LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS
THE miller's thrifty wife was not by any means a hard woman, but she
lacked that quick sympathy for others which is generally the outcome of
a vivid imagination joined to a kindly heart. She never realized the
sorrows of her fellow-creatures without they were set plainly before
her. And though she was in many ways much shrewder than her husband,
she often made mistakes of which he would have been incapable.
She had been a worker all her life, and consequently entertained a
great contempt for idlers. And she believed that if people worked they
always got on well, for that had been her own experience. She had lived
rather a narrow life, with few interests outside her own family.
Had it been otherwise, doubtless she would have known that sometimes
God denies success—as the world counts success—to those who do their
best and work their hardest. Thus it was, that rarely did any one come
to her for help or sympathy, whilst many were the tales of woe which
were poured into her husband's ears.
When Mavis had hastened to her aunt requesting food for a hungry man,
Mrs. John had immediately jumped to the conclusion that he must be a
professional beggar, and therefore a dangerous character. Her eyes
had shown her the real misery of his condition, however, so she had
fed him. But she had not been possessed of sufficient discernment to
notice that he was not an ordinary mendicant, so that when her husband
informed her, a few days later, at dinner-time, that he had engaged the
man she had so unwillingly assisted, to drive one of his waggons, she
was greatly astonished.
"You cannot mean it!" she explained. "Why, he was literally in rags!
John, surely you are very unwise."
"That remains to be proved, my dear," responded her husband, gravely,
"but I hope I am not. The man is accustomed to horses; he has been in
the employ of a farmer living near Woodstock, and I see no reason why
he should not suit me, if he keeps the promises he has made me to be
honest and steady. His name is Richard Butt, and he's twenty-five years
of age, and has a young wife, who is at present living with her parents
at Woodstock."
"Then he doesn't support her? He has been out of work some time, I
suppose? Why did he leave his last place?"
"Well, he got himself into trouble, my dear; he was very frank about
it, and I have made inquiries, and find he told me the truth. Remember,
children," Mr. Grey proceeded, addressing the three young folks, who
were present and listening with great interest, "this is not to go
beyond our own household, you are not to speak of it to outsiders."
"We will not!" they agreed eagerly.
"Well, he was caught poaching, and sent to prison for six weeks,"
Mr. Grey went on to explain. "No doubt he deserved his punishment.
Of course, when he was released from jail, he found his master had
filled his place and had no work for him. And his young wife, unable
to pay the rent of their cottage, had been obliged to give it up and
return to her own people. For several weeks now, he has been tramping
the district for miles around in search of employment, without any
success, ashamed to return to Woodstock, where he is well-known, to be
a disgrace to his relations."
"On Saturday, he heard I wanted a waggoner, so he waited about the
place till he could see me, which was on Monday. I believe he slept two
nights in the cattle shed in Brimley meadow, and I'm certain he's been
half starved."
"Oh, how terrible!" cried Rose.
Whilst Mavis, a little paler than usual, glanced at her aunt, who was
listening with an impatient frown on her forehead.
"This cold, frosty weather, too!" exclaimed Bob. "To think of us all
with plenty to eat, a fire to warm ourselves by, and comfortable beds
to lie on, and some one close to our house in that old tumble-down
shed!"
"You must look over my stock of clothes, Lizzie," said the miller, "and
see if I can't spare the poor fellow a suit. You don't approve of my
having engaged him to work for me, I see."
"How can I approve of your befriending a man of that class? Do you
expect a poacher to be honest? He'll rob you for a certainty."
"I trust not; but if he does, I shall get rid of him at once. And at
any rate, I shall have given him a chance to redeem his character.
I've written to his late master, who informs me that Richard Butt is a
strong, willing young fellow, and that he believes he took to poaching
for the love of sport. I don't know about that, I'm sure; but I don't
fancy he'll attempt anything of that kind again. Mind you, I'm not
making excuses for him. As I've told him, a man who poaches a rabbit is
as much a thief as a man who robs a poultry-yard, the principle is the
same. But I can't help being sorry for him, and I wouldn't have it on
my conscience for anything that I might have assisted a fellow-creature
and hadn't done it. It's the right thing, I take it, to give a helping
hand where one can."
