Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "HERE'S WRITING AT THE BEGINNING, MOTHER;
WHAT DOES IT SAY?"]
ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS
AND
LITTLE DOT
BY
MRS. O. F. WALTON
AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE," "PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES,"
"CHRISTIE, THE KING'S SERVANT," "WINTER'S FOLLY," ETC.
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
CONTENTS
ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER I. THE WINGLESS ANGEL
CHAPTER II. WHO KNOCKS?
CHAPTER III. LITTLE ELLIE'S SISTER
CHAPTER IV. THE LOUD KNOCK IN PLEASANT PLACE
CHAPTER V. ANGEL'S BIRTHDAY
CHAPTER VI. THE GREAT BIRTHDAY
LITTLE DOT
CHAPTER I. OLD SOLOMON'S VISITOR
CHAPTER II. DOT'S DAISIES
CHAPTER III. THE LITTLE GRAVE
CHAPTER IV. LILIAN AND HER WORDS
CHAPTER V. DOT'S BUSY THOUGHTS
CHAPTER VI. SOWING SEEDS
CHAPTER VII. THE LITTLE WHITE STONE
CHAPTER VIII. THE FADING DAISY
CHAPTER IX. OLD SOLOMON'S HOPE
ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER I
THE WINGLESS ANGEL
FROM morning till night, poor Mrs. Blyth was hard at work with her
great mangle.
It was a very dismal room; no one could call it anything else. The
window was very small, several of the panes patched together with
pieces of brown paper, and the dust and the spiders had been very busy
trying how much sunshine they could keep from coming into the gloomy
little room.
Yet one could hardly blame poor Mrs. Blyth very much, for she had a
hard life and plenty to do. A drunken husband, a mangle, and five
children! No wonder that she had not time to look after the spiders!
The mangle filled up at least half of the room, and from early morning
till late at night it was going backwards and forwards, almost without
stopping. When Mrs. Blyth was making dinner ready, Angel turned; and
when Angel was eating her dinner with her little brothers and sisters,
Mrs. Blyth turned again. And in this way the mangle was almost always
going; and old Mrs. Sawyer, lying on her bed next door, would quite
have missed the noise it made rolling backwards and forwards, which
acted as a kind of lullaby to her the whole week long.
Little Angel was standing by the door with a large clothes-basket in
her arms, waiting for it to be filled. She was the eldest of the five
children, and she was not quite seven years old. She was very small,
and her little figure was a good deal bent with turning the heavy
mangle. She had to stand on a stool to turn it, and it made her back
ache. But that did not matter,—the mangle must be turned, or they would
have no dinner to-morrow.
And now the clothes must be carried home; and they were a very heavy
load.
"Is all these for Mrs. Douglas, mother?" said little Angel, when
the flannels, and dusters, and towels, and stockings were all piled
carefully into the basket.
"Yes, child; there's just six and a half dozen. Now mind you don't
spill any of them."
Little Angel tried to lift the great basket, but it was more than she
could manage; the blood rushed into her little pale face with the
effort.
"Tim will help you," said her mother. "Go and call him; I'll give him a
slice of treacle and bread, if he'll come."
Tim, who was a neighbour's little boy, agreed to the bargain, and the
two children started together.
On they toiled through the wet and muddy streets, almost without
speaking, until little Angel paused before a large house in one of the
grander streets of that small town.
"Who lives here?" said Tim, as he glanced up at the bow windows and at
the great door with pillars on each side of it.
"This is where we're going," said Angel. "These are Mrs. Douglas's
clothes. Help me to carry them in."
So the children went by a long passage to the back door.
They rang twice before any one came to open it; and then the cook came
to the door with a very red face, and with very white hands, for she
was in the midst of baking.
"You'll have to wait a minute or two," she said; "come inside and put
your basket down; it's Miss Ellie's birthday, and I'm very busy. I'll
take them out of the basket when these cakes are done."
The two children stood on the mat by the kitchen door, and looked
around them. There was a large fire, and the cook was taking a
number of little cakes from the oven shelf. They were curious little
cakes, of all shapes and sizes. Some were round, some square, some
diamond-shaped: some were like birds, some like fishes, some like
leaves.
The children peered curiously at them as the cook arranged them on tiny
plates, not larger than the inside of Angel's little hand. She was in
the midst of doing this when the kitchen door opened, and a little girl
ran in. She was much younger than Angel, and she was dressed in a white
frock and blue sash. In her arms was a beautiful doll, more beautiful
than any doll Angel had ever seen except in a toy-shop window.
The little girl ran quickly into the kitchen; but when she saw the
children she looked shyly at them, and crept up to cook's side.
"Now, Miss Ellie," said cook, "are you come to look at your cakes?" and
she lifted the little girl upon a stool, that she might stand by and
watch what she was doing.
"Are all these for my birthday?" said the child.
"Yes, every one of them," said cook.
"Oh, what a great many! Aren't there a great many, cook?"
"Yes; but I suppose there's plenty of little folks to eat them," said
cook, laughing.
"Oh yes," said the child; "there's me, and Alice, and Fanny, and Jemmy;
and then there's Nellie Rogers and Joe Rogers, and little Eva; and
there's Charlie and Willie Campbell. And then there are all my dollies:
they must come to my birthday tea, mustn't they, cook?"
"Oh, of course," said cook; "it would never do to leave them out. Is
that a new one, Miss Ellie?"
"Yes; Uncle Harry gave her to me for a birthday present. Isn't she
nice? She has curls, cook!"
"Oh, she is a beauty!" said cook. "What's her name?"
"I don't know," said the child; "I can't think what would be the nicest
name. What would you call her if she was your dolly, cook?"
"Oh, Emma, or Sarah, or Jane, or something of that sort," said cook,
laughing.
"I don't think those are very pretty names," said the little girl; "I
would like her to have quite a new name, that I never heard before."
"Well, we must think about it," said cook. "I must go and take the
clothes out now, and let these children go."
"Who is that little girl, cook," whispered the child.
"She has brought the clothes from the mangle: her mother mangles them."
"What is her name, cook?" whispered Ellie again.
"I don't know, Miss Ellie; you'd better ask her," said cook.
