"How's my Jenny?" the man stammered, looking down at the tiny creature
in her chair. Jenny never looked so little as when she was alone with
her father. "How's my Jenny Wren, best of children?"
"Go away," said the little voice, sharp and harsh with pain and shame.
"Go away to your corner." She held her hands up between them.
This father, who did nothing for his child, except to make her feel
ashamed and grieved, shook from head to foot as he stood before her. His
cheeks were blotched with patches of dull yellow and patches of dark
red. His clothes were so torn and worn they hardly held together on him,
and when he tried to put up his hand to his scanty gray hair, he made
all sorts of motions with it before he could get it to his head.
How do you think it would seem to you, my happy children of good and
loving parents, to look on such a man as this, miserable and shameful
from head to foot, and brought to such ruin by himself, and then have to
say to yourself, "It is my father"?
The children on the street laughed and hooted at him as he came
staggering home to his little lame daughter. But, oh! it wasn't funny to
little Jenny Wren.
She pointed to the chair that stood against the wall, farthest away from
her own, and he went past it two or three times before he could reach it
and sit down.
"Oh, you bad child!" cried Jenny, in a broken voice. "Come, come, you
know what I'm waiting for. If there's any money left, let me take care
of it. Put it here," striking the arm of her chair; "all you have left;
every cent."
If Jenny had not spoken sharply, even crossly, she could not have made
her "child" mind at all.
He fumbled with his pockets, which looked so much like the other holes
in his clothes, and at last he stumbled toward her and laid down a few
coins.
"Is this all?" Jenny asked. It was very little.
"All; got no more; gentleman's word for it."
Lizzie heard most of this sad scene in her little room overhead, and
when she heard the father go groping up the stairs, and fall heavily on
his bed in the room next to hers, she hurried down to Jenny with her
heart full of pity and love.
"What are you thinking of, Jenny darling?" she said, laying her hand on
the bright hair which was now shaken down over the small misshapen
shoulders, and covered the whole tiny figure with its soft yellow waves.
"I was thinking," said Jenny, with her small chin in her hands, "what I
would do to _him_ if he should turn out to be a drunkard."
"Him" always meant the husband little Jenny firmly believed was some
time going to come for her and take her out of all her trouble.
"Oh, but he won't," said Lizzie, cheerfully. "You'll take care of that
beforehand."
"Yes, I shall try to take care of it beforehand; but, Lizzie, you know,
he might deceive me. Oh, my dear, I _couldn't_ bear it in _him_. I would
do some dreadful thing to him--I know I should."
"No, you wouldn't, dear."
"Well," said the little creature, after a pause, and speaking in her
softer voice again, "you generally know best, Lizzie; but, oh! you
haven't got a bad child to make you sick and tired!" And then the poor
little dolls' dressmaker cried with her head on Lizzie's shoulder.
* * * * *
One day Lizzie had a holiday, and she and Jenny set out to walk into the
city by the pleasant river-side. Lizzie carried Jenny's little
scrap-basket on her arm, and they were in luck, for a man driving a
market wagon saw the small figure and the crutch, with the beautiful
hair flowing around them, and stopped his horses, nodded respectfully to
Lizzie, and asked if they wouldn't like a lift. So they rode into
London.
"You'll like my fairy godmother," said Jenny, after the teamster put
them down, as they went along the narrow street of St. Mary Axe. "He has
a very nice old face and a long white beard."
"He!" said Lizzie, wondering.
"Oh yes, he!" Jenny answered, promptly. "A man can be a godmother if
he's the right kind, can't he?"
They stopped in front of a yellow house with the blinds drawn down.
Jenny struck the door smartly with her crutch, and it was opened by a
man in an old-fashioned coat with long skirts and wide pockets. He was
old; the top of his head was bald and shining, and long gray hair
beginning just above his ears flowed down and mixed with his beard.
"It's a holiday, godmother," said Jenny, smiling at him, "and I've
brought my Lizzie-Mizzie-Wizzie I've told you of, you know. Godmother's
name's Riah," she added, turning to Lizzie.
The old man bowed very low to Lizzie, and helped Jenny over the sill.
"I've come for more waste," said Jenny, meaning the remnants of lace,
ribbon, beads, and other finery, which with other odd things were on
sale in the shop where this quiet old man was the clerk.
He led them into this shop at the back of the house, and when Jenny had
picked out and paid for what she needed, she said,
"Now take us up to your garden, godmother. We've got all day, and
there's some lunch, and Lizzie's going to read to me. Come."
The old man looked pleased, and went before them to the second floor,
and then up a narrow flight of steps to a door in the roof. Pushing this
door aside, he came down and carried Jenny up, and Lizzie followed.
As they came out upon the roof, a light cool wind caught up Jenny's
bright hair, and Lizzie exclaimed, "How kind you are, Mr. Riah, to let
us come up here!"
