MILLIE GOES OUT TO TEA.
THE following Monday was indeed a red-letter day in Millie Guntry's
calendar. She put on her best dress, which, in spite of the care she
had taken, was beginning to look shabby, and the pretty lace collar and
cuffs that her mother had made for her. Nora Dickson called out when
she met Millie on the stairs that she looked "quite a lady." Nora said
it satirically; but it was the truth nevertheless.
Millie had some little difficulty in finding Baverstock House, and
it was with a trembling hand—for she felt extremely nervous—that she
pulled the bell at the side of the high green gate.
But when the gate was opened, she thought at first she was in
fairyland! Who would have expected to see so green a spot in such a
crowded, noisy neighbourhood? The house was a large old-fashioned
building, with ivy and many kinds of creepers climbing up its walls,
and around the pillars of the doorway. In the front of the house
stretched a velvety lawn, and the high wall that surrounded it was
thickly covered with more ivy and creepers. In the centre of the
garden a pretty fountain threw up its silvery spray in the sunshine.
It made Millie feel cool even to look at it. In one corner of the lawn
there grew a large mulberry tree, and there, under its shade, sat Miss
Crawford in a low basket-chair at needlework. She received her guest
with a kind word of welcome, and soon the little girl was seated by her
friend and chatting away at her ease.
Presently tea was brought out. Millie had not felt so hungry for months
as she did at the sight of the delicate bread and butter, delicious
strawberries, and rich light sponge cake.
"O!" sighed Millie to herself. "If Phil were but here!"
Miss Crawford was delighted at the child's evident pleasure. "Now,
Millie, you are to make a good tea," she said, as she noticed that
Millie ate her second slice of bread and butter with considerably less
relish than the first.
"Thank you," Millie replied, smiling gratefully; "but I haven't been
very hungry lately. I think the hot weather has taken away my appetite."
"Are you perfectly well, dear child?" Miss Crawford asked anxiously, as
she looked at Millie's pale face.
"I have bad headaches sometimes," she answered, "and I get tired so
soon. But that is nothing; I am quite well, thank you."
"Tell me truthfully, Millie, do you always have enough to eat?"
Millie blushed and stammered, "I—I—Indeed, I don't think I could eat
more if I had it: only uncle gives me so little money now, and Phil
works so hard that, you know, he must have plenty of food to keep up
his strength. Phil's wages will be raised soon, and then we shall get
on better," she added cheerfully.
"Your uncle gives you a certain sum weekly, I suppose?" Miss Crawford
asked.
"He does not give it me regularly—I wish he would," replied Millie.
"And it's sometimes more, and sometimes less. I buy the food and the
things that we use in the house, and he pays for the rooms—I mean—"
She stopped in confusion as she remembered that only that very morning
their landlady had told her that they owed nearly a month's rent, and
if the money were not soon forthcoming they must leave. Poor Millie! As
she thought of it all, the wearied look came back into her face.
"Never mind, my child," said Miss Crawford, "we won't talk about
disagreeable subjects now. I have a plan in my head to bring back the
roses into your cheeks again. But as I may not be able to carry it out
after all, I shall not tell you what it is; I don't want to disappoint
you."
"I can't leave uncle and Phil," said Millie, dreading she knew not what.
Miss Crawford smiled and changed the conversation.
"How is Phil getting on with his work?" she asked.
Phil was an inexhaustible subject to his sister, for she never tired of
talking of what he did, and what he knew. She now told Miss Crawford,
as a great secret, how much Phil wished to continue the drawing lessons
that he had begun at an evening class in Camberwell the previous
winter, and how clever he already was with his pencil.
"Why, Miss Crawford," said Millie, in a voice of profound admiration,
"he actually drew me a lovely little picture of Chormouth Bay, with old
John Linton the fisherman coming home with his boat full of mackerel.
And all from memory!"
"You must show it me, Millie, some day. Now, if you have quite finished
your tea, I will have the table cleared."
But they sat on in the pleasant garden till all the sunbeams had left
it, then Miss Crawford took Millie indoors.
If the garden had appeared lovely to the child, the house seemed still
more beautiful. Once at Chormouth she recollected that she had been
taken over "The Hall" by her mother, and on two or three occasions
she had been in the library at Chormouth Vicarage. But here it was
not grand and stately like "The Hall," nor small and cheerless like
the Vicarage. The rooms in Miss Crawford's house were neither too
large nor too small; the carpets were soft to the eye and soft to
the touch—Millie could hardly hear her own footsteps as she walked.
The furniture was substantial and comfortable; the pictures bright
and cheerful—ah! Wouldn't Phil have liked to see those pictures! And
flowers and ferns in rich profusion were standing in every available
spot, shedding their gracefulness and sweet perfume upon all.
"O! Miss Crawford," said Millie, drawing a long breath of admiration,
"what a lovely house you have!"
"I am glad you think so," Miss Crawford said smiling. "Now," she
said, leading the way into the prettiest room of all, "this is my
drawing-room. Sit down in that low chair in the corner there, Millie,
and I will play and sing to you. My father and mother are away with my
brother in the country, so that we shall not be disturbing anybody."
So saying, she opened the piano, and sang in such a rich sweet voice
that Millie started with surprise and pleasure. So distinctly too
were the words pronounced that every syllable was heard. The first
songs were light and cheerful. These were succeeded by those grand but
touching lines:—
"Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
"O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
"And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
"Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me."
The music and the words went straight to the little listener's heart.