"You ask her, please, cook," whispered the child again.
So cook turned to the children, and asked them what were their names.
"He's Tim, ma'am," said the little girl, pointing at the boy, standing
shyly with his finger in his mouth; "and I'm Angel."
"Oh, cook!" whispered little Ellie, "please, please let me see her
wings. Are they tucked up under her shawl? Oh, please do let me see
them!"
But the cook did nothing but laugh.
"However did you come by such an outlandish name?" she said, turning to
little Angel.
"Please, ma'am, it's Angel for short," said the child.
"And what is it for long?"
"It's Angelina, please, ma'am, for long. My mother read it in a penny
number before she was married; and Angelina lived in a palace, please,
ma'am, and had gold shoes and a carriage with six horses, my mother
said."
"Well, to be sure!" said cook. "And so she gave you that heathenish
name, when you haven't got gold shoes, nor a carriage, nor six horses.
Well, to be sure!"
"Oh, cook!" said little Ellie, "I think it's a beautiful name: the
angels live in heaven."
"She doesn't live there, poor little soul!" said cook compassionately;
"I'll be bound it's anything but heaven where she lives. Her father
drinks, and her mother has five of them."
"Cook," whispered the child again, "would she like one of my birthday
cakes?"
"I should think so," said cook. "Should we give her one?"
And, to Angel's great astonishment, she found herself the sole owner
and possessor of a pastry bird, a fish, a star, and a heart; while
little Tim was made equally rich.
The children were almost too pleased to say "Thank you!"
"There, now! The basket's ready," said cook; "and here's the money for
your mother."
Angel and Tim took up the basket, and turned to go.
"Good-bye, little Angel," said the child shyly; "I do wish you had some
wings."
"Cook, don't you think Angelina would be a pretty name for my dolly?"
they heard her saying as they went down the steps.
"Ay, it was nice in there!" said Tim, as they walked homewards in the
dirty, dismal, muddy streets. "I wish I had a birthday."
"Did you ever have one?" asked Angel; "I never did."
"Yes, one," said Tim; "only once, and that was a long, long time ago."
"What is a birthday?" said Angel.
"It's a nice sort of a day!" said Tim, "When everybody's good to you,
and gives you things. One day mother let me have a birthday."
"And what was it like?" said little Angel.
"Oh, the kitchen was swept all clean and tidy, and mother never scolded
me once all day, and she made a cake for tea that had lots of currants
in it—not just one in each slice, like the cake we have on Sundays. And
father gave me a penny and a packet of goodies for my very own! That's
the only birthday I ever had. Mother says she hasn't any time for
birthdays now."
"I wonder if I shall ever have a birthday," said little Angel with a
sigh, as she went in to turn the mangle once more.
CHAPTER II
WHO KNOCKS?
THE mangle went on, backwards and forwards, until very late that night.
Little Angel's arms and back ached terribly when the work was finished
and she and her mother crept close to the flickering fire.
"Now go to bed, Angel," said her mother.
"Oh, mother, please let me stop a little longer with you. Are you going
to sit up?"
"Yes, I must wait till he comes," said the mother wearily, glancing at
the large clock which was ticking solemnly in the corner of the little
kitchen. "Oh dear, oh dear! what a lot of trouble there is in the
world!"
"Mother," said little Angel suddenly, "did you ever have a birthday?"
Mrs. Blyth did not answer at first, but bent lower over the fire.
Little Angel fancied she was crying.
"Yes," she said at last, "when I was a little girl, and my father was
alive. I wish I was a little girl now."
"Was it so very nice having a birthday, mother?"
"It was very nice having a father," said Mrs. Blyth. "Ay, and he was a
good father too; he was a real good man, was your grandfather, Angel."
"What did you do on your birthday, mother?" asked the child.
"Oh, it was a real happy day. My mother made a plum-pudding for us, and
my father took us all to the park for a walk after tea. And then, he
used always to give me a present. I have one of them yet."
"Where is it, mother?" said little Angel; "do let me see it."
"Oh, it's up on that shelf," said her mother, pointing to some little
shelves at the top of the kitchen. "It's a shame to let it lie there
when I promised him to read it every day. But what can a woman do
that's got a drunken husband, five children, and a mangle?" she said,
more to herself than to the child.
"Please let me look at your birthday present, mother," said little
Angel again.
Mrs. Blyth stood upon one of the broken chairs, and took down from
the shelf an old and shabby book. The cover was half off, and it was
thickly coated with dust. One of the spiders had been busy in its
neighbourhood, and had fastened one end of a large cobweb to its cover.
She wiped it with her dirty apron, and handed it to the child; then she
sat down again, and bent over the fire.
"Here's writing at the beginning, mother," said Angel; "what does it
say?"
Mrs. Blyth took the book, and a tear fell on the soiled leaves of the
Bible as she opened it.
"Given to Emily Brownlow by her dear Father on her birthday, with the
hope that she will remember her promise."
"And what was the promise, mother!"
"That I would read it, child," said her mother shortly.
"But you never do read it, mother."
"No, it's a shame," said her mother; "I must begin."
"Read me just one little bit before I go to bed," said Angel, sitting
on the stool at her mother's feet.
Mrs. Blyth turned over the leaves, and in a mechanical way began to
read the first verse on which her eye fell.
"'Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear My voice, and
open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he
with Me.'"
"Who is knocking, mother?" asked Angel.
"It means Jesus Christ, I think," said her mother. "'Behold, I stand at
the door and knock.' I expect it means Jesus. I learnt a hymn at the
Sunday school about it. I went to the Sunday school when my father was
alive. I remember it began—"
"Behold a Stranger at the door,
He gently knocks—has knocked before;"
"and then—I can't remember what came next—something about using no
other friend so ill."
"I never heard Him knock," said Angel; "does He come when I'm in bed at
night?"
"No," said her mother; "I don't think it's that door He knocks at. I
don't rightly know what it means."
"Read it again, please, mother."
So Mrs. Blyth read the text again.
"I hope He won't come in to-night," said little Angel, when she had
finished.
"Why not, child?" asked her mother.
"Because we've got nothing for supper to-night, only those crusts Billy
and Tommy left at tea. I'm afraid He wouldn't like those."
