OLD ROGER.
Directly Bryda was inside the old man's cottage she was able to
collect her scattered wits, and look round at her kind friend and at
his dwelling.
The little room into which she had come served as the old man's
sitting-room and kitchen both; the door into what would naturally
have been his little parlor was open, and she could see tools hanging
up on neat wooden racks, half-finished chairs and boxes lying about,
and in the center of the room a carpenter's bench and turning-lathe.
The carpenter himself wore a very old-fashioned dress, long blue
knitted stockings, strong low shoes with buckles, a scarf wound round
and round his throat, so that two little points of very white collar
came just under his chin, and a funny old brown coat with
peculiar-looking buttons.
He drew a chair for Bryda near the hearth on which burned a small
wood fire, and above which were a great many memorial cards in
frames--wonderful works of art, with very black backgrounds and very
white tombs, over which leaned in exhausted attitudes drooping female
figures, supposed to be lamenting the departed in the tombs, while
usually a large weeping willow languished in one corner of the
picture.
The carpenter himself sat down, where he had evidently been sitting
before, at a small table, on which was a very large Bible with
pictures in it.
As he did so his eyes rested on the opposite wall, on which was a
quaint old woodcut, representing the Christ in Joseph's workshop at
Nazareth, with a glory round His heady busily making a table. Bryda
saw, it too, and could not help noticing the look of pleasure that
came into the old man's face, as if he had suddenly seen a very dear
friend.
"You're a carpenter, Mr. Roger?" said Bryda, trying not to feel shy.
"Ay, ay," answered the old man, turning his spectacled eyes slowly
from the picture to her face. "I make chairs and tables, and all
else that I've strength for, just as He did," pointing to the
picture. "He made them for over twenty years, but I've made them now
for twice that, and more. Nigh on to seventy years I've done the
same work as He did; and whenever I do a real neat job, missy, I say
to myself, "That's right, Roger; do 'em better and better still, and
some day you'll do one that He needn't a-been ashamed of."
"Do you think the Lord made the best chairs and tables?" asked Bryda,
wondering. She had been so much more used to think of our Redeemer
as He taught, and worked miracles, and went about doing good, than as
the carpenter who worked quietly in a little out-of-the-way village.
"I dunno about the best, missy; maybe He never had the best teaching
leastways, not to make grand folks' furniture. But I know every nail
He drove was put in true and straight, and never a bit of bad wood
used, or a place people wouldn't see left unfinished. All the work
He did was the best He knew to do--that I know right well, missy."
Bryda sighed. She had come out to try and do some of the Lord's own
work--to help the poor. And she had failed so horribly, with the
best intentions! The old carpenter heard her sigh.
"Tell old Roger how you got into trouble, missy," he said; "and maybe
a cup of tea would freshen you after all's done."
It was only half-past three, but the old man got up and bustled
about, laying tea on the clean deal table, with a cloth still
cleaner, for Bryda and himself, a big loaf, and a little bit of
country butter. Then he put the kettle on to boil, and sat down
opposite Bryda to watch it, while she told all the story of her
adventure to her new friend, beginning with the scrape of yesterday,
and Cousin Salome's story, and ending by saying sadly that it seemed
as if there was no use for her in the world.
"Don't fret, my dear; don't fret," said the kind old man; "the Lord
has a use for everything and everybody, if they'll ask Him to show
the way. Why, the dear Lord had need of a donkey once, and He sent
to ask for it. Didst ask Him what to do, little miss, before thou
went?"
Bryda hung her head. That she had not done.
"That's where the fault was," said Roger thoughtfully. "What dost
think 'ud happen if I tried to do squire's work, or parson's? They
wouldn't thrive with me, for sure."
At this moment the cottage door opened, and the object of Bryda's
terror, the shock-headed girl, entered. In one hand she held Bryda's
locket and chain, in the other her basket, both of which she thumped
down upon the table, so that all the tea-things rattled, merely
saying, "There, take yer things, and don't come near us no more!"
