Sundry things round a pot of chocolate.
It was Tuesday, the 22nd of December, and late in the day. Not
a pleasant afternoon. The grey snow-clouds hung low; the air
was keen and raw. It was already growing dark, and Alice was
sitting alone in the firelight, when two little feet came
running round the corner of the house; the glass door opened,
and Ellen rushed in.
"I have come! I have come!" she exclaimed. "Oh, dear Alice,
I'm so glad!"
So was Alice, if her kiss meant anything.
"But how late, my child! how late you are!"
"Oh, I thought I never was going to get done!" said Ellen,
pulling off her things in a great hurry, and throwing them on
the sofa "but I am here at last. Oh, I'm so glad!"
"Why, what has been the matter?" said Alice, folding up what
Ellen laid down.
"Oh, a great deal of matter! I couldn't think what Nancy
meant last night I know very well now. I shan't want to see
any more apples all winter. What do you think I have been
about all to-day, dear Miss Alice?"
"Nothing that has done you much harm," said Alice, smiling
"if I am to guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good
Spitzenberg yourself."
"That's very funny," said Ellen, laughing, "for Aunt Fortune
said a while ago that my cheeks were just the colour of two
mealy potatoes."
"But about the apples?" said Alice.
"Why, this morning I was thinking I would come here so early,
when the first thing I knew, Aunt Fortune brought out all
those heaps and heaps of apples into the kitchen, and made me
sit down on the floor, and then she gave me a great big
needle, and set me to stringing them all together; and as fast
as I strung them, she hung them up all round the ceiling. I
tried very hard to get through before, but I could not; and I
am so tired! I thought I never should get to the bottom of
that big basket."
"Never mind, love come to the fire we'll try and forget
all disagreeable things while we are together."
"I have forgotten it almost already," said Ellen, as she sat
down in Alice's lap, and laid her face against hers; "I don't
care for it at all now."
But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable colour
Miss Fortune had spoken of; and weariness and weakness kept
her for awhile quiet in Alice's arms, overcoming even the
pleasure of talking. They sat so till the clock struck half-
past five; then Alice proposed they should go into the
kitchen, and see Margery, and order the tea made, which she
had no doubt Ellen wanted. Margery welcomed her with great
cordiality. She liked anybody that Alice liked, but she had
besides declared to her husband that Ellen was "an uncommon
well-behaved child." She said she would put the tea to draw,
and they should have it in a very few minutes.
"But, Miss Alice, there's an Irish body, out by, waiting to
speak to you. I was just coming in to tell you; will you
please to see her now?"
"Certainly let her come in. Is she in the cold, Margery?"
"No, Miss Alice there's a fire there this evening. I'll call
her."
The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. She
was young, rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but
unwashed, uncombed, untidy, no wonder Margery's nicety had
shrunk from introducing her into her spotless upper kitchen.
The unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about her, the hood
brought over her head, and on the head and shoulders the snow
lay white, not yet melted away.
"Did you wish to speak to me, my friend?" said Alice,
pleasantly.
"If ye plase, Maam, it the master I'm wanting," said the
woman, dropping a courtesy.
"My father? Margery, will you tell him?"
Margery departed.
"Come nearer the fire," said Alice, "and sit down; my father
will be here presently. It is snowing again, is it not?"
"It is, Maam a bitter storm."
"Have you come far?"
"It's a good bit, my lady it's more nor a mile beyant Carra
just right forgin the ould big hill they call the Catchback;
in Jemmy Morrison's woods where Pat M'Farren's clearing is
it's there I live, my lady."
"That is a long distance, indeed, for a walk in the snow,"
said Alice, kindly; "sit down, and come nearer the fire.
Margery will give you something to refresh you."
"I thank ye, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the
night; and when one's on an arrant of life and death, it's
little the cold or the storm can do to put out the heart's
fire."
"Life and death! who is sick?" said Alice.
"It's my own child, Maam my own boy all the child I have
and I'll have none by the morning light."
"Is he so ill?" said Alice; "what is the matter with him?"
"Myself doesn't know."
The voice was fainter; the brown cloak was drawn over her
face; and Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the
grief she kept from bursting out. They exchanged glances.
