Job had
made it already that morning, but he said nothing to disturb Ailie's
pleasure in being useful; he only gave one or two furtive looks, a
smile twitching his lips.
The bed-making—such as it was—being accomplished, Ailie brought out the
tin basin, and filled it with fresh water from the old tin can, which
had been wont to stand in the closet till displaced by her presence.
With careful fingers she washed the two little blue plates, and the two
little white mugs, in imitation of her mother's custom in earlier days,
before misery and want had broken in upon such habits. Then arranging
them and the teapot upon the mantel-shelf—not their usual place, but
Ailie asked no questions, and Job would not interfere—she finally hid
away the tin basin in a corner, rubbed her fingers clean, pushed back
her hair, and went to Job.
Job gave her a little nod, with the words—"Thank'ee, deary," and
continued his work. Ailie watched intently, feasting her eyes on the
bright red cloth, and once in a way looking out of the window at the
roofs opposite, and the blue sky over them.
"It's ever so much better up here than down below," she said at length.
"Down whereabouts?" asked Job.
"Down in the cellar," said Ailie.
"Ah, 'twas there ye lived, wasn't it?"
Ailie nodded.
"And you likes this best?"
Another nod, and after it came the abrupt question, "What be you goin'
to do with me?"
Job looked up at the eager face, then worked on steadily. "Why, that's
the very question I was askin' myself last night. What's to be done
with ye, poor little 'un, till your mother's back? Two months, ain't
it?"
"Oh, not the work'us, please, please!" entreated Ailie, with passionate
earnestness.
"Why, ye wouldn't be so badly off there," said Job, soothingly. "Maybe
I'll come to it myself some day, I was a-thinkin' only yesterday."
"Oh, not the work'us, please!" was all Ailie could reiterate.
"What's to be done with ye, then?" asked Job, putting the puzzling
question in his turn.
A pause followed, during which Ailie looked round the room, towards the
closet, and back again into the kind hearty face, with its silver locks
drooping over the forehead.
"I wish ever so much I was your little girl," sighed Ailie.
"Why, do ye like the old man?" asked Job, thinking how her arms had
clung to him the night before.
"Lots!" said Ailie emphatically. "I'd like to be mother's still, 'cause
I love her, you see, but I wish you was my—my—gran'father," concluded
Ailie, with a great stretch of imagination, "so's I could get up on
your knee, like as I did on father's, afore he was ill."
"Father was good to ye, wasn't he, eh?" asked Job.
Ailie nodded in her quick way.
"An' ye like a-sittin' on somebody's knee, like as you did on mine
yesterday; but you was half asleep, and maybe you don't remember."
"Oh, but I do, too, an' it was as nice as nice!" repeated Ailie, with
shining eyes. "And I did feel so certain sure you was a-takin' care o'
me, I didn't feel afraid—not o' the work'us, even."
"Pretty, ain't it?" muttered old Job softly. "Maybe I'll learn a lesson
from that, couldn't I, now? Lyin' in my arms, and never seen me before,
and not feelin' a bit o' fear, 'cause she knowed I'd take care o' her!
Why, how did she know it, 'cept that I picked her up, when she was
a-lyin' all helpless, an' gave her food, an' cuddled her in my arms?
Sure that's what the Good Shepherd does—not as I'm likenin' myself, a
poor sinful old man—but, sure enough, He does pick up the poor stray
lambs, and feeds 'em, an' they feels His arms round 'em, and sees His
face, and trusts Him, and has no fear. Ain't that a beautiful thought
now?" added Job, looking up brightly, in his usual fashion of putting
questions to himself.
Ailie had listened to the indistinct soliloquy, but understood little
of it. "What's a shepherd?" she asked.
"A man as takes care of the sheep," said Job. "And there's One—the Good
Shepherd, Ailie, and maybe ye know who He is."
Ailie shook her head. "I've seen a shepherd," she said. "There was a
lot o' sheep goin' through a street one day, and a man a-drivin' of
them with a stick, an' a dog barkin' at them. Was he a good shepherd,
'cause he wouldn't let the carts run over 'em?"
"Ah, deary, the Good Shepherd ain't like that nohow. He don't drive His
sheep, but He walks along in front, an' they loves Him so much they
walks after Him. And don't He lead 'em to nice cool waters and green
grass?" added Job, smiling.
"'Tain't in London, then," said Ailie shrewdly. "We've got no green
grass here, 'cept it's away in them park places, as mother said she'd
been to once."
"I'd like to tell ye a deal about it," said Job. "I'd like to see ye
one o' His lambs, Ailie."
"I ain't a lamb—I'm a girl," said Ailie.
"I'd like to see ye one o' his lambs," repeated Job. "I'm one of the
old sheep o' the flock, Ailie."
"You ain't a sheep neither," said Ailie.
And Job shook his head rather despondingly, wondering how he was to
make her understand.
But at this moment there was a tap at the door, and John Forsyth came
in.
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