"FRIEND, GO UP HIGHER!"
There came at last, next day, a governess for Bryda; and she,
remembering Miss Quillnib, the only teacher she had ever had, except
mother, expected an elderly lady with prim dress and iron-gray curls.
But it is hard to say if she was most surprised or pleased to see a
bright-faced young girl who could not be more than twenty-one or
twenty-two, who was nicely dressed, and looked as if she could enjoy
amusing things quite as well as Miss Bryda herself.
Bryda put her through a short catechism when her shyness had worn off
a little, which was by the time that she and the governess had
settled down to tea in the cosy schoolroom.
"Miss Mervyn, do you like jam?" she asked, so very gravely that the
young lady burst into an extremely merry laugh.
"Very much," she said, trying to be as grave as her pupil;
"especially raspberry! We used to call that 'real jam,' at my home."
"Did you?" said Bryda. "But do you like lessons better than play?"
"Certainly not!" said Miss Mervyn. "Only the play would get very
stupid if it went on every day, all day long. So I like some
lessons, too. How should you like to live on jam without any bread,
Bryda?"
"Not at all."
"Well, I think the working part of the day is the bread to make the
play seem nice. How would a cake be that was only currants and
sugar?"
Bryda laughed, and then she grew solemn again. "But I _don't_ like
dates," she said.
[Illustration: Bryda laughed, and then grew solemn.]
"No more do I," answered Miss Mervyn. "That is, I don't like too
many at once. But I suppose you never remember your birthday, Bryda?"
"Twenty-first of June!" said the pupil promptly. "But then I know
all about that, and it's a very nice sort of day!"
"Well, if I were to give you a packet of sweeties every year on the
day of the battle of Waterloo, would it be easy to remember?"
"It might," answered Breda.
"Then let us try to divide the day between lessons and play, so that
we may have the proper quantities of bread and jam? Shall we, dear?"
"Yes, that will be nice! And, oh! Miss Mervyn," burst out Bryda,
"will you sometimes come and see old Roger?" She had thought of
little else all day.
"Who is old Roger?" asked Miss Mervyn.
Bryda poured out all the story of Roger and of Beppo, and of her
first adventure in the Dawsons' cottage, and of all that had happened
since.
The story lasted till there came a knock at the door, and Uncle Jack
entered.
"Well, Uncle Jack! what have they done to Jim Dawson?" cried Bryda.
"Jim has been sent to prison," answered Uncle Jack; "when his time of
punishment is over we will see what can be done for him. And Moll is
not dead, Bryda; that is what I came up to tell you--that and
something else. Moll will recover, and when she leaves the infirmary
Cousin Salome has a little plan for her, which will take her away
among kind people, who will teach her and help her to be good."
"What was the something else, Uncle Jack?"
"The something else was that old Roger would like to see you
to-morrow morning, if Miss Mervyn will be good enough to take you
there, as early as possible," he said. "Roger is going to his
palace, Bryda, and he may start to-morrow, so he would like to say
good-by."
"How nice for Roger," said Bryda. "Aren't you glad he is going,
Uncle Jack? You spoke quite sadly. I suppose you will miss old
Roger; I am sure I shall."
"Yes, I am very glad," said Uncle Jack, in a voice that shook a
little. Evidently he would miss old Roger very much indeed.
"Poor Liz!" said Bryda, as she went to bed, "I am so sorry she cannot
go too!"
When Miss Mervyn and Bryda went down to Roger's cottage in the
morning, it seemed wonderfully quiet. There was no sound of the
carpenter's diligent work--all his tools were neatly laid aside. The
cottage looked as though it were Sunday. Roger was going home; he
would need his tools no more.
Going into the inner room, they found old Roger in bed propped up
with pillows, while Beppo, crouched at the foot of the bed, kept his
big, dark eyes fixed, with a very sorrowful look, on the old man's
face.
Then, and not till then, did Bryda suddenly understand what it all
meant; and with a little cry of "Oh, Roger, don't die!" she sprang to
the bedside.
"Gently, dear," said Miss Mervyn following her.
