WHAT HOR WANTED.
THAT same afternoon, the last ray of the setting sun, which shone
brightly on Josie Therlock during her happy homeward journey, crept
lazily, half-veiled by smoke, through the window of Job Kippis' garret.
It fell upon Job himself first, lending a sparkle to his silver hair,
and a light to his steady eyes. It cast his shadow behind on the bare
wall, and crept over the aquiline face of the Duke's portrait over
the fireplace. And just as it was taking itself away from Job Kippis'
hands, busied with some tough army-cloth, the door opened, and Ailie
bounded in.
"Gran'father, I've brought Hor an' Lettie to see you," she cried.
For though the middle of October had come, there was no more talk of
the workhouse for Ailie. She was domesticated in Job's garret.
"Welcome, both o' them," responded Job. "How're ye gettin' on, lad?"
Hor sat down on the foot of the bed, and leant his chin on his hand,
without replying, while Lettie crept to the window, settling herself
there in her quiet precise fashion, while her little fair head caught
the last gleam of sunlight.
"Eh?" repeated Job.
"I'm not gettin' on at all," said Hor. "Ain't like to, neither."
"Why not?" demanded Job.
"Two places lost lately, as I might ha' had with a decent jacket to my
back," said Hor gloomily. "They'd have took me for errand-boy at a shop
this mornin' if I could have dressed up respectable. It ain't no use.
I've tried an' tried, an' now I'll give up."
"Give up what?"
"Give up tryin'."
"Tryin' what?"
"To work, an' be respectable. 'Tain't no use. I'll give up, an' go
along with the rest o' the boys. Mother's made a deal o' fuss about
keepin' me honest, an' where's the good? I'll give up."
"An' begin to drink, an' steal, an' swear?" asked Job.
"Not steal," said Hor.
"T'other two, then?"
Hor's answer was a gruff: "Dunno."
"Just as well steal as swear, when you're about it," said Job. "One's
breakin' of the fourth commandment, an' one's breakin' of the eighth."
"I tell ye I mean to give up tryin' to keep steady, an' to be
respectable."
"Supposin' ye do," said Job, "what'll ye gain by it?"
Hor did not know what to answer.
"Think it'll make ye happier?"
Hor could not answer in the affirmative.
"Think it'll make ye more respectable?"
Hor shook his head.
"Think it'll bring money into your pocket—leastways without you takes
to stealin' too?"
"I don't think nothin' about it, save that I'm tired o' tryin' to no
purpose," said Hor listlessly.
Job paused a moment in his work, to glance at the boy's thin face and
hollow eyes.
"Poor lad!" he muttered. "I'd like to be able to help ye."
"Nobody can't—save them as won't," said Hon
"How old are ye, boy?"
"Thirteen—nigh upon fourteen."
"An' your name? Horatio Nelson, ain't it? Lived same time as the Duke
himself, didn't he? An' a brave sailor he was too. Never turned his
back on an enemy! If I was you, lad, I wouldn't go for to disgrace a
name like that!"
"If I'd a chance to go to sea, I wouldn't mind nought else," said Hor.
"Seems to me ye want a many things," said Job Kippis.
"Just think I do," said Hor.
"Gran'father," remarked Ailie in the pause following, "d'ye know I saw
that little lady as wanted to give me a penny—an' she was drivin' past
with a gentleman, an' laughin' an' talkin' as happy as happy, an' she
looked at me too."
"Maybe she knowed you again," said little Lettie.
"Maybe she didn't," said Hor. "Catch a fine young lady a-knowin' a
little ragged girl like you agin. Likely that."
"Why wouldn't she then?" asked Job.
"Rich folks don't care for poor uns," said Hor.
"You're out there, boy. There's many do."
"I ain't seen 'em then."
"Maybe not. There's many things you haven't seen. I've one rich Friend."
"He don't do much for ye then," said Hor, glancing round the bare
apartment.
"Don't He? That's all you knows about the matter. Just all my joy an'
happiness in life comes from Him."
Hor made no answer.
Job went on after a minute—
"There's many things ye wants, lad. Ye say ye've worked an' tried in
vain, an' you're like to give up tryin'. I'll put one question to ye.
Have ye ever asked for 'em?"
"Asked over an' over again," said Hor. "There ain't a man as 'll employ
me."
"Then I'd stop askin' men, an' go higher."
"Go where, gran'father?" asked Ailie.
Job lifted one hand.
"Up there, deary."
"Like as father asked to be remembered?" asked Ailie.
"Aye, an' like as I make ye kneel down night an' morning, an' pray to
'Our Father, which art in Heaven.'"
"D'ye mean to say, if I went an' prayed for work, it'd come?" inquired
Hor, with a low incredulous laugh. For thanks to old Job, the name and
meaning of prayer was not unknown among those three children, as it had
been but a short time back.
Job thought seriously, then said—
"No, I don't, lad."
"Then where's the good o' prayin'?" asked Hor.
