BLACK-EYED AND BAREFOOT.
WHEN Margerie related her adventure, her mother and father seemed very
much pleased with the way she had behaved. Mr. Grace, especially,
appeared to take a remarkable interest in the little girl's graphic
description of her new acquaintance, which, however, minute though
it was, did not, one would suppose, wholly satisfy him, for he asked
questions respecting further details, some of which she was unable to
answer, such as:
"What did the old lady buy at the grocer's? Did she ask for the best
tea, or a cheaper kind? Did she look like a person in good health? Did
she look happy?"
Margerie thought the first two queries very odd, not like her father
a bit. To the third she answered, "Yes, I think so," but responded to
the fourth with an unhesitating "No!" Child though she was, she had
recognized unmistakable lines of heart-sickness and discontent upon the
stranger's face.
Mr. Grace sighed at her reply, and for some minutes lay back in his
chair, with closed eyes. Margerie thought he was feeling weak and
tired—perhaps she had tired him by talking too loud or too long. She
would not disturb him by speaking again, but softly unclosing the
listless hand that lay upon his knee, pressed two warm little kisses
into the palm and shut it up again. It was one of her quaint, loving
ways.
Mr. Grace opened his eyes and smiled down at her wistful face; then he
tenderly stroked her soft bright hair.
"I think you will have to go and see that poor old lady again, Margie,"
he said. "You might be able to do something for her; at least we ought
to inquire how she is."
"She might be worse, mightn't she?" observed Margerie. "I'm afraid
she hurt her arm very much. I wonder if she lives in that dreary old
house all alone! Minnie can go with me when I go to see her—can't she,
father?"
"Certainly, my love. And, Margerie, I think you had better call
to-morrow. There is no telling how ill she may be."
Accordingly, on the following evening, after tea, Minnie and Margerie
set out together to find that strange old house buried away in the
busy, bustling street. There was a timber-yard, they found, on one side
of it, and a draper's shop on the other, which had been built-out over
garden ground corresponding to that of the old lady's abode. The latter
was entirely hidden from view by the trees, now veiled in daintiest
spring green, which grew close to gate and wall, and even hung over the
public path beneath.
It was with a strange feeling that Margerie opened the big rusty gate,
and went in. The sound of wheels in the road without seemed instantly
to lull, and the sleepy silence of that old garden sank like a weight
upon her spirit. Instinctively she crept close to Minnie and nestled
her hand in her sister's.
"What a queer place!" whispered the elder girl—one would no more have
thought of talking loud in that garden than in a graveyard or a church.
"Only one of the windows has a blind, and that looks as if it had not
been drawn up or down for about fifty years! Perhaps it is haunted!"
As she spoke, there was a faint rustle among the bushes by the side
wall, and turning, Margerie caught sight of a figure, small and dark,
crouching among them, and a face with great black eyes and unkempt
hair peering watchfully out, like some wild creature hiding from its
pursuers.
With a half-stifled cry, she directed Minnie's attention to the same
object, which now stole in timorous haste behind the shrubs towards the
gate, whence, when reached, it darted in the form of a ragged, barefoot
boy, and disappeared.
"I wonder who he is, and what he has been doing in here?" said Margerie.
The old lady opened the door to them herself, but only to the extent
of about six inches. She looked very straight and very stern, and did
not ask them inside. Her injured arm was in a sling. It was as well as
could be expected, she said. She had not been to a doctor, and did not
mean to. She knew how to manage herself.
"Father was so sorry to hear about it," said Margerie. "He told us to
be sure and ask if we could do anything for you."
"Your father did, eh?" queried the old lady, in a sharp voice, and with
a still sharper look out of her immense black eyes.
"He is ill himself through meeting with an accident," Minnie explained;
"so that makes him sympathize with others. He has been laid up nearly
three months."
The old lady seemed as if she were going to say something, but instead
shut her long thin lips very close, and her back seemed to grow even
stiffer than before.
So the girls, finding that they were decidedly not wanted, bade her a
rather hasty "good-bye" and came away. It was quite a relief to get
out of the "enchanted garden" as Minnie afterwards called it, into the
noisy, everyday street again.
In the shadow of a pile of planks, by the gate of the timber-yard, they
came again upon the ragged fugitive whose presence in the neighbourhood
of the old house had so startled them a few minutes before. He was but
a little bigger than Margerie, yet looked older than Minnie. His face
was shockingly thin, white and hungry-looking, and there was a certain
something in his large, hollow dark eyes which made Margerie feel as
though she had seen them more than once before. The impression was not
a pleasant one.
"Did you see that boy again?" she said to her sister when they had
passed. "He did look at me so. I wonder if he is hungry?"
"He is staring after us now," said Minnie, glancing back. "I shouldn't
wonder."
"I've got a penny," said Margerie. "I think I'll buy him a bun—one of
those nice ones with lemon peel and a sugary top."
"Better buy two plain ones with the money, or three of yesterday's,"
advised Minnie, who was practical.
Margerie looked doubtful. She had an especial weakness herself for
"sugary tops," but wisely decided in favour of the larger quantity.
Oh, how the boy's black eyes shone when she shyly pushed the buns into
his hands. And quite a blush glowed through the dirt on his poor,
wasted cheek.
He was too much taken aback to utter one word of thanks, but Margerie
never missed it. She went dancing back to Minnie, her face radiant
with pleasure. Had she known at that moment all that she was destined
afterwards to discover, her gladness in the poor lad's gladness could
scarcely have been increased.
Mr. Grace listened to the girls' account of their visit with great
attention, asking, as before, more than they could tell. But he did not
suggest that they should make any further inquiries respecting the old
lady's health.
A month passed on; it was drawing near the time for Ellen to leave. For
Maud had agreed to Minnie's suggestion respecting their own ability to
help with the housework, and their mother when consulted had willingly,
nay gladly, given her consent, the more so that Ellen was known to
have long cherished a wish to "better" herself. It yet remained to be
seen, however, whether they possessed sufficient steadfastness and
self-denial to carry out what they had so freely undertaken.
They were each to have regular duties—turn and turn about. The week
that Minnie made the beds and tidied the bed-rooms, Maud was to dust
the parlour and sweep the stairs. To Margerie, who begged to be given
a share in the plan, was assigned the duty of keeping all ledges,
beadings, and hand-rails clean. Mother would tend the invalid, whose
progress was, alas, so very, very slow, and do the cooking ("except
make the toast!" Margerie put in), and a charwoman was to come once a
week to clean the steps, scrub the floors, and perform all the hardest
and roughest labour.
"I wish I were bigger," said Margerie. "I don't seem able to do nearly
as much as the others."
"Willing hands, however small, are never left idle," said her father,
gathering both of hers in his own and giving them a kiss. "Your turn
will come, little one, never fear."
One afternoon when they returned from school, Mrs. Grace herself opened
the door. An unmistakable glow of excitement was flushing her cheeks
and shining in her eyes.
"Go into the parlour all of you," she said in a rather queer voice,
"and be prepared for a great surprise."
"How? Who? What?" they eagerly cried, full in a moment of pleasant
expectation, and crowding one another in.
But the familiar room looked just the same as ever, nor revealed
anything new to their devouring gaze.
"What is it? Is it nice? Is it something good?" they queried, closing
round their mother.
"In some respects it is very good," returned Mrs. Grace, with a smile
that was not wholly free from a cloud of misgiving. "Whether you will
think it nice or not is another thing."
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[Illustration]