"Sit down," said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon
the wet shoulder; "sit down and rest; my father will be here
directly. Margery oh, that's right a cup of tea will do
her good. What do you want with my father?"
"The Lord bless ye! I'll tell you, my lady."
She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial
that Margery offered her.
"The Lord bless ye! I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a
stronger, nor a prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn't be,
nor he was when we left it it'll be three years come the
fifteenth of April next; but I'm thinking the bitter winters
of this cowld country has chilled the life o' him and
troubles cowlder than all," she added, in a lower tone. "I
seed him grow waker and waker, an' his dair face grown thinner
and thinner, and the red all left it, only two burning spots
was on it some days; an' I worried the life out o' me for him,
an' all I could do, I couldn't do nothing at all to help him,
for he just growed waker an' waker. I axed the father wouldn't
he see the doctor about him, but he's an aisy kind o' man, my
lady, an' he said he would, an' he never did to this day; an'
John, he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor, an'
looked so swate at me, an' said for me not to fret, for sure
he'd be better soon, or he'd go to a better place. An' I
thought he was already like a heavenly angel itself, an'
always was, but then more nor ever. Och! it's soon that he'll
be one entirely! let Father Shannon say what he will."
She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on,
silent and pitying.
"An' to-night, my lady, he's very bad," she went on, wiping
away the tears that came quickly again "an' I seed he was
going fast from me, an' I was breaking my heart wid the loss
of him, whin I heard one of the men that was in it say,
'What's this he's saying?' says he. 'An' what is it, thin?'
says I. 'About the gintleman that praiches at Carra,' says he
'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a
praist at all at Carra, an' I thought he was draiming, or out
o' his head, or crazy wid his sickness, like; an' I went up
close to him, an' says I, 'John,' says I, 'what is it you
want,' says I 'an' sure, if it's anything in heaven above or
in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for ye,' says I,
'ye shall have it,' says I. An' he put up his two arms around
my neck, an' pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot wid
the faver, an' kissed me he did 'An',' says he, 'mother
dair,' says he 'if ye love me,' says he, 'fetch me the good
gintleman that praiches at Carra, till I spake to him.' 'Is it
the praist you want, John, my boy?' says I 'sure he's in
it,' says I'; for Michael had been for Father Shannon, an' he
had come home wid him half an hour before. 'Oh no, mother,'
says he, 'it's not him at all that I mane it's the gintleman
that spakes in the little white church at Carra he's not a
praist at all,' says he. 'An' who is he thin?' says I, getting
up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or how will I get
to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him, thin, the night, Kitty
Dolan,' says my husband 'are ye mad,' says he; 'sure it's
not his own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little
hiritic he is,' says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to
the praist in yer own house.' 'I'm maining none,' says I
'nor more, he isn't a hiritic; but if he was, he's a born
angel to you, Michael Dolan, anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the
kiss of his lips on my face, wouldn't I do the arrant of my
own boy, an' he a dying? by the blessing, an' I will, if
twenty men stud between me an' it. So tell me where I'll find
him, this praist, if there's the love o' mercy in any sowl o'
ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word for me, not one of
them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till here I
am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor
boy? for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here."
"Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she
was speaking. "Wait but one moment."
In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth
to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them.
"It storms very hard," she said "and he had not had his tea!
But he couldn't wait. Come, Ellen, love, we'll have ours. How
will he ever get back again? it will be so deep by that time."
There was a cloud on her fair brow for a few minutes, but it
passed away, and, quiet and calm as ever, she sat down at the
little tea-table with Ellen. From _her_ face all shadows seemed
to have flown for ever. Hungry and happy, she enjoyed
Margery's good bread and butter, and the nice honey, and from
time to time cast very bright looks at the dear face on the
other side of the table, which could not help looking bright
in reply. Ellen was well pleased, for her part, that the third
seat was empty. But Alice looked thoughtful sometime as a gust
of wind swept by, and once or twice went to the window.
After tea, Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself
contentedly down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her.
Silent for very contentment for a while, she sat looking
gravely into the fire; while Alice's fingers drove a little
steel hook through and through some purse silk in a mysterious
fashion, that no eye could be quick enough to follow, and with
such skill and steadiness, that the work grew fast under her
hand.
