LETTIE'S RECOLLECTIONS.
"NOW ain't it just wonderful?" said Esther Forsyth, in overwhelming
astonishment. "To think o' that! Little Lettie as has lived with us all
this while—an' for a gentleman like yerself, sir, to be her brother."
"But how to thank you enough for all your tender care of our little
lost one, I do not know," said Leveson, with moist eyes and unsteady
voice. "When I think of what might have become of her, but that you
took pity—"
"Twasn't no praise to me, sir," said Esther. "It's a dear child she
've been; so good an' handy with the boys; an' never giving a scrap of
trouble. I don't know what I'll do without her."
"You are a mother, Mrs. Forsyth. Think what her mother has suffered all
these years. And she has only one child beside."
"Lettie 'll be a deal better off," said Esther unselfishly. "It's many
a day an' night she's knowed cold an' hunger, when we hadn't victuals
nor fire to give her."
"I have a great deal more to say to you—much that I wish to do as a
proof of our gratitude," said Leveson. "But I must leave that now till
another day. I long to take the dear child to her mother. What do you
think she will feel herself when she hears it?"
"Lettie? I'll call her in. She'll be main glad, if she 've sense to
know her own interests. She be down now in the court, a-keeping watch
over Roger—that's our half-witted boy, sir. Dear, dear, how the boys
'll ever get along without her.—But I'll go an' bring her in."
"And do not tell her anything by the way, if you please. Only say a
gentleman wants to see her."
Mrs. Forsyth nodded assent, and hurried off, her silent nature for
once aroused to excitement. Leveson waited with all the patience he
could muster, till Esther reappeared with a slight child, in ill-mended
rags, following after her. But the little face that looked up shyly
into his—Leveson did not wonder at his mother's instant recognition, so
marvellous was the resemblance in feature and expression, not only to
the lost infant of five years earlier, but to Mrs. Therlock herself.
Very tenderly, he lifted her upon his knee, for he was anxious not to
startle the little one, and in his gentlest voice he said, "You don't
know who I am, do you, Lettie?"
"Mother telled me a parson was come," said Lettie's shy deliberate
tones.
"What do you think the parson has come for?"
"Dunno," whispered Lettie.
"Lettie, you are very fond of Mrs. Forsyth, are you not?"
Lettie nodded, and corrected him with the word "Mother."
"But she's not your own real mother, you know."
"Yes, she be," said Lettie unexpectedly.
"No, no, I ain't," said Esther, disposed to be tearful.
"'Cause Hor says you is, and I'm every bit his sister, an' he won't
have nobody say 'tain't," responded Lettie, with decision.
"But, Lettie, though Mrs. Forsyth has been very very kind and good
to you for a great many years, yet she is not your own mother," said
Leveson. "Would you not like to see your own real dear mother?"
Lettie looked dubious.
"I say, Lettie, don't ye remember anythin' of the days afore ye lived
with us?" said Mrs. Forsyth.
"Dunno," murmured Lettie.
"Don't you remember a kind gentle lady, who used to kiss little Lettie,
and hold her in her arms, and give her nice presents?" asked Leveson.
"No," said Lettie.
"Don't you remember nursie, whom you loved so much? One day she put
such a pretty frock on Lettie, and took her out to walk; and then there
was a great crowd, and somebody carried off Lettie, and stole her nice
clothes. Don't you remember all that?"
Lettie shook her head.
"She were such a mite," said Esther.
"I does 'member one big white flower," said Lettie.
"What, a tall flower, in a pot, with long green leaves, standing in a
window?"
Lettie nodded this time.
"That was called a calla, and it used to be in my room. Strange that
she should remember the flower, and forget all else," added Leveson.
"She 've no recollection, sir, of havin' been lost," said Esther.
"Was it parson's big white flower?" asked Lettie, evidently interested.
"Yes, it was my flower. Lettie, we used to call you, Little Vi, in
those days. And you used to cry, and say, 'Little Wi wants that
f'ower.'"
"An' did little Vi have it?" asked Lettie, not clear as to who the said
child might be.
"No, but she was going to have it as soon as it began to fade, and just
before then something very sad happened. Shall I tell you a story?"
Lettie nodded with some energy.
"Once there was a lady who had two little girls. One was called Josie,
and one was called Vi. She was very very fond of them both, and they
used to live with her in the beautiful country, among the grass, and
the trees, and the flowers. But they came up to London sometimes, to an
old house that belonged to the lady, though they never stayed long.
"And one day, while they were there, the two little girls were going
out to tea with another kind lady. So nurse dressed them up, and Vi had
on a very beautiful frock, which had been given her as a present. Then
nurse took them out to walk to the lady's house; but on the way, there
was a great crowd of people, and in the crowd, nurse all at once lost
sight of little Vi. She looked for her, and hunted for her, but it was
of no use. I think some wicked man, when he saw little Vi alone, must
have carried her off for the sake of her pretty frock.
"Then nurse went home, and she cried a great deal, and the other little
girl cried a great deal, and the poor mother cried most of all—oh,
so much and so sadly. But no one could find little Vi. The lady said
she could never leave London and go into the country again, until her
little Vi was found, so she went on waiting, and hoping, and grieving,
and no one could find her little Vi. And more than five long years
passed away, and still the poor mother was sorrowful at the thought of
her little lost child."
"Didn't she never be happy again?" asked Lettie.
"I think she will be happy soon. When I take home her little lost Vi to
her this afternoon, I think she will be quite happy."
"And won't cry no more?"
"No,—no more, because she will be too glad to cry."
Then, after a pause, "Lettie, will you come home with me?"
Lettie shook her head.
"Wouldn't you like to live in a pretty house, and have plenty to eat,
and all sorts of lovely flowers and nice playthings?"
"I'd like to bring 'em to mother," said Lettie.
"So you shall—all sorts of things. But you must come home with me
first."
Another sign of dissent.
"And we will go into a shop by the way, and order in a good supper for
Hor and all of them," whispered Leveson.
"Will we?"
"To be sure we will."
"I'll come," said Lettie.
At all events she trusted him. "I don't see as she understands yet,"
said Mrs. Forsyth.
"Better not too quickly. It will all come in time. Now, Mrs. Forsyth,
I will ask you just to wash her hands and face for me, and then I will
take her away. Don't think it is good-bye. I shall soon bring her round
to see you all."
But Esther took the child to the corner of the room, and washed and
cried over her together. "It's but ragged an' shabby she be, sir, but I
couldn't do no better—not even for my own," she said.
"I am sure of it," said Leveson kindly; and as he rose he held out his
hand for a hearty grasp. "We owe you a heavy debt, Mrs. Forsyth, and I
will take care it is not forgotten."
With Lettie's hand clasped in his own, and her little feet pattering
by his side, he went down the broad staircase, and out into the gloomy
street. What a place! To think that his little sister could have lived
here so long! He looked down on the small grave face, and then, as they
came to some sharp stones, he lifted her up in his arms, pitying the
tiny feet. Lettie submitted in silence. A gentleman to be carrying her!
It was something unusual, certainly, in her experience, and she waited
to see what would happen next.
To Leveson it mattered nothing at all that people stared at the sight
of the well-dressed young clergyman carrying such a ragged little
object through the streets. What signified rags to him? He only pressed
her the closer in his arms, with a rush of love, and Lettie looked up
in wonder to say:
"Is you glad?"
"Glad! My dear little sister!" was the response.
And Lettie's serious face showed that some comprehension of the truth
was gaining entrance into her mind.
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