A REQUEST.
IN Mrs. Mugford's shop window, in the midst of several other prints, in
cheap wooden frames, was the one that had made such an impression on
Molly's mind. The prints were all of little value, but to Molly they
appeared grand pictures, and several times a day, she would pause to
have another admiring gaze at the Good Shepherd.
At length, one afternoon, she took courage and ventured into the shop,
where with her heart beating wildly, and her cheeks flushed with the
thought of her boldness, she found herself face to face with Mrs.
Mugford. The good woman smiled kindly as she leaned her hands on the
counter, and surveyed the little girl out of her sharp brown eyes.
"Well, my dear," she remarked, in her brisk, business-like way, "has
your mother sent you to do her shopping for her?"
"No, please, ma'am," Molly answered, shyly.
"No? Then what is it, Molly?"
"If you please, ma'am, would you tell me how many pennies it would cost
to buy a picture?"
"A picture! What picture? One of the prints in the window, I suppose?"
"Yes, ma'am. I mean the Good Shepherd."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Mugford, in great astonishment. "It's eighteen
pence, and very cheap at that!"
"Eighteen pence!" said Molly, doubtfully. "Please, how many pennies is
that?"
"Eighteen," Mrs. Mugford replied, with difficulty concealing an amused
smile; then noticing the expression of dismay on the child's face,
"Were you thinking of buying it?"
Molly nodded gravely. Mrs. Mugford surveyed her for a few minutes in
puzzled silence.
"Now, I wonder what makes you want that picture?" she said at last,
enquiringly.
"It is so beautiful! The Good Shepherd looking so glad 'cause He's
found the little lamb!"
"Oh, you know all about it, I see," Mrs. Mugford said aloud, whilst
inwardly she was saying, "This is the child folks say is not right. It
strikes me she's right enough!"
"I go to Sunday-school," Molly continued, encouraged by the kindly look
in the eyes that were watching her so sharply, "and Miss Morris told me
all about Him. He is the King of love; the hymn says so."
"What hymn, my dear? Ah, I remember. Well, now, about this picture; how
many pennies have you?"
"Only two, ma'am—one the vicar gave me last week, and one Jim gave me
on Saturday."
"Ah! I'm afraid I can't sell it for that! Do you think you will ever be
able to save eighteen pennies?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"I think you'd better ask your father about it. I'll tell you what
I'll do. I'll keep that print in the window along with the others, but
if anyone wants to buy it, I'll say it's bespoken. I'll keep it there
a month, and by that time you'll know if there's any chance of your
buying it."
"Oh, thank you, ma'am. You will let it stay in the window where I can
see it?"
"Yes, I will."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," said Molly with great earnestness.
Molly's smile was like sunshine at that moment. Mrs. Mugford put a few
mixed sweets into a screw of paper, and slipped the little packet into
the child's hand, bidding her run along home, and was rewarded with a
look full of deep gratitude.
That evening, when her father returned from his day's work at the Hall,
Molly told him about what had taken place between her and Mrs. Mugford.
He listened in silence. He would have much liked to give his little
daughter the money for the picture, more especially as she rarely
expressed a desire for anything she did not possess; and his conscience
told him that if he would only deny himself a few drinks at the "White
Hart," he could easily spare the eighteen pence; but at the same time,
he was too selfish to make a sacrifice for even his dearly loved child.
"Why couldn't Mrs. Mugford give her the picture?" he said to his wife,
later on, after the children had gone to bed.
"Why should she, James?" Mrs. Lethbridge replied, indignantly. "She's
always giving Molly sweets, and sending across things to me. You know
how good and kind she is. I expect," getting angry at her husband's
ingratitude, "that she thinks you might give Molly this picture if you
liked; no doubt she knows well enough how you spend your evenings, and
what you throw away on drink!"
"That will do, Jenny! I'm not going to be talked to by you. If you're
going to begin nagging, I'll go! Do you think I care what Mrs. Mugford
thinks about me?"