"I had such a funny dream last night," said Ellen.
"Had you? what about?"
"It was pleasant, too," said Ellen, twisting herself round to
talk "but very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that
was so kind to me on board the boat you know? I told you
about him?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don't know where
and he didn't look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was;
and I thought I didn't like to speak to him for fear he
wouldn't know _me_, but then I thought he did, and came up and
took my hand, and seemed so glad to see me; and he asked me if
I had been _pious_ since he saw me."
Ellen stopped to laugh.
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him yes. And then I thought he seemed so very
pleased."
"Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems."
"_I_ didn't," said Ellen. "But then I thought I had, in my
dream."
"Had what? kept close to the truth?"
"No, no been what he said."
"Dreams are queer things," said Alice.
"I have been far enough from being good to-day," said Ellen,
thoughtfully.
"How so, my dear?"
"I don't know, Miss Alice because I never _am_ good, I
suppose."
"But what has been the matter to-day?"
"Why, those apples! I thought I would come here so early, and
then, when I found I must do all those baskets of apples
first, I was very ill-humoured; and Aunt Fortune saw I was,
and said something that made me worse. And I tried as hard as
I could to get through before dinner, and when I found I
couldn't, I said I wouldn't come to dinner; but she made me,
and that vexed me more, and I wouldn't eat scarcely anything,
and then, when I got back to the apples again, I sewed so
hard, that I ran the needle into my finger ever so far see
there, what a mark it left! and Aunt Fortune said it served
me right, and she was glad of it, and that made me angry. I
knew I was wrong, afterwards, and I was very sorry. Isn't it
strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have resolved so
hard I wouldn't."
"Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as
ours are it _is_ strange they should be so evil."
"I told Aunt Fortune afterwards I was sorry, but she said
'Actions speak louder than words, and words are cheap.' If she
only wouldn't say that just as she does! it does worry me so."
"Patience!" said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen's hair as
she sat looking sorrowfully up at her. "You must try not to
give her occasion. Never mind what she says, and overcome evil
with good."
"That is just what Mamma said!" exclaimed Ellen, rising to
throw her arms around Alice's neck, and kissing her with all
the energy of love, gratitude, repentance, and sorrowful
recollection.
"Oh, what do you think!" she said, suddenly, her face changing
again, "I got my letter last night!"
"Your letter!"
"Yes, the letter the old man brought don't you know? and it
was written in the ship, and there was only a little bit from
Mamma, and a little bit from Papa, but so good! Papa says she
is a great deal better, and he has no doubt he will bring her
back in the spring or summer quite well again. Isn't that
good?"
"Very good, dear Ellen. I am very glad for you."
"It was, on my bed last night. I can't think how it got there;
and I don't care, either, so long as I've got it. What are you
making?"
"A purse," said Alice, laying it on the table for her
inspection.
"It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this?"
"Yes, and these tassels to finish them off."
"Oh, that's beautiful," said Ellen, laying them down to try
the effect; "and these rings to fasten it with. Is it black?"
"No, dark green. I am making it for my brother John."
"A Christmas present!" exclaimed Ellen.
"I am afraid not; he will hardly be here by that time. It may
do for New Year."
"How pleasant it must be to make Christmas and New Year
presents!" said Ellen, after she had watched Alice's busy
fingers for a few minutes. "I wish I could make something for
somebody. Oh! I wonder if I couldn't make something for Mr.
Van Brunt! Oh, I should like to, very much."
Alice smiled at Ellen's very wide-open eyes.
"What could you make for him?"
"I don't know that's the thing. He keeps his money in his
pocket; and besides, I don't know how to make purses."
"There are other things besides purses. How would a watch-
guard do? Does he wear a watch?"
"I don't know whether he does or not; he doesn't every day, I
am sure, but I don't know about Sundays."
"Then, we won't venture upon that. You might knit him a
nightcap."
"A nightcap? you're joking, Alice, aren't you? I don't think
a nightcap would be pretty for a Christmas present do you?"
"Well, what shall we do, Ellen?" said Alice, laughing. "I made
a pocket-pincushion for Papa once, when I was a little girl,
but I fancy Mr. Van Brunt would not know exactly what use to
make of such a convenience. I don't think you could fail to
please him, though, with anything you should hit upon."