"Perhaps God sent him to you on purpose, Uncle John," said Mavis;
"because you could give him work, I mean."
"May be so, my dear," agreed the miller.
"When does he commence to work for you?" inquired his wife, still
looking dubious.
"Next Monday. He has found lodgings in the village."
"How has he managed about money?"
"Well, I have advanced him a little," Mr. Grey admitted. "I offered to
do so, and I believe he is very grateful to me."
"It is to be hoped he will keep faith with you, John," his wife
remarked drily.
"You will look-out a suit of clothes for him, won't you, Lizzie?"
"I will, if he turns up on Monday as arranged. But it would not
astonish me, if he does not. We shall see."
Richard Butt did keep faith with the kind man who had befriended him,
however. And proved himself quite equal to the task he had undertaken,
to drive the big waggon with its pair of fine horses.
Mrs. John duly presented him with a suit of her husband's clothes, and
various other articles of clothing which she thought might be useful to
him. And she took the opportunity to question him about his wife, whom
he said he was going to send for as soon as he could make a home for
her.
"She's been able to save a few bits of our furniture," he explained,
"and if I give Mr. Grey satisfaction, and find he's willing to keep me
on, I shall look-out for a cottage in the village. Meantime, my wife
will stay with her parents, she's no expense to them, for she earns
enough for herself by doing plain needlework."
The children, Mavis especially, took great interest in the new
waggoner. And they were careful not to tell any one the circumstances
which had brought him to the deplorable position he had been in when
Mr. Grey had taken pity upon him. He had paid the penalty for his sin,
and was starting life afresh.
The severe frost continued for more than a fortnight, and Mavis learnt
to skate very nicely. Many happy hours did she spend with her cousins
and her schoolfellows on the ice; and deeply regretful were the young
people when a thaw set in, and weather-wise folks began to prophesy a
mild Christmas.
Rose and Bob were looking forward to Christmas with much eagerness,
for the season had always been a very happy one for them. But Mavis
was anticipating the coming festival with very sober thoughts.
Hitherto, she and her mother had been together at Christmas; now they
were divided by thousands and thousands of miles of land and sea. She
listened somewhat half-heartedly to her cousins' plans for making
the most of the holidays, until Rose gave her a look of wonder and
reproach, and said—
"What is the matter? You don't seem yourself, Mavis."
"I've been thinking of last Christmas, and that has made me rather
sad," Mavis answered. "Mother and I were together then," she added, the
tears rushing to her hazel eyes as she spoke.
"Oh!" cried Rose, comprehendingly, whilst Bob inquired—
"Did you have a lot of presents?"
"No; I only had two—a work-basket from mother, and a story-book from
Miss Tompkins. But it was a lovely Christmas! Mother and I were so
happy together! On Christmas Eve, it was fine, and we went out and had
a good look at the shops. We enjoyed seeing all the pretty things,
and thinking what we would buy, if we were rich. We spent Christmas
Day quite by ourselves. In the morning, we went to the service at a
little mission church where father used to preach sometimes—the people
who go there are mostly poor people, some of them so poor that they
wouldn't like to go and sit with those who are well-dressed. And in
the afternoon, after dinner, we sat by the fire and talked, and never,
never dreamed that we should be so far apart from each other when
Christmas came again."
And Mavis heaved a deep sigh.
"Oh, you mustn't get sad," said Rose, earnestly. "I'm sure your
mother wouldn't like you to be that. We want you to have a very happy
Christmas. We shall break up at school about the twentieth of December,
and then we shall be very busy at home, making mincemeat and puddings,
and preparing our Christmas presents."