"Oh, it doesn't mean He's really coming to supper," said the mother; "I
wish I could remember what it does mean. But it's lots of years since I
read it. My father died when I was only ten, and nobody never took any
trouble with me afterwards."
Little Angel was very sleepy now, so her mother took her upstairs, and
put her into the bed with her little brothers and sisters, and then
she sat down on a chair beside her, and buried her face in her hands.
Recollections of a father's love and of a father's teaching were coming
into that poor, ignorant mind. Imperfect, childish recollections they
were, and yet quite distinct enough to make her sigh for what had been
and for what might have been.
And so she sat, this poor wife, as the clock ticked on and the children
slept. Then, after long hours of waiting, came a great noise at the
door, and she rose, trembling, to open it.
Little Angel started from her sleep, and, sitting up in bed, called
out, "Mother, He's come; I heard Him knock."
"Yes," said her mother, who was lighting the candle, "I'm going to let
him in."
"Oh, please let me go down and see Him."
"No, nonsense, child," said her mother; "your father's sure to be in
drink. I'll get him quickly to bed."
"Oh, dear!" said little Angel, in a disappointed voice, as she lay
down, "I thought it was Jesus knocking at the door!"
CHAPTER III
LITTLE ELLIE'S SISTER
THE next week there were more clothes to be taken home to Mrs.
Douglas's. It was not a heavy load this time, and little Angel went
alone. She was passing under one of the bow windows on her way to the
passage leading to the kitchen door, when she heard a loud tapping on
the pane. She looked up, and there was little Ellie nodding to her, and
kissing her hand, and holding up the new doll for her to see.
And when cook opened the kitchen door, and Angel came in with the
clothes, little Ellie was just coming in at the other door.
"Please, cook," said the child, "Mabel wants to see the little Angel."
"Bless us!" said cook, laughing. "I'd clean forgot about the child's
name. I couldn't think what angel it was at first. You take her, Miss
Ellie."
"Please, come," said the little girl; and she held out her tiny hand
for Angel to take.
Little Angel had never seen such a beautiful house. They went up a long
easy staircase, very different from the one Angel climbed at night when
she went to bed. They passed a splendid window, with pretty coloured
glass in it, which threw all sorts of lovely colours on the stairs. And
the carpet was so soft that Angel could not hear the sound of her own
feet.
At the top of the staircase was a long passage, with doors at both
sides of it. Ellie opened one of these, and led Angel into a pretty
little sitting-room. A bright fire was burning in the grate, and by the
side of the fire was a sofa. On this sofa Angel saw a young lady lying,
with a very sweet and gentle face. She looked very ill and tired, Angel
thought, and had such a kind face that she could not feel afraid of her.
"This is the little Angel, Mabel," said little Ellie, as she took her
by the hand to her sister's couch.
"Bring a stool for her to sit on, Ellie. I'm very glad to see you,
little Angel."
"Yes; but, Mabel, cook says she hasn't any wings, and she doesn't think
she lives in heaven. She says it's only her name."
"Yes," said her sister; "I understand. But some day, I hope she will
live in heaven. Do you think you will, little Angel?"
"I hope so, please, ma'am," said Angel.
"But, if you are ever to live in heaven with the Lord Jesus, you must
learn to love Him now," said the young lady.
"Is that the door He knocks at?" said Angel, starting from her seat, as
a sudden thought seized her.
"What do you mean, little Angel?"
"The door with the great pillars on each side of it, and the brass bell
and knocker; is it there He knocks every night?"
"I don't quite understand what you mean," said Mabel gently. "Can you
tell me a little more about it?"
"My mother read it in the Bible last night, and it said He knocked at a
door and wanted to come in, and mother said she didn't think it meant
our door."
"Is this what you mean?" said the young lady. She took up a little
Bible which lay beside her, and read aloud: "'Behold, I stand at the
door, and knock.'"
"Yes, that's it," said Angel; "and my mother said she had clean forgot
what it meant; but she thought it meant Jesus."
"Yes; your mother was quite right, little Angel; it is Jesus who is
knocking at the door."
"Then it is this door with the pillars," said the child.
"No, not this door," said the young lady; "it means a door that belongs
to you, little Angel. It is not a door that you can see or touch; it is
the door of little Angel's heart. Jesus calls it a door, to show you
what He means. He wants to come into your heart. He wants you to love
Him, and to give your own little self to Him. This is what it means,
little Angel."
The child looked as if she did not quite understand.
"Do you love your mother, little Angel?" asked the young lady.
"Oh yes, please, ma'am; very much."
"Then your mother is inside your heart. You love her with your heart,
don't you?"
"Oh yes, please, ma'am; she does everything for me, does mother."
"But Jesus loves you better than your mother does; and He has done a
great deal more for you than she has."
"Has He?" said little Angel simply.
"Yes, indeed He has. Do you know, He lived in heaven, where everything
is beautiful and happy, and He left His home there and came to live
down here. He lived a very sorrowful life. He was a poor man, little
Angel. He had no home of His own, but went about from place to place,
often very tired, and hungry, and faint. And people were very unkind
to Him; they laughed at Him and hated Him, and threw stones at Him,
and hunted Him from place to place; and at last, little Angel, He was
nailed on a cross of wood, and they put a crown of thorns on His head."
"Oh yes, please, ma'am; mother has a picture of that. Jesus is on
a cross, and some soldiers laughing at Him; it's in a book on the
drawers-top that my father bought at a sale."
"Yes," said the young lady; "that was how He died; oh, such a cruel,
painful death! And, little Angel, it was all for you!"
"All for me!" said the child.
"Yes, little Angel, all for you. For, if Jesus had not died, you could
never, never have gone to heaven. Shall I tell you why?"
"Yes, please, ma'am," said the child.
"You could never have gone to heaven, because no one can go there who
has done any wrong; only good and holy people can go there; all who
have done anything wrong must be punished for it. And, little Angel,
have you ever done anything wrong?"
"Yes," said little Angel, hanging down her head; "yes, please, ma'am, I
have."