"I have got a dollar," said Ellen, "to buy stuff with; it came
in my letter last night. If I only knew what!"
Down she went on the rug again, and Alice worked in silence,
while Ellen's thoughts ran over every possible and impossible
article of Mr. Van Brunt's dress.
"I have some nice pieces of fine linen," said Alice; "suppose
I cut out a collar for him, and you can make it and stitch it,
and then Margery will starch and iron it for you, all ready to
give to him. How will that do? Can you stitch well enough?"
"Oh, yes, I guess I can," said Ellen. "Oh, thank you, dear
Alice! you are the best help that ever was. Will he like that,
do you think?"
"I am sure he will very much."
"Then, that will do nicely," said Ellen, much relieved. "And
now, what do you think about Nancy's Bible?"
"Nothing could be better; only that I am afraid Nancy would
either sell it for something else, or let it go to destruction
very quickly. I never heard of her spending five minutes over
a book, and the Bible, I am afraid, last of all."
"But I think," said Ellen slowly, "I think she would not
spoil it, or sell it either, if _I_ gave it to her."
And she told Alice about Nancy's asking for the kiss last
night.
"That's the most hopeful thing I have heard about Nancy for a
long time," said Alice. "We will get her the Bible by all
means, my dear a nice one and I hope you will be able to
persuade her to read it."
She rose as she spoke, and went to the glass door. Ellen
followed her, and they looked out into the night. It was very
dark. She opened the door a moment, but the wind drove the
snow into their faces, and they were glad to shut it again.
"It's almost as bad as the night we were out, isn't it?" said
Ellen.
"Not such a heavy fall of snow, I think, but it is very windy
and cold. Papa will be late getting home."
"I am sorry you are worried, dear Alice."
"I am not _much_ worried, love. I have often known Papa out late
before, but this is rather a hard night for a long walk. Come,
we'll try to make a good use of the time while we are waiting.
Suppose you read to me while I work."
She took down a volume of Cowper, and found his account of the
three pet hares. Ellen read it, and then several of his
smaller pieces of poetry. Then followed a long talk about
hares and other animals; about Cowper and his friends, and his
way of life. Time passed swiftly away; it was getting late.
"How weary papa will be!" said Alice. "He has had nothing to
eat since dinner. I'll tell you what we'll do, Ellen," she
exclaimed, as she threw her work down, "we'll make some
chocolate for him that'll be the very thing. Ellen, dear,
run into the kitchen and ask Margery to bring me the little
chocolate-pot and a pitcher of night's milk."
Margery brought them. The pot was set on the coals, and Alice
had cut up the chocolate that it might melt the quicker. Ellen
watched it with great interest till it was melted, and the
boiling water stirred in, and the whole was simmering quietly
on the coals.
"Is it done now?"
"No, it must boil a little while, and then the milk must be
put in, and when that has boiled, the eggs and then it will
be done."
With Margery and the chocolate-pot the cat had walked in.
Ellen immediately endeavoured to improve his acquaintance;
that was not so easy. The Captain chose the corner of the rug
furthest from her, in spite of all her calling and coaxing,
paying her no more attention than if he had not heard her.
Ellen crossed over to him, and began most tenderly and
respectfully to stroke his head and back, touching his soft
fur with great care. Parry presently lifted up his head
uneasily, as much as to say, "I wonder how long this is going
to last" and finding there was every prospect of its lasting
some time, he fairly got up and walked over to the other end
of the rug. Ellen followed him, and tried again, with exactly
the same effect.
"Well, cat! you aren't very kind," said she as length;
"Alice, he won't let me have anything to do with him!"
"I am sorry, my dear, he is so unsociable; he is a cat of very
bad taste that is all I can say."
"But I never saw such a cat! he won't let me touch him ever so
softly; he lifts up his head and looks as cross; and then
walks off."
"He don't know you yet, and truth is, Parry has no fancy for
extending the circle of his acquaintance. Oh, kitty, kitty!"
said Alice, fondly stroking his head, "why don't you behave
better?"