She bounced out again, and banged the door behind her.
"So it was Moll Dawson as freckened ye!" said Roger, when she was
gone; "she's a real bad 'un, that girl. I'm thinking she's one of
those lambs that run further off because they hear the Shepherd
calling."
"I shall never dare to go near her house again," said Bryda; "but I
am glad she did not steal my locket and chain. And I wish I could
help somebody who is sick or very poor," she added, returning to her
first idea.
The old carpenter leaned his elbows on his knees, and looked at Bryda
very earnestly.
"When I were a young 'un," he said, "and lived in a part of the
country far away from here, there was a cold, clear spring as bubbled
up by the roadside, with the best water in all the country round,
that never dried up. And they called it 'The Child's Well,' and told
a pretty story about it."
"Oh, do tell me!" said Bryda eagerly, roused at once by the idea of a
story, like a dog at the scent of game.
[Illustration: (Bryda and the old Roger)]
"Well," continued the old man, "they say that once, long years ago,
there was a little lassie troubled in mind like you, missy, and
wanting to do a bit o' work for the dear Lord. So every day, when
she left her little white bed, she knelt down and prayed summat like
this: 'Dear Lord,' says she, 'give me a little bit of Thy great work
to do.' And all day long she was kind and gentle, and always doin' a
hand's turn for some one, if it was only mindin' a babby while the
mother went out.
"But she didn't understand, ye see, missy, that such bits o' things
could belong to the Lord's work. Till one day, as the story goes,
when it was a holiday, all the chicks went out, and were going some
way off to play. Just as they got a little way out of the village,
on the dusty, hot road, they met an old man, very foot-sore, and old
and tired-lookin'. So he says, 'For dear pity's sake, little 'uns,
give me a little water.' But the well was some way back, and the
childer in a hurry to go and play, so they one and all told him to go
on furder, and he'd find what he wanted. All but this little maid:
she stayed looking wistfully at the old man, though the others called
to her to come on. 'Sit down,' she says, 'till I fetch you some
water,' and off she runs back to the village, fills a cup, and brings
it back steady, not spillin' a drop. But when she came where she
left the old man sitting, there was a beautiful figure, all in a
white dress with, gold about it, and such a face as she had never
seen before. And He took the cup and put it to His lips, and then
with a voice like the sound of many waters--so she told the people
after--He told her, 'Even a cup of cold water, given to the very
least, shall have its reward.' And He poured out the rest of the
water, and where it fell this spring rose up. And while the little
maid looked at it, all on a sudden He was gone."
[Illustration: And where the water fell this spring rose up.]
"Was it an angel that she saw?" asked Bryda, in an awe-struck tone.
"Some say it was an angel, some say it was the dear Lord Himself,"
said the old carpenter, bowing his head reverently. "But I don't
rightly know, missy; I don't rightly know."
Here the kettle made a distraction by boiling over, and old Roger
took it off and made tea.
Then his little visitor, who had now quite recovered her spirits,
suggested that it would be "awfully nice" if they had some buttered
toast, and in two minutes he and Bryda were on two stools by the
fire, each with slice of bread at the end of a fork, the old man and
little girl as happy as it was possible to be.
They were just going to turn their pieces and toast the other sides,
when suddenly the door opened, and Bryda's nurse entered like a whirl
wind, and stood horror-struck on the threshold.
"Oh, Miss Bryda, you naughty, naughty girl! Whatever do you think
your poor dear mother would say, seeing you sitting there, for all
the world like a vulgar child, and every one up at the house running
about distracted, because you're lost? Come away this minute!"
[Illustration: (Girl sitting on the grass)]
Bryda had nothing to say for herself. She meant to do good; but it
was very naughty to slip away "unbeknown," as nurse would say, and
frighten every one.
The old carpenter had tea alone after all, and Bryda went sorrowfully
home with her scolding nurse.