"Then you could never go to heaven, for God must punish sin. But Jesus
is God, and He came and led that sorrowful life, and then died that
dreadful death, that He might be punished instead of you—instead of
you, little Angel. And now He says, 'I wonder if little Angel will love
Me for dying for her? I will knock at the door of her heart, and see if
she will let Me in, and love Me for what I have done for her, and be My
little child!'"
Angel opened her eyes very wide, and looked earnestly at the young lady
as she spoke.
"How old are you, little Angel?" she asked.
"Going on seven, ma'am," said Angel promptly.
"Then He has been waiting for you for years. Knocking—knocking, and you
have never let Him in!"
"That's a long time!" said Angel.
"Yes; and still He does not give up knocking. He is waiting still;
waiting for you to love Him; waiting for you to let Him in."
"He must be very tired," said Angel; "I wish I knew how to let Him in."
The young lady did not answer at once; she covered her face with her
hand for a minute, and was quite still.
Then she said, "Little Angel, I have been praying to Him to help me to
show you how to let Him into your heart. But I think, after all, the
best way will be for you to ask Him yourself. Will you ask Him now?"
"I don't know how," said Angel; "I don't know what to say."
"When you pray, little Angel, you should talk to Jesus just as you are
talking to me, and ask for just what you want. Kneel down by me, and I
will help you."
Little Ellie, who had been listening in silence all this time, knelt
down too, whilst her sister prayed.
"O Lord Jesus, show little Angel how to open the door of her heart to
Thee! Grant that she may let Thee in, and not keep Thee waiting any
longer. Oh, may she indeed be saved by Thee, and love Thee with all her
heart, for all that Thou hast done for her! Amen."
"And now, little Angel," said Mabel, when the children rose from their
knees, "when you get home you must ask Him yourself, and remember He
ever listens to every word that you say."
Angel had a great deal to think of as she walked home that morning with
her empty basket. She was very quiet all day as she was looking after
the children and turning the mangle—so quiet that her mother asked her
if she were ill. But Angel said, No, she was quite well, and turned the
mangle quietly again. But when the other children were in bed, and she
and her mother were alone, Angel said:
"Mother, do you know how old you are?"
"Dear me, let me see," said her mother. "I was just nineteen when I
got married to your father. I know I was just nineteen then, because I
remember my old aunt said, 'You're young enough, my lass, not twenty
yet. You'd better not be in a hurry.' Well, I was nineteen then, and,
let me see, I believe we've been married eight years next month.
Nineteen and eight, what's that? Count it on your fingers, Angel."
"Twenty-seven, mother," said little Angel, when she had carefully
counted it twice over. "Twenty-seven years old! Then Jesus has been
knocking at your door twenty-seven years! What a long time!"
"Oh, you're after that again, are you?" said her mother. "I wish I
could remember what it means."
"Miss Douglas told me," said Angel; and she repeated, as well as she
could, the conversation in the little sitting-room.
"Well, to be sure," said the mother, "it's very wonderful to think He
waits so long; I'm afraid I've been very bad to Him."
"Won't you let Him in to-night, mother?"
"Oh, child! I'm too busy," she said; "there's so much to do. There's
the children, and your father, and the mangle to look after, and always
dinner to cook, and things to clear away, and such lots of clothes to
wash, and your father's shirts to iron. I've no time to be good, Angel."
"But Miss Douglas said if you don't let Him into your heart and love
Him, you won't ever live with Him and the angels in heaven."
"Ah, well!" said the mother. "I suppose not; but there's lots of time
yet. When baby gets a bit older, and Tom goes to school, I shall have a
bit more time; and then, Angel, I can sit still a bit and think about
it."
"Only, perhaps, as He's been knocking twenty-seven years," said Angel,
"it's such a very long time, He may get tired of waiting, and walk
away."
"Oh no! I hope not," said her mother; and she got up and bustled about
the room, and sent Angel off to bed. She hoped the child would forget
about it before morning.
But when she went upstairs, after a few minutes, to see if Angel was in
bed, she found her kneeling in her nightgown before the window. There
was no light in the room, but the blind was up, and the moonlight was
streaming on the child's fair hair and clasped hands.
"She looks like one of the little angels in heaven," said the mother to
herself.
Angel had not heard her mother come upstairs, so Mrs. Blyth stood
quietly on the last step, and listened to Angel's little prayer.
"Oh, Jesus, please come in to-night! Oh it was very bad to keep You
outside when You did all that for me! Oh, Jesus, please don't knock any
longer, but just walk into my heart, and please never go away again?
Amen."
And then Angel crept into bed, and her mother wiped her eyes, and came
in and kissed her.
CHAPTER IV
THE LOUD KNOCK IN PLEASANT PLACE
"MOTHER! mother!" said little Angel, in the middle of the night,
creeping over to the bed where her father and mother were asleep.
"Mother, mother, there's a loud knock at our door!"
"Bless you, child," said the mother, "you're dreaming. Your father's
been in long since. Go to bed again."
"No, mother, listen; there it is again."
This time Mrs. Blyth heard it, and even Mr. Blyth opened his eyes, and
said, "What's that?"
Some one was knocking at the door as loudly as he could. Mrs. Blyth put
on some clothes, lighted a candle, and went down stairs to see what it
was.
When she came back her face was very white indeed. "Oh, Angel," she
said, "it's Tim; his mother's dead! She went to bed quite well, and
then Mr. Carter woke and heard her groaning, and she was dead in two
minutes—before he could call anybody."
"Oh, mother," said little Angel, trembling, "how dreadful! She was
washing all day yesterday, and I saw her put the shutters up just
before I came to bed."
"Yes," said Mrs. Blyth; "I'm sure it's made me feel quite sick. I must
go over and help them a bit, poor things."
Angel could not sleep any more that night. She lay awake thinking of
poor Tim, who had no mother, and wondering if Mrs. Carter were in
heaven with the angels. When her mother came back it was time to get
up. Mrs. Blyth had been crying very much, and she went about her work
almost without uttering a word.
But when she and Angel were turning the mangle, she said—
"Angel, do you remember what you said when you waked me last night?