Parry lifted his head, and opened and shut his eyes, with an
expression of great satisfaction, very different from that he
had bestowed on Ellen. Ellen gave him up for the present as a
hopeless case, and turned her attention to the chocolate,
which had now received the milk, and must be watched lest it
should run over, which Alice said it would very easily do when
once it began to boil again. Meanwhile Ellen wanted to know
what chocolate was made of where it came from where it was
made best burning her little face in the fire all the time,
lest the pot should boil over while she was not looking. At
last the chocolate began to gather a rich froth, and Ellen
called out
"Oh, Alice! look here quick! here's the shape of the spoon
on the top of the chocolate! do look at it."
An iron spoon was in the pot, and its shape was distinctly
raised on the smooth frothy surface. As they were both bending
forward to watch it, Alice waiting to take the pot off the
moment it began to boil, Ellen head a slight click of the lock
of the door, and turning her head, was a little startled to
see a stranger there, standing still at the far end of the
room. She touched Alice's arm without looking round. But Alice
started to her feet with a slight scream, and in another
minute had thrown her arms round the stranger, and was locked
in his. Ellen knew what it meant now, very well. She turned
away as if she had nothing to do with what was going on there,
and lifted the pot of chocolate off the fire with infinite
difficulty; but it was going to boil over, and she would have
broken her back rather than not do it. And then she stood with
her back to the brother and sister, looking into the fire, as
if she was determined not to see them till she couldn't help
it. But what she was thinking of, Ellen could not have told,
then or afterwards. It was but a few minutes, though it seemed
to her a great many, before they drew near the fire. Curiosity
began to be strong, and she looked round to see if the new-
comer was like Alice. No, not a bit how different! darker
hair and eyes not a bit like her; handsome enough, too, to
be her brother. And Alice did not look like herself; her
usually calm, sweet face was quivering and sparkling now lit
up as Ellen had never seen it oh, how bright! Poor Ellen
herself had never looked duller in her life; and when Alice
said, gaily, "This is my brother, Ellen," her confusion of
thoughts and feelings resolved themselves into a flood of
tears; she sprang and hid her face in Alice's arms.
Ellen's were not the only eyes that were full just then, but
of course she did not know that.
"Come, Ellen," whispered Alice, presently, "look up! what
kind of a welcome is this? come! we have no business with
tears just now. Won't you run into the kitchen for me, love,"
she added, more low, "and ask Margery to bring some bread and
butter, and anything else she has that is fit for a
traveller?"
Glad of an escape, Ellen darted away that her wet face might
not be seen. The brother and sister were busily talking when
she returned.
"John," said Alice, "this is my little sister that I wrote you
about Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, this is your brother as well
as mine, you know."
"Stop! stop!" said her brother. "Miss Ellen, this sister of
mine is giving us away to each other at a great rate; I should
like to know first what you say to it. Are you willing to take
a strange brother upon her recommendation?"
Half inclined to laugh, Ellen glanced at the speaker's face,
but meeting the grave though somewhat comical look of two very
keen eyes, she looked down again, and merely answered, "yes."
"Then, if I am to be your brother, you must give me a
brother's right, you know," said he, drawing her gently to
him, and kissing her gravely on the lips.
Probably Ellen thought there was a difference between John
Humphreys and Mr. Van Brunt, or the young gentlemen of the
apple-paring; for, though she coloured a good deal, she made
no objection, and showed no displeasure. Alice and she now
busied themselves with getting the cups and saucers out of the
cupboard, and setting the table: but all that evening, through
whatever was doing, Ellen's eyes sought the stranger as if by
fascination. She watched him whenever she could without being
noticed. At first she was in doubt what to think of him; she
was quite sure, from that one looking into his eyes, that he
was a person to be feared; there was no doubt of that; as to
the rest she didn't know.
"And what have my two sisters been doing to spend the
evening?" said John Humphreys, one time that Alice was gone
into the kitchen on some kind errand for him.
"Talking, Sir," said Ellen, doubtfully.
"Talking! this whole evening? Alice must have improved. What
have you been talking about?"
"Hares and dogs and about Mr. Cowper and some other
things."
"Private affairs, eh?" said he, with again the look Ellen had
seen before.