"Oh, I will be still!" sobbed Bryda; "but, oh, Roger, I _never_
thought you meant dying, when you told me about your palace. And it
was because I did not understand, and told Moll Dawson about your
treasures, that all this has happened! Oh, it's my fault!" she
sobbed.
"No, dear," said Miss Mervyn gently. "It is not your fault. But
next time things puzzle you, Bryda, ask some one to explain them."
There was a smile as beautiful as the calm light of a summer's sunset
on the old man's face. How glad he seemed to be going Home! With
something of an effort he spoke:
"They shall see the King in His beauty ... the land that is very far
off. In My Father's house ... many mansions ... a place for you ...
that means one for me too, Miss Bryda!"
"And one for Liz," said Bryda quickly.
"Ah! Liz will be able to show me round, she's been there for so long
... she'll teach me the ways o' the place, and the new song they sing
there. She was always a good singer, was Liz, and loved it."
"For Beppo one place, too," said a little voice from the foot of the
bed.
"One place for all the children of the King, if they have kept their
garments white," said Miss Mervyn.
"Yes," went on Roger faintly, "where the Lord God giveth light...
Wipeth away all tears... One thing more... What is it?" His memory
seemed to fail, then again returned.
"Yes, that's it... Not all rest and singing... His servants shall
serve Him ... work for old Roger ... work for Beppo ... for all, work
and rest. But there's something more ... something good----"
His voice failed completely.
"Yes, there is," said Miss Mervyn; "the best thing of all! 'They
shall see His Face!'"
A smile of exquisite delight came over the old man's face. He spoke
no more, but lay back on his pillows, gazing before him and folding
his hands, as if already he had some foretaste of that wonderful
promise, given long ago to the pure in heart, "They shall see God!"
And then, from utter weakness, he fell info a gentle sleep, like that
of a child, with that same smile on his face.
Thus Miss Mervyn, and even Bryda and little Beppo, as they looked,
could understand how true are the words of the Apostle, "Every man
that hath this hope in him purifieth himself, even as He is pure."
They would try to be of the number of those for whom the many
mansions are prepared; of those, like Roger,
"The guileless in their way,
Who keep the ranks of battle,
Who mean the things they say."
They stood watching old Roger's sleep for a little while, and then
Miss Mervyn gently drew Bryda away; and Beppo and Mrs. Mears, the
kind parish nurse and Bible woman, were left to watch the sleeper.
Before that day was ended old Roger had set out on his journey--had
gone to join Liz in the Palace of the King.
The shock of Jim Dawson's attempted robbery, and a chill caught at
the same time, were more than Roger's enfeebled frame could stand.
Cousin Salome wrote a little poem about him; but she said, and all
agreed with her, that the old man's life and death were a better
poem, written in God's book of history, where perhaps the names that
we think great and famous are not the most conspicuous.
His body was laid beside that of Liz and Bryda gathered the freshest
flowers and made two wreaths every Sunday morning.
And Beppo? A well-to-do farmer's wife, who had no child, offered to
adopt him, and make him quite like her own child. Cousin Salome was
not sure if the plan would work well, so she proposed that the boy
should go for a month at first. And he went; and at the end of the
month the farmer's wife declared that she must be allowed to keep
him, if only because he was such a capital advertisement of her good
milk and butter, since he had grown so much fatter and stronger. Now
and then he was allowed to come and spend the day with Bryda, for the
grannies said he was "a perfect little gentleman, who could do Bryda
no harm."
Bryda had no more need to complain of being lonely, or of having
nothing to do. By the time that she had done her lessons diligently,
and played heartily with Miss Mervyn, who was very good at battledore
and shuttlecock and other capital games, and had found time to do
"something for someone else," in which Miss Mervyn was always ready
to help her, why the day was gone, and it was bedtime. That is the
great secret of not getting into scrapes, to have plenty to do, and
Uncle Jack was obliged to confess one day, when Bryda insisted on an
answer to her question, that he could no longer truthfully say that
she "lived in a jar of Mixed Pickles."
THE END.