And it was a pleasant place.
An old canvas awning stretched between three of the chimneys made a nice
shade, without shutting out the view on any side. A square of
bright-colored carpet was spread on the roof under the awning; around
the big blackened chimney a green creeper had been trained, and together
with some boxes of evergreens and flowers made the place look and smell
like a garden.
The girls sat down, and invited Mr. Riah to sit by them, and have some
of the fruit and sandwiches they had brought. But just as he was about
to do this, a thin, fretful voice called out from below,
"Where are you, old chap?"
"It's my master," said Mr. Riah, hurrying away.
"His master!" repeated Lizzie, in surprise.
Jenny nodded her head, and looked vexed.
"Godmother's poor," said she, "but a good fairy for all that. This ain't
his place, and these ain't his things I buy. He works for somebody else,
just as we do, and somebody else gets the most of him, just as they get
the most of us, Lizzie-Mizzie-Wizzie. Never saw the man, but I suspect
he's a beast."
"Sh! they're coming," said Lizzie.
The old man, followed by a young slim man with a thin foxy face, came
out upon the roof. Lizzie rose, with her book in her hand.
"I can't get up, whoever you are," said Jenny, promptly, "because my
back's bad and my legs are queer."
"This is my master, Mr. Fledgeby," said Mr. Riah, as he came forward.
"Don't look like anybody's master," exclaimed Jenny.
"This, sir," the old man went on, "is a little dressmaker for little
people.--Explain to the master, Jenny."
"Dressmaker for dolls," said Jenny, hitching her chin and her eyes with
that look which made her seem so old and sharp and wise. "They're very
difficult to fit, too, Mr. Master Fledgeby, because their figures are so
uncertain; you never know where to expect their waists."
"This is the little one's friend," said Mr. Riah, pointing to Lizzie.
"Worthy girls both, sir. They are busy early and late, and at times,
when they have a holiday, they take to book-learning."
"Not much good to be got out of that," said Mr. Fledgeby.
"Depends upon the person," exclaimed Jenny, with a snap of her teeth,
that made it seem as if her eyes snapped too.
"The way I came to know them," said the old man, "was by Miss Jenny's
coming to buy of our remnants and waste for her work."
"She's been buying that basketful to-day, I suppose, then?" Mr. Fledgeby
asked.
"I suppose she has," cried Jenny, with another little snap, "and paying
for it too, most likely."
"Let's have a look at it," said the foxy-faced young man. "How much for
this, now?"
"Two precious silver shillings. Put it down, please; it's paid," Jenny
said.
He set the basket down, but not until he had poked his finger about in
it.
"Do _you_ buy anything here, miss?"
"No, sir," said Lizzie.
"Do you _sell_ anything?"
"No, sir."
Jenny put up her hand, and pulled Lizzie down beside her.
"We come here to rest, sir. It roars down there," waving her hand toward
the city, "and it sometimes smokes up here," lightly touching the big
chimney where she sat. "But it's so high, and you see the clouds rushing
on above the narrow streets, and you feel as if you were dead."
"How do you feel when you are dead?" asked Mr. Fledgeby, staring at her
in surprise.
"Oh, full of peace and thankfulness," said the little creature, smiling.
"You don't work, you just rest, and you hear the people who are alive
crying and working and calling to one another down in the close, dark,
noisy streets, and you pity them, for the burden has fallen off from
you, and you feel so strange, so easy, and light."
They all looked at her in silence.
[Illustration: "I THOUGHT I SAW YOU COME UP OUT OF YOUR GRAVE."]
"Why, it is only just now," she said, turning to old Mr. Riah, "that I
thought I saw you come up out of your grave. You came up through the
dark narrow door in the roof, and you were all bent over, and hot and
tired; but then you took a breath, and stood up straight, and looked
round at the sky, and the wind blew your white beard on your breast, and
your life down in the dark was over--until _you_ called him back to
life."
Her voice changed as she said these last words with a sudden little snap
at Mr. Fledgeby. "_Why_ did you call him back? _You_ are not dead, you
know. Go down to life." She pointed one little forefinger, and turned
her small head, and shook her bright hair, and looked wonderfully like a
small cunning bird of much golden plumage.
As they started to go down, she caught at Mr. Riah's long gown. "Don't
be gone long," said she. "Come back and be dead." And they heard the
sweet voice following after, more and more faintly, half calling, half
singing, "Come up and be dead, come up and be dead."
"My dear," said Jenny that night, when they were at home again and going
to bed, "the master _is_ a beast, and he wants to eat up my godmother,"
which was the little creature's odd way of saying that she felt sure old
Mr. Riah worked very hard for very little money under the foxy-faced
young man he called his master.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
[Illustration]