The time had arrived now when Mavis might expect her mother's first
letter from Sydney. It was delivered one afternoon whilst she was at
school, and given to her immediately on her return. She ran upstairs
to her bedroom to enjoy it undisturbed, and her heart throbbed with
happiness as she read that her mother was well, and that Miss Dawson
was continuing to improve in health.
"You are constantly in my thoughts and prayers, little daughter,"
Mrs. Grey had written, "and ever in my heart. God bless and keep you,
my darling child. I enclose a money-order for a pound, for you to spend
as you like; doubtless you will find it useful at Christmas."
"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Mavis, delighted beyond measure. "Now I shall
be able to give presents to every one! A whole pound! I never had more
than half a crown in my life before!"
She finished reading her mother's letter, then went back to the
beginning, and read it right through to the end again before she looked
into the envelope for the money-order. There it was safe enough, and
a half-sheet of notepaper, on which were written a few lines in an
unfamiliar handwriting—
"DEAR LITTLE MAVIS,"
"This is to wish you a very happy Christmas. I am really better,
and I believe God is going to allow me to get well. Often I have been
very low-spirited and sad since we left England, but when I have
thought of the Good Shepherd, of whom you sang to me so sweetly, I have
felt better. 'The Lord is only my support,' dear Mavis, and I am
learning to trust in Him more and more. Your mother is so good to me,
so patient, so kind; we have become great friends."
"I have written to my father asking him to send you a present from
London for me; you may expect to get it a few days before Christmas.
It will be my Christmas-box to you, and please accept it with my love.
Good-bye little song-bird. Some day I hope to hear you sing again.
Don't forget—"
"LAURA DAWSON."
"That's not very likely," thought the little girl, "no, indeed. What
can she be going to give me for a Christmas-box?"
"Rose, is that you?" she called out, as she heard light footsteps
approaching the door.
"Oh, do come in and listen to all my news!"
Then, as Rose came in, her blue eyes fall of curiosity, she continued
excitedly, "I've had such a dear, dear letter from mother, and she's
sent me a pound for my very own, to spend as I like. You'll help me
about getting Christmas presents for every one, won't you?"
"Of course I will," agreed her cousin. "How is Aunt Margaret?"
"Oh, very well; she has written so brightly. Miss Dawson is ever so
much better, and I have had a little note from her. You shall hear what
she says."
And Mavis read aloud the few lines Miss Dawson had sent her.
"I am wondering what the Christmas-box will be," she remarked
afterwards.
"I expect it will be a nice present, and I hope it will be something
you will like," said Rose. "By the way, I came up to tell you that
Mr. Moseley has been here, and he has got mother to consent to your
singing at his concert—it's not to be till New Year's Eve. Mother was
against the idea at first, but father said he was certain Aunt Margaret
would have no objection to it, and so she gave in. Mr. Moseley is very
pleased, she says, and I think she's glad now that you're going to take
part in the concert. We shall all go to hear you sing. I expect nearly
every one in the village will be there. Shall you feel nervous?"
"I am afraid so, Rosie. I only hope I shall not break down."
"Oh, I don't fancy you'll do that. I envy you your voice, Mavis—at
least, I don't envy it exactly, but I wish I had a talent of some sort.
I'm so very stupid; I can't do anything to give people pleasure."
"Oh, Rosie, I am sure that is not true. Miss Matthews said the other
day that you were the kindest girl in the school. I told Aunt Lizzie
that; she was pleased, though she didn't say much. How can you be
stupid, when you always manage to find out how to make people happier
by doing little things to please them?"
"Oh, that's nothing," exclaimed Rose. The colour on her cheeks had
deepened as she had listened to her cousin's words. "It would make me
very unhappy to be unkind to any one," she added.
"I am certain it would."
"But I wish I had just one talent," Rose sighed. "If God had given me
only one, I would have been content."
Mavis looked troubled for a minute; then her face brightened as she
responded hopefully—
"I think you're sure to have one, Rosie, only you haven't found it out."