"Yes, Sir," said Ellen, nodding and laughing.
"And how came you upon Mr. Cowper?"
"Sir?"
"How came you to be talking about Mr. Cowper?"
"I was reading about his hares, and about John Gilpin; and
then Alice told me about Mr. Cowper and his friends."
"Well, I don't know, after all, that you have had a pleasanter
evening than I have had," said her questioner, "though I have
been riding hard, with the cold wind in my face, and the
driving snow doing all it could to discomfort me. I have had
this very bright fireside before me all the way."
He fell into a fit of grave musing, which lasted till Alice
came in, then suddenly fell afumbling in his pocket.
"Here's a note for you," said he, throwing it into her lap.
"A note! Sophia Marshman where did you get it?"
"From her own hand. Passing there to-day, I thought I must
stop a moment to speak to them, and had no notion of doing
more; but Mrs. Marshman was very kind, and Miss Sophia in
despair, so the end of it was, I dismounted and went in to
await the preparing of that billet while my poor nag was led
off to the stables and a fresh horse supplied me I fancy
that tells you on what conditions."
"Charming!" said Alice "to spend Christmas I am very glad;
I should like to, very much with you dear. If I can only get
Papa but I think he will; it will do him a great deal of
good. To-morrow, she says, we must come; but I doubt the
weather will not let us; we shall see."
"I rode Prince Charlie down. He is a good traveller, and the
sleighing will be fine if the snow be not too deep. The old
sleigh is in being yet, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes in good order. Ellen? what are you looking so grave
about? you are going? too."
"I?" said Ellen, a great spot of crimson coming in each cheek.
"To be sure; do you think I am going to leave you behind?"
"But"
"But what?"
"There won't be room."
"Room in the sleigh? Then we'll put John on Prince Charlie,
and let him ride there, postilion fashion."
"But Mr. Humphreys?"
"He always goes on horse-back; he will ride Sharp or old
John."
In great delight, Ellen gave Alice an earnest kiss; and then
they all gathered round the table to take their chocolate, or
rather to see John take his, which his sister would not let
him wait for any longer. The storm had ceased, and through the
broken clouds the moon and stars were looking out, so they
were no more uneasy for Mr. Humphreys, and expected him every
moment. Still the supper was begun and ended without him, and
they had drawn round the fire again before his welcome step
was at last heard.
There was new joy then; new embracing, and questioning, and
answering; the little circle opened to let him in; and Alice
brought the corner of the table to his side and poured him out
a cup of hot chocolate. But, after drinking half of it, and
neglecting the eatables beside him, he sat with one hand in
the other, his arm leaning on his knee, with a kind of
softened gravity upon his countenance.
"Is your chocolate right, Papa?" said Alice, at length.
"_Very_ good, my daughter."
He finished the cup, but then went back to his old attitude
and look. Gradually they ceased their conversation, and waited
with respectful affection and some curiosity for him to speak;
something of more than common interest seemed to be in his
thoughts. He sat looking earnestly in the fire, sometimes with
almost a smile on his face, and gently striking one hand in
the palm of the other. And sitting so, without moving or
stirring his eyes, he said at last, as though the words had
been forced from him, "Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable
gift!"
As he added no more, Alice said, gently, "What have you seen
to-night, Papa?"
He roused himself, and pushed the empty cup towards her.
"A little more, my daughter; I have seen the fairest sight,
almost, a man can see in this world. I have seen a little
ransomed spirit go home to its rest. Oh, that 'unspeakable
gift!' " He pressed his lips thoughtfully together while he
stirred his chocolate; but having drunk it, he pushed the
table from him, and drew up his chair.
"You had a long way to go, Papa," observed Alice, again.
"Yes a long way there I don't know what it was coming
home; I never thought of it. How independent the spirit can be
of externals! I scarcely felt the storm to-night."
"Nor I," said his son.
"I had a long way to go," said Mr. Humphreys; "that poor woman
that Mrs. Dolan she lives in the woods behind the Cat's
Back, a mile beyond Carra-carra, or more it seemed a long
mile to-night; and a more miserable place I never saw yet. A
little rickety shanty, the storm was hardly kept out of it,
and no appearance of comfort or nicety anywhere or in
anything. There were several men gathered round the fire, and
in a corner, on a miserable kind of bed, I saw the sick child.