You said, 'Mother, there's a loud knock at our door.' I've never got
those words out of my head since. All the time I was laying out poor
Mrs. Carter I heard you, saying, 'There's a loud knock at our door,
mother.' And when Mr. Carter told the doctor how well she had been all
yesterday, and the doctor said, 'Yes, it's very sudden, very sudden
indeed,' I heard you saying again, 'There's a loud knock at our door,
mother.' And now, even when I'm turning the mangle, it seems to be
saying those same words over and over again."
"Yes," she said, after a minute or two, "it's of no use me saying, 'I'm
too busy, I can't let Him in just yet.' Death won't take that excuse
when he knocks at the door."
That was a very dull day. Angel peeped out of the window, and saw the
closed house opposite, and the darkened room upstairs where poor Mrs.
Carter was lying. And then the man came to measure her for her coffin,
and then Mr. Carter and his poor little motherless children came into
Mrs. Blyth's house to get their dinner, and Mr. Carter cried all the
time, and would hardly eat anything.
It was a very dismal day.
But after tea, as Angel was washing up the tea things, and her mother
was folding the clothes for the mangle, an unusual sound was heard in
the narrow court where they lived. It was the sound of singing—several
voices singing.
In a moment, all in Pleasant Place had opened their doors or their
windows and were looking out. They saw a young man standing in the
middle of the court, and a little knot of people round him, with open
books in their hands.
"What is it, mother?" asked little Angel, as Mrs. Blyth came into the
room.
"That's young Mr. Douglas, Miss Douglas's brother," said her mother,
in a whisper. "I've often seen him there when I've been to take the
clothes home; he's one of the ministers here."
"Why, mother," said the child, as she listened to the singing, "they
are singing your hymn—the hymn you learnt in the Sunday School."
"No," said her mother, "it isn't my hymn, but it's very like it."
"Knocking, knocking! Who is there?
Waiting, waiting, oh, how fair!
'Tis a Pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before;
Oh! My soul, for such a wonder,
Wilt thou not undo the door?"
"Eighteen doors in this court," said the young minister, looking round
on the people, who were all peeping out at him. "Eighteen doors, and
every one of them open!"
"Listen to-night to the story of a door—a closed door!"
"Here is a closed door, and some one standing outside it. He knocks at
the door; He calls out to the one inside; then He waits, He listens.
There is no sound within; no one comes to open the door."
"He knocks again; He calls again; He listens again. No one comes."
"Will He walk again? No, He waits still; He knocks once more; He calls
again; He listens again. No answer."
"Surely the door must be bolted and barred so fast inside that it
cannot be opened, or perhaps the owner of the house is out, or asleep,
or deaf, and does not hear the knocking."
"But look a little longer. Some more people come up to the door and
knock, and as soon as ever they knock they are admitted. They are let
in, and the door is shut in the face of Him who has waited so long."
"Many times in the day that door is opened to all kinds of people; but
it is always closed in the face of the One who still stands outside."
"Does He weary of standing there? No; night comes, but He goes on
knocking, goes on calling, goes on listening for any answer from
within."
"Who is He? Is He a beggar come to ask for money?"
"No, He is no beggar; for if you look you will see that His hands are
full of presents for the one inside the house."
"Is He a rent collector come to demand that which is due to Him? No;
for although the house really belongs to Him, He demands nothing, He
only pleads for an entrance."
"Is He an enemy to the one inside? No; He is, on the contrary, his best
friend, the One to whom he owes everything."
"What a strange thing that He is kept outside!"
"Is it a strange thing?" said the minister, looking earnestly at all
the people. "Is it a strange thing? Then get up at once and let Him in,
for it is at your door He is knocking."
"My door!" you say. "My door! What do you mean? No one is knocking at
my door."
"No one? Oh, my friends! Did you hear no knock this morning at your
door—your heart's door. When the neighbours came in and told you that
one in that house, whom you had seen well and strong a few hours
before, was now in eternity—oh, my friends! Was it not a knock?"
"Did not the Lord Jesus, your best Friend, knock then? Did He not call
as well as knock? Did you not hear Him saying, 'Are you ready to die?
Oh, let Me in before it is too late!'"
"That was a very loud knock, my friends; but it is not the only time
He has knocked. Day after day, week after week, year after year, ever
since you were little children, He has been knocking and waiting, and
knocking and waiting for you to let Him in. That night when you were so
ill, and the doctor told you that you might never get better, was He
not knocking then?"
"And when your child died, and you stood by its open grave, was He not
knocking then?"
"And these are only the great, startling knocks; there are many others
which you do not hear—there is too much noise and bustle inside the
house for their sound to reach you. Yet never a day passes that He does
not knock in some way or other."
"But oh! Take care, for the day is coming—who can say how soon? When
there will be a last knock, a last call; and then He will turn and walk
away from the door, never to return."
"Oh, my friends! Why do you keep Him waiting outside? You let all
others in. Your pleasures, your companions, your work,—all these knock
at the door, and are let in at once. But you have no room for Christ."
"But oh! Remember, if there is no room for Christ in your heart, there
will be no room for you in Christ's heaven."
"My friend, He is knocking now; it may be His last knock. He is calling
now; it may be His last call."
"'Oh, let Me in.'" He cries, "'and I will make you happy; I am bringing
you forgiveness, and peace, and joy, and rest, and all that you need.
Oh, let Me in before it is too late! I have waited so patiently and so
long, and still I wait. Will you not, even this night, undo the door?'"
When the little service was over the people went back into their
houses, and Angel and her mother went on with their work. And as Angel
wiped the cups and saucers, she sang softly to herself the chorus of
the hymn—
"Oh! My soul, for such a wonder,
Wilt thou not undo the door?"
"Yes, I will!" said her mother suddenly, bursting into tears; "I will
undo the door; I will keep Him waiting no longer."
CHAPTER V
ANGEL'S BIRTHDAY
IT was a bright, sunny morning, some weeks after that little service
was held in Pleasant Place.
The sunbeams were streaming in at Mrs. Blyth's window, for the cobwebs
and spiders had some time ago received notice to quit, and the dust had
all been cleared away, and found no chance of returning.