They took her in spirit to Chormouth—to the little cottage there, and
to its beloved inmates. In spite of her efforts to prevent them the
tears would come. She could just manage to keep from sobbing aloud, and
that was all.
At the end of the song Miss Crawford paused. In a few minutes, however,
she began again with that beautiful air from Mendelssohn's oratorio of
"Elijah," "O rest in the Lord."
"'O rest in the Lord,'" repeated Millie softly to herself, "'wait
patiently for Him.' Yes, yes, I will."
Then came the blessed promise, "'And He shall give thee thy heart's
desire.'"
There was no bitterness nor heartache in her tears after that. She
had but to wait, and her heart's desire would be granted, her heart's
desire for Phil—for her uncle, and for herself that she might become
more unselfish, more patient, more content, more like the Lord Jesus,
Whose little child she was. Millie, as she heard the sweet comforting
words, bowed her head and turned them into a prayer.
A slight noise made her look up. A tall gentleman came quietly into the
room. He did not observe Millie in her dark corner; he walked straight
to the piano and stood behind the player till the last sounds of the
music had died away. In the silence that followed—for Miss Crawford's
voice had grown husky, and she paused to let it regain its accustomed
tone—he bent down and kissed her, saying as he did so:
"Thank you, that does bring rest indeed!"
"Is that you, Sydney?" Miss Crawford exclaimed, as she rose quickly
from her seat. "I did not expect you just yet. Ah! You are tired—very
tired, are you not?" she asked, looking closely at him in the dusk.
"Rather. I have had hard work at the hospital to-day," he replied.
"Several poor fellows who had been wounded in a machinery accident were
brought in. Two have died. We have hopes that the others will do well."
"How dreadful!" said Miss Crawford. "I do not wonder that you are tired
and worn out. There, sit down," she continued, as she wheeled towards
him a comfortable arm-chair, "and rest yourself. For the present I
must attend to another visitor. Millie, come here and speak to this
gentleman."
Millie came from her corner, feeling glad that the twilight hid her
tear-stained face. Now that she was nearer to him, she thought she
recognised the gentleman, and then she remembered she had seen him with
Miss Crawford on Waterloo Bridge.
To Millie's surprise, he asked her a great many questions—odd questions
she thought them. Where did she live? Had they a good supply of fresh
water for their use? How large was the room in which she slept? Did she
keep her window open night and day? He shook his head and looked very
grave when he heard that her bedroom was little more than a cupboard,
and that the window was so tiny as scarcely to admit any light at all.
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who came
to say that Philip Guntry had called for his sister.
"Then I suppose I must let you go, Millie," said Miss Crawford. "Say
good-bye to Dr. Bethune."
They found Phil in the study. He stood twirling his cap and looking as
if he longed to be out of the house. Miss Crawford tried hard to put
him at his ease, and so well did she succeed, that in a few minutes he
was keeping Millie company in eating a slice of cake, while he talked
eagerly and sensibly on a subject which was very dear to him—drawing.
His eyes glistened with pleasure when Miss Crawford told him of a
School of Art that he should attend when the autumn term began.
Millie was glad that her dear Miss Crawford should see her brother
for once as she so often saw him—with the heavy sullen look gone, and
an intelligent animated expression in its place; with a ready smile
playing around his lips, and with his black locks tossed back from his
forehead.
How Phil enjoyed that conversation! He was no longer anxious to get out
of the house; indeed, he quite forgot where he was, and how time went.
For the first time for many a long day he felt that somebody besides
Millie was taking a pleasure in seeing him happy; was treating him as
a rational, intelligent being, who had tastes to be cultivated, and
abilities to be used. When his second piece of cake had disappeared,
Miss Crawford went to a bookcase and took two books from its shelves.
She handed one to Millie; the other she gave to Phil, saying:
"I want you to keep this in memory of our pleasant chat. It is one of
my favourites. I am sure you will like to read it. No, don't thank me,"
she added hastily, as Phil uttered a delighted "O Miss Crawford!"
"And don't open it till you get home."
She went with them herself to the hall-door, tripped lightly across the
lawn, gave Phil a warm shake of the hand, pressed a kiss upon Millie's
forehead, opened the gate, and as they passed out, her last words rang
in their ears, "Good-bye, I shall see you again soon. Remember I am
always your friend."
Well may your heart be blithe and happy, dear Minnie Crawford, and well
may you feel blessed in your home and the world. For in giving largely
of your cheering sympathy, in ministering to the wants of the sick and
the poor, in scattering a sunbeam here and a gladness there, you are
giving forth the good measure that is returned unto your own heart,
"pressed down, and shaken together, and running over."
Phil walked away from Baverstock House that evening feeling that the
world had suddenly changed to him. He had a sympathising friend at
last. He could have fallen down and kissed the feet of her who had
spoken so winningly and kindly to him. He had not been so light-hearted
since the old days at Chormouth.
In spite of Miss Crawford's injunction the brother and sister halted
under the first lamp-post to take a peep at their books. Phil was all
impatience to know what his was about, though had it not been that his
spirit was infectious, it would have been enough for Millie to feast
her eyes on the pretty blue cover of hers. Phil uttered a long "O!"
of joyful anticipation as he saw the title, "The Early Lives of Great
Painters," and Millie read aloud the golden letters on the cover of her
book, "Ministering Children."
"'Ministering Children'! What are ministering children, Phil?" she
asked wonderingly.
"Why," he replied, looking fondly at her, "they are children like you,
Millie."
[Illustration]