His eye met mine the moment I went in, and I thought I had
seen him before, but couldn't at first make out where. Do you
remember, Alice, a little ragged boy, with a remarkably
bright, pleasant face, who has planted himself regularly every
Sunday morning for some time past in the south aisle of the
church, and stood there all service time?"
Alice said no.
"I have noticed him often, and noticed him as paying a most
fixed and steady attention. I have repeatedly tried to catch
him on his way out of the church, to speak to him, but always
failed. I asked him to night, when I first went in, if he knew
me. 'I do, Sir,' he said. I asked him where he had seen me. He
said, 'In the church beyant.' 'So,' said I, 'you are the
little boy I have seen there so regularly; what did you come
there for?"
" 'To hear your honor spake the good words.'
" 'What good words?' said I; 'about what?'
"He said, 'About Him that was slain, and washed us from our
sins in his own blood.'
" 'And do you think he has washed away yours?' I said.
"He smiled at me very expressively. I suppose it was somewhat
difficult for him to speak; and, to tell the truth, so it was
for me, for I was taken by surprise; but the people in the hut
had gathered round, and I wished to hear him say more, for
their sake as well as my own. I asked him why he thought his
sins were washed away. He gave me for answer part of the
verse, 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' but did not
finish it. 'Do you think you are very sick, John?' I asked.
" 'I am, Sir,' he said 'I'll not be long here.'
" 'And where do you think you are going, then?' said I.
"He lifted one little, thin, bony arm from under his coverlid,
and, through all the dirt and the pallor of his face, the
smile of heaven I am sure was on it, as he looked and pointed
upward, and answered, 'Jesus!'
"I asked him presently, as soon as I could, what he had wished
to see me for. I don't know whether he heard me or not; he lay
with his eyes half closed, breathing with difficulty. I
doubted whether he would speak again; and indeed, for myself,
I had heard and seen enough to satisfy me entirely; for the
sake of the group around the bed, I could have desired
something further. They kept perfect stillness; awed, I think,
by a profession of faith such as they had never heard before.
They and I stood watching him, and at the end of a few
minutes, not more than ten or fifteen, he opened his eyes, and
with sudden life and strength rose up half-way in bed,
exclaiming, 'Thanks to be God for his unspeakable gift!' and
then fell back just dead."
The old gentleman's voice was husky as he finished, for Alice
and Ellen were both weeping, and John Humphreys had covered
his face with his hands.
"I have felt," said the old gentleman, presently, "as if I
could have shouted out his words his dying words all the
way as I came home. My little girl," said he, drawing Ellen to
him, "do you know the meaning of those sweet things of which
little John Dolan's mind was so full?"
Ellen did not speak.
"Do you know what it is to be a sinner? and what it is to be
a forgiven child of God?"
"I believe I do, Sir," Ellen said.
He kissed her forehand and blessed her; and then said, "Let us
pray."
It was late; the servants had gone to bed, and they were
alone. Oh! what a thanksgiving Mr. Humphreys poured forth for
that "unspeakable gift!" that they, every one there, had
been made to know and rejoice in it; for the poor little boy,
rich in faith, who had just gone home in the same rejoicing;
for their own loved ones who were there already; and for the
hope of joining them soon in safety and joy, to sing with them
the "new song" for ever and ever.
There were no dry eyes in the room. And when they arose, Mr.
Humpreys, after giving his daughter the usual kiss for good
night, gave one to Ellen too, which he had never done before,
and then going to his son, and laying both hands on his
shoulders, kissed his cheek also; then silently took his
candle and went.
They lingered a little while after he was gone, standing round
the fire as if loth to part, but in grave silence, each busy
with his own thoughts. Alice's ended by fixing on her brother,
for, laying her hand and her head carelessly on his shoulder,
she said, "And so you have been well all this time, John?"
He turned his face towards her without speaking, but Ellen as
well as his sister saw the look of love with which he answered
her question, rather of endearment than inquiry; and from that
minute Ellen's mind was made up as to the doubt which had
troubled her. She went to bed quite satisfied that her new
brother was a decided acquisition.