Mrs. Blyth was a different woman. Her troubles and trials remained, and
she had just as much to do, and just as many children to look after,
but she herself was quite different. She had opened the door of her
heart, and the Lord Jesus had come in. And He had brought sunshine with
Him into that dark and ignorant heart. Life, instead of being a burden
and a weariness, was now full of interest to Mrs. Blyth, because she
was trying to do every little thing to please Jesus, who had done so
much for her. Whether she was washing the children, or cleaning the
house, or turning the mangle, she tried to do it all to please Him. She
remembered that He was looking at her, and that He would be pleased if
she did it well. It was wonderful how that thought helped her, and how
it made the work easy and pleasant.
So, through the bright, clean window, the morning sunbeams were
streaming on little Angel's head. Her mother was standing by her side,
watching her as she lay asleep, and waiting for her to awake.
As soon as ever Angel opened her eyes, her mother said—
"Little Angel, do you know what to-day is?"
"No, mother," said Angel, rubbing her eyes, and sitting up in bed.
"It's your birthday, Angel; it is indeed!" said her mother. "I hunted
it out in your grandmother's old Bible. It's the day you were born,
just seven years ago!"
"And am I really going to have a birthday, mother?" said Angel, in a
very astonished voice.
"Yes, a real good birthday," said her mother; "so get up and come
downstairs, before any of it is gone."
Angel was not long in putting on her clothes and coming down. She found
the table put quite ready for breakfast, with a clean tablecloth, and
the mugs and plates set in order for her and her little brothers and
sisters; and in a little jar in the middle of the table was a beautiful
bunch of flowers. Real country flowers they were, evidently gathered
from some pleasant cottage garden far away. There were stocks and
mignonette, and southernwood, and sweetbrier, and a number of other
flowers, the names of which neither Angel nor her mother knew.
"Oh mother, mother," said little Angel, "what a beautiful nosegay!"
"It's for you, Angel," said her mother: "for your birthday. I got it at
the early market. My father always gave me a posy on my birthday."
"Oh, mother," said little Angel, "is it really for me?"
But that was not all, for by the side of Angel's plate she found a
parcel. It was tied up in brown paper, and there was a thick piece of
string round it, fastened tightly in so many knots that it took Angel a
long time to open it. Her little hands quite shook with excitement when
at last she took off the cover and looked inside. It was a little book,
in a plain black binding.
"Oh, mother," said Angel, "what is it? Is it for my birthday?"
"Yes," said her mother; "look at the writing at the beginning. I'll
read it to you."
It was very uneven writing, and very much blotted, for Mrs. Blyth was
only a poor scholar; but little Angel did not notice this—it seemed
very wonderful to her to be able to write at all.
Now, what was written in the little book was this:
"Given to little Angel by her dear mother; and she hopes she will
promise to read it, and will keep her promise better than I did."
"But I can't read, mother," said Angel.
"No; but you must learn," said her mother. "I mean that you shall go to
school regular now, Angel. Why, you're seven years old to-day!"
Poor little Angel's head was nearly turned; it was such a wonderful
thing to have a birthday.
But the wonders of the day were not over yet; for when, after
breakfast, Angel asked for the clothes to mangle, her mother said:
"They're all done Angel; I'm just going to take them home. I've done a
lot these three nights when you was in bed, that we might have a bit of
a holiday to-day."
"A holiday, mother!" said Angel. "Oh, how nice! No mangling all day!"
"No mangling all day," repeated the mother, as if the thought were as
pleasant to her as to Angel.
But the wonders of the day were not yet over.
"Angel," said her mother, as they were washing the children, "did you
ever see the sea?"
"No, mother," said Angel; "but Tim has; he went last Easter Monday with
his uncle."
"Well," said her mother, "if it doesn't rain, you shall see it to-day."
"Oh, mother!" was all that little Angel could say. And who do you think
is going to take you, child? "I don't know, mother."
"Why, Angel, your father is. He came in last night as soon as you'd
gone to bed. He sat down in that arm-chair by the fire, and he said,
'Dear me! how comfortable things is just now at home! If they was
always like this, I wouldn't stop out of an evening.'"
"So I said, 'If God helps me, John, they always shall be like this,
and a deal better, too, when the children gets a bit bigger.' And your
father stopped at home and read his newspaper, Angel, and then we
had a bit of supper together. It was like when we was first married,
child; and as we ate our supper, Angel, I said, 'It's Angel's birthday
to-morrow, John.' And your father said, 'Is it? Why, to-morrow's
Saturday. Let's all go to the sea together;' and he took quite a
handful of shillings out of his pocket. 'Here's enough to pay,'
he said. 'Have them all ready at dinner-time, and we'll go by the
one-o'clock train.'"
"Oh, mother," said little Angel, "it is so nice to have a birthday!"
True to his promise, John Blyth came home at dinner-time, with the
shillings still in his pocket. His mates had tried hard to persuade him
to turn into the Blue Dragon on his way home, but he told them he had
an engagement, and had no time to stay.
What a happy afternoon that was!
Angel had never been in a train before, and her father took her on his
knee, pointing out to her the houses, and trees, and fields, and sheep,
and cows, and horses, as they went by. And then they arrived at the
sea, and oh! What a great, wonderful sea it seemed to Angel! She and
her little brothers and sisters made houses in the sand, and took off
their shoes and stockings and waded in the water, and picked up quite
a basketful of all kinds of beautiful shells; whilst her father and
mother sat, with the baby, under the shadow of the cliffs and watched
them.
And then they all came home together to tea, and her father never went
out again that night, but sat with them by the fire, and told Angel
stories till it was time to go to bed.
"Oh, mother," said Angel again, a sleepy head on the pillow, "it is
nice to have a birthday!"
CHAPTER VI
THE GREAT BIRTHDAY
THE bells were ringing merrily from the tower of the old church close
to Pleasant Place.
The street near the church was full of people bustling to and fro,
going in and out of the different shops, and hurrying along as if
none of them had any time to lose. The shops were unusually gay and
tempting, for it was Christmas Eve. Even Pleasant Place looked a
little less dull than usual. There were sprigs of holly in some of the
windows, and most of the houses were a little cleaner and brighter than
usual.
Angel and her mother had been very busy all day. They had just finished
their mangling, and had put all the clothes out of the way for
Christmas Day, when they heard a knock at the door, and Angel went to
open it.