Job put down his work, and opened his Bible, bending over it in the
twilight.
"Look here, lad—there's many an' many a promise of answers to prayers.
Will ye hear one or two?
"'If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what
ye will, and it shall be done unto you.' *
"See that, boy—'If ye abide in Me.' That's the Lord Himself. If ye
abide in Him, trust Him, obey Him, love Him, He'll do what ye ask Him.
'Tisn't to them as don't love Him as He says that. An' here again—
"'And whatsoever we ask we receive of Him, because we keep His
commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in His sight.' †
"D'you keep the commandments o' the holy Jesus, boy? D'you set
yourself, heart an' soul, to do all ye can to please Him, eh? An' here
again—
"'He will fulfil the desire of them that fear Him; He also will hear
their cry and will save them.' ‡
"Are ye one o' them that fears Him? If ye are, He'll fulfil your
desire, lad. Are ye, eh?"
"Don't see any good in prayin' at all, then," muttered Hor.
* John xv. 7. † 1 John iii. 22. ‡ Psalm cxlv. 19.
"No good! Why, if you're one that fears Him, ye may ask what ye will,
an' if ye ain't making some foolish request, like to poison for your
soul, He'll give it ye. Don't He love to make us happy? Don't it grieve
Him at His heart when He sees one o' His poor sheep bleaten' an'
sorrowful, and don't He love to smile an' comfort un? Eh, lad?"
"I don't know nothin' about that," said Hor. "I only knows He lets us
live like pigs."
"Have ye ever asked Him to make it different?"
"What's the good? Don't ye say He won't answer?" demanded Hor.
"I don't say He won't, but only He's not promised He will. That's
to say, lad, He's not promised to ye, 'whatsoever ye ask, ye shall
receive.' He's promised to forgive your sins, an' to save ye, an' to
make ye different, soon 's ever ye'll ask Him, but the 'whatsoever'
promises don't belong to ye, till ye begins to serve Him. See my
meanin', lad—eh?"
Hor did not answer, and Ailie said:
"He's the Shepherd, ain't He, gran'father?"
"Sure He is. The Shepherd, an' the Master, an' the Lord, an' the King,
an' the Friend. Ever so many Names He's got,—picturs of Him like, so's
we may understand Him better. There'll be a day, little deary—" and his
firm brown hand stroked Lettie's head,—"there'll be a day when He'll
have one Name, 'cause the Bible says so. 'There shall be one Lord,
and His Name one.' He's one Lord now, but He's a many names. We won't
need a Shepherd nor a Guide then, for we'll be at Home. Sometimes I
wonders what Name He'll choose, among so many. One time I thinks it'll
be Master, 'cause we'll all serve Him. Another time I thinks it'll be
Father, 'cause we'll all be one family in Heaven, an' sure the Bible
calls Him the Everlasting Father. Another time, I think maybe it'll
be Love, 'cause the Lord is love, all love, nothin' but love. Any way
it'll be beautiful—right beautiful," and the smile that shone on Job's
face had a dim reflection of that far-off heavenly beauty.
"If He be all love, why don't He give us a nice place to live in?"
asked Hor, though less doggedly than before.
"How many more times will I have to say it, lad—Have ye ever asked Him
to make it different?"
"If I did, what then?" demanded Hor. "Don't ye be the same?"
"No," said Job decidedly. "You says ye lives like pigs, but 'tain't
no pig-sty this home o' mine. It's where my Master has put me, an' I
loves it for His sake. Why, lad, I tell ye, He'd put me in a palace
straight,—not as I'd be happy there partic'larly,—but He'd put me
there, if 'twas for my good. That's all as matters. I wouldn't ask Him
to change. All I wants is,—
"'Guide me with Thy counsel, an' afterward receive me to glory.'
"Why, what matters a garret an' a scrap o' dry bread a little longer?
There's Heaven waitin' for me, an' angels' food. Maybe if I'd more,
I'd love this world too much. I don't love it now. It's Heaven I wants.
Maybe then it'd be earth I'd want."
"It's some'at nice on earth I want," said Hor.
"An' ye might have it, if ye'd take it. Some'at nice! What's nicer than
to have the Lord smilin' down on ye from heaven, an' helping you with
His strong arm, an' givin' ye peace an' joy in your heart? How's it all
to be got, Ailie?"
Ailie thought a moment, and said—"Ain't it by believin' Him,
gran'father?"
"Sure enough, deary. Believin' and obeyin' the Lord who died for us on
the Cross. He loved ye, lad—loved ye so as to die a bitter and painful
death for your sake. An' He tells ye to seek Him, an' call to Him, an'
do His commands, an' while ye won't do that, an' haven't a thought
o' gratitude in your heart for all He's done for ye, ye'll sit there
grumblin' because He don't give ye everything ye'd like. Do ye deserve
to have it, boy?"
The solemn question met with no response from Hor. Little as he knew
of himself, he at least knew so much that he could not answer in the
affirmative.
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