"No, you don't care—"
Alas! It was the beginning of a domestic storm. In a few minutes,
husband and wife were exchanging angry, bitter words, and ere long,
James Lethbridge strode out of the cottage and betook himself to the
"White Hart," there to remain till he should be told to go, at eleven
o'clock.
Of course, the children heard the high words, but they were quite
accustomed to hear their parents wrangling, and took little notice.
The boys were sleepy, and after listening to their father slam the
door, and walk away, they shut their eyes, and were soon blissfully
unconscious of everything; whilst Molly lay in her little bed,
repeating in a whisper her favourite evening prayer:
"Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless thy little lamb to-night.
Through the darkness be Thou near me,
Bless my sleep till morning light."
It had been the first prayer she had ever learned; but it was only
lately that she had come to understand the meaning of the words.
To-night, she thought of the Good Shepherd, dwelling upon His love for
the little lost lamb, and seeing in her imagination the gentle face of
Him who gave His life for His sheep.
Meanwhile, in the cosy parlour behind her shop, Mrs. Mugford was
spending the one hour of the day she had to herself. Her Bible lay upon
the table at her side, for she had been reading in the Gospel of St.
John the story of the Good Shepherd, constrained to do so, doubtless,
on account of her conversation with Molly. Now, one could see by the
dreamy look on her face, that she was in deep thought.
The truth was, as she had been closing up her shop, she had seen James
Lethbridge fling himself out of his cottage door, and it had only
needed one glance at his enraged countenance to tell her something
had gone wrong in his home. Now, as she sat thinking of her interview
with Molly, she thought pitifully of the child's father. She had not
given him many thoughts hitherto, except to despise him as a drunkard,
and blame him as a neglectful husband and parent; but to-night her
reflections of him were softened by the memory of the beautiful words
she had just finished reading: "And other sheep I have, which are not
of this fold: Them also I must bring, and they shall hear My voice."
Mrs. Mugford got up from her chair, and after carefully putting away
her Bible in its place, upon the shelf which contained her greatest
treasures, she left the house, and crossed the road to Rose Cottage.
"Mrs. Lethbridge will likely be lonely to-night," she said to herself,
"and maybe she'll be glad of my company for a while."
She tapped gently at the closed door, and receiving no answer stepped
into the dimly-lit kitchen. Mrs. Lethbridge was seated with her hands
covering her face, and she was weeping in a hopeless fashion. She
looked up with a start as her neighbour entered, and a shamed look
crossed her face when she saw who it was.
"I've run in for a few minutes' talk with you," Mrs. Mugford said
kindly. "You know I'm all alone of an evening, and sometimes the time
hangs heavy."
"I'm all alone, too," Mrs. Lethbridge replied bitterly.
"The children are in bed, and fast asleep, I suppose?" asked Mrs.
Mugford.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Lethbridge; "and my husband's gone to the
public-house as usual!"
"Ah, that's bad! Don't cry;" for Mrs. Lethbridge was beginning to shed
tears again. "Crying never does any good, and it'll only make you ill.
I'm sorry for your husband, Mrs. Lethbridge."
"Sorry!" she exclaimed, looking up in surprise, for many expressed
blame, but few sorrow, for him who was the cause of all her
heart-break. "Sorry!"
"Yes, indeed I am," said Mrs. Mugford.
"He used to be so different before he took to drink. You wouldn't think
now he was the same man I married."
"He's wandered away from Christ's fold, but the Good Shepherd—Him your
little maid talks about—He won't forget him; and one day I hope your
husband will hear His voice," Mrs. Mugford said solemnly. "You must
pray for him."
"Oh, I do, I do! But I can't help complaining, and I've no patience,
and life does seem so hard!"
Mrs. Mugford nodded sympathetically, and then the neighbours sat down
side by side, and indulged in a long, confidential chat; and by-and-bye
Mrs. Lethbridge dried her eyes, and was comforted.
When Mrs. Mugford said good-night, it was after promising to "run in
again one evening soon," and she went home with the knowledge that she
had been allowed to help and cheer one heavy heart.