"It's a basket, mother," she said. "It can't be for us."
The man who had brought the basket laughed.
"It's for an Angel!" he said. "Have you got any of that article in
here? Here's the direction I was to bring it to—'Little Angel, No. 9,
Pleasant Place.'"
"Then, please, it's for me," said Angel.
"For you!" said the man. "Well, to be sure! So you are the angel, are
you? All right, here's your basket!" And he was gone before they could
ask more.
The basket was opened with some difficulty, for it was tightly tied up,
and then Angel and her mother put out the contents on the table amidst
many exclamations.
There was first a plum-pudding, then a number of oranges and apples,
then a large cake, and then a pretty Christmas card, with a picture of
a robin hopping about in the snow, and these words printed on it, "A
Happy Christmas to you all."
"Where can they all have come from?" said little Angel, as one good
thing after another came out of the basket. At the very bottom of the
basket they found a tiny note.
"This will tell us about it," said Mrs. Blyth. "Why, it's directed to
you, Angel!"
So Angel's mother sat down, stirred the fire, spelt it carefully out,
and read it aloud by the firelight.
"MY DEAR LITTLE ANGEL,"
"I send you a few little things for Christmas
Day. I hope you will have a very happy day. Do not
forget whose Birthday it is. Your friend,"
"MABEL DOUGLAS."
"Whose birthday is it, mother?" asked little Angel.
"The Lord Jesus Christ's," said her mother reverently. "Did I never
tell you that, little Angel? It's the day we think about Him being born
a little baby at Bethlehem."
[Illustration: "SO YOU ARE THE ANGEL, ARE YOU? HERE'S YOUR BASKET."]
Angel was sitting on her stool in front of the fire thinking, and it
was some time before she spoke again. Then she said suddenly, "What are
you going to give Him, mother?"
"Give who, Angel?"
"What are you going to give the Lord Jesus for His birthday?"
"Oh, I don't know," said her mother. "I don't see how we can give Him
anything."
"No," said little Angel sadly; "I've only got one penny,—that wouldn't
buy anything good enough. I would have liked to give Him something on
His birthday; He did such a lot for us."
"We can try to please Him, Angel," said her mother, "and do everything
that we think He would like."
"Yes," said little Angel, "we must try all day long."
That was a very happy Christmas Day for Angel and for her mother.
"This is the Lord Jesus' birthday," was Angel's first thought when she
awoke in the morning; and all through the day she was asking herself
this question, "What would Jesus like?" And whatever she thought He
would like that she tried to do.
Angel's father was at home to dinner, and was very kind to her all day.
He had not been seen inside a public-house since Angel's birthday. It
was a very good little Christmas dinner. As they were eating it, Mr.
Blyth said:
"Emily, have you seen those bills on the wall at the top of the court?"
Angel's mother said, "No; I have not been out to-day."
"There's to be a meeting to-night in that little schoolroom just a bit
of way down the street. That new young minister's going to speak; and
it says on the bills it will all be over in half an hour. I've a good
mind to go and hear what he's got to say. Will you come with me?"
"Yes, that I will," said Mrs. Blyth, with tears in her eyes. She had
not been inside a place of worship with her husband since the first
year they were married.
"Can't Angel come too?" said her father, as he looked at her earnest
little face.
"Not very well," said Mrs. Blyth; "we can't all go. Some one must stop
with baby and the children."
When Angel's large plum-pudding was put on the table, a sudden thought
seized her. "Mother," she whispered, "don't you think Jesus would like
poor old Mrs. Sawyer to have a bit of it?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Blyth, "I'll cut her a slice, and one for Annie too,
poor girl. Will you take them in?"
So Angel went next door with her two slices of plum-pudding. She found
Mrs. Sawyer and her niece Annie just beginning their dinner. There
was nothing on the table but some tea, and a loaf of bread with a few
currants in it, so Angel felt very glad she had brought the pudding.
She was sure Jesus would be pleased they should have it; and she
thought it would make Him glad on His birthday to see how Mrs. Sawyer
and Annie smiled when they saw what she had brought them.
"Are you going to this meeting to-night?" said Annie, as Angel turned
to go.
"No, I'm not going," said Angel; "but father and mother are. I must
mind the children."
"I'll tell you what," said Annie; "if you'll bring them in here, I'll
mind them. I can't leave aunt, and they'll be a bit of company for her."
And so it came to pass that Pleasant Place beheld the wonderful sight
of Mr. and Mrs. Blyth and Angel all going together to the little
meeting in the schoolroom.
A good many Pleasant Place people were there; and they looked round in
astonishment as Mr. Blyth came in, for they thought him about the most
unlikely man in the whole court to be there. And his wife and little
Angel, as they sat beside him, prayed very earnestly that he might get
a blessing.
Mr. Douglas's text was a very strange one for Christmas Day—at least,
so many of the people thought when he gave it out. It had only four
words, so that even little Angel could remember it quite well—
"GIVE ME THINE HEART."
"Suppose," said the minister, "it was my birthday, and every one in
my house was keeping it. They all had a holiday and went out into the
country, and there was a very good dinner, which they all very much
enjoyed, and altogether it was a very pleasant day to them indeed."
"But suppose that I, whose birthday it was, was quite left out of
it. No one gave me a single present; no one even spoke to me; no one
took the slightest notice of me. In fact, all day long I was quite
forgotten; I never once came into their thoughts."
"Nay, more. Not only did they do nothing whatever to give me pleasure,
but they seemed all day long to take a delight in doing the very things
which they knew grieved me and pained me, and were distressing to me."
"Surely, my friends, that would be a strange way of keeping my
birthday; surely I should feel very hurt by such conduct; surely it
would be a perfect sham to pretend to be keeping my birthday, and yet
not take the slightest notice of me, except to annoy and wound me! My
friends," said the minister, "this afternoon I took a walk. In the
course of my walk I saw a number of people who pretended to be keeping
a birthday. And yet what were a great many of them doing? They were
eating and drinking and enjoying themselves, and having a merry time of
it."
"But I noticed that the One whose birthday it was, was quite forgotten:
they had not given Him one single present all day long they had never
once spoken to Him; all day long He had never been in their thoughts;
all day long He had been completely and entirely passed by and
forgotten."
"Nor was this all. I saw some who seemed to be taking a pleasure in
doing the very things He does not like, the very things which offend
and grieve Him—drinking and quarrelling, and taking His holy name in
vain."
"And yet all these, my friends, pretended to be keeping the Lord Jesus
Christ's birthday!"
"But, I trust, by seeing you here to-night, that you have not been
amongst their number. I would therefore only put to you this one
question—"
"The Lord Jesus Christ's birthday! Have you made Him a present to-day?"
"A present!" you say. "What can I give Him? He is the King of kings and
Lord of lords. What have I that is fit for a present to a king?"
"Give Him what He asks for, my friends. He says to you to-night, 'Give
Me thine heart.'"
"That is the birthday present He is looking for. Will you hold it back?"
"Oh, think of what we are commemorating to-day. Think how He left His
glory, and came to be a poor, helpless babe for you; think, my friends,
of all His wonderful love to you. And then I would ask you, Can you
refuse Him what He asks? Can you say—"
"Lord, I cannot give Thee my heart. I will give it to the world, to
pleasure, to sin, to Satan, but not to Thee,—no, not to Thee. I have no
birthday present for Thee to-night?"
"Oh, will you not rather say—"
"'Lord, here is my heart; I bring it to Thee; take it for Thine own.
Cleanse it in Thy blood; make it fit to be Thine'"?
"Will you not this night lay at your King's feet the only birthday
present you can give Him—the only one He asks for—your heart?"
"Mother," said little Angel, as they walked home, "we can give Him a
present, after all."
It was her father who answered her.
"Yes, Angel," he said, in a husky voice; "and we mustn't let Christmas
Day pass before we have done it."
And that night amongst the angels in heaven there was joy—joy over one
sinner who repented of the evil of his way, and laid at his Lord's feet
a birthday present, even his heart.
There was joy amongst the angels in heaven; and a little Angel on earth
shared in their joy.
[Illustration: "PLEASE, MR. SOLEMN, WHEN YOU DIE,
WHO'LL HAVE TO DIG YOUR GRAVE?"]
LITTLE DOT
CHAPTER I
OLD SOLOMON'S VISITOR
IT was a bright morning in spring, and the cemetery on the outskirts
of the town looked more peaceful, if possible, than it usually did.
The dew was still on the grass, for it was not yet nine o'clock. The
violets and snowdrops on little children's graves were peeping above
the soil, and speaking of the resurrection. The robins were singing
their sweetest songs on the top of mossy gravestones—happy in the
stillness of the place. And the sunbeams were busy everywhere, sunning
the flowers, lighting up the dewdrops, and making everything glad and
pleasant. Some of them even found their way into the deep grave in
which Solomon Whitaker, the old grave-digger, was working, and they
made it a little less dismal, and not quite so dark.
Not that old Whitaker thought it either dismal or dark. He had been a
grave-digger nearly all his life, so he looked upon grave-digging as
his vocation, and thought it, on the whole, more pleasant employment
than that of most of his neighbours.
It was very quiet in the cemetery at all times, but especially in the
early morning; and the old man was not a little startled by hearing a
very small voice speaking to him from the top of the grave.
"What are you doing down there, old man?" said the little voice.
The grave-digger looked up quickly, and there, far above him, and
peeping cautiously into the grave, was a child in a clean white
pinafore, and with a quantity of dark brown hair hanging over her
shoulders.
"Whoever in the world are you?" was his first question.
His voice sounded very awful, coming as it did out of the deep grave,
and the child ran away, and disappeared as suddenly as she had come.
Solomon looked up several times afterwards as he threw up fresh
spadefuls of earth, but for some time he saw no more of his little
visitor. But she was not far away; she was hiding behind a high
tombstone, and in a few minutes she took courage, and went again to
the top of the grave. This time she did not speak, but stood with her
finger in her mouth, looking shyly down upon him, as her long brown
hair blew wildly about in the breeze.
Solomon thought he had never seen such a pretty little thing. He had
had a little girl once, and though she had been dead more than thirty
years, he had not quite forgotten her.
"What do they call you, my little dear?" said he, as gently as his
husky old voice would let him say it.
"Dot," said the child, nodding her head at him from the top of the
grave.
"That's a very funny name," said Solomon. "I can't think on that I ever
heard it afore."
"Dot isn't my real name; they call me Ruth in my father's big Bible on
our parlour table."
"That's got nothing to do with Dot as I can see," said the grave-digger
musingly.
"No," she said, shaking her long brown hair out of her eyes; "it's
'cause I'm such a little dot of a thing that they call me Dot."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Solomon; and then he went into a deep
meditation on names, and called to mind some strange ones which he read
on the old churchyard gravestones.
When Solomon was in one of his "reverdies," as his old wife used to
call them when she was alive, he seldom took much notice of what was
going on around him, and he had almost forgotten the little girl, when
she said suddenly, in a half-frightened voice—
"I wonder what they call you, old man?"
"Solomon," said the grave-digger; "Mr. Solomon Whitaker—that's my name."
"Then, please, Mr. Solemn, what are you doing down there?"
"I'm digging a grave," said Solomon.
"What's it for, please, Mr. Solemn?" asked the child.
"Why, to bury folks in, of course," said the old man.
Little Dot retreated several steps when she heard this, as if she were
afraid Mr. Solomon might want to bury her. When he looked up again
there was only a corner of her white pinafore in sight. But as he went
on quietly with his work, and took no notice of her, Dot thought she
might venture near again, for she wanted to ask Mr. Solomon another
question.
"Please," she began, "who are you going to put in that there hole?"
"It's a man as fell down dead last week. He was a hard-working fellow,
that he was," said the grave-digger; for he always liked to give people
a good word when digging their graves.
Dot now seemed satisfied; and, on her side, told the old man that she
had come to live in one of the small cottages near the cemetery gates,
and that they used to be "ever so far off" in the country.
Then she ran away to another part of the cemetery, and old Solomon
shaded his eyes with his hand to watch her out of sight.