HOME, SWEET HOME.
FROM the hospital, Davie was sent to a Children's Convalescent Home,
a few miles distant from London. Never before had he been in such a
place, and he was very happy there. It seemed quite like a palace to
him, with its large rooms and many appliances for the comfort and
health of its inmates. Then, how bright it was with flowers! For it
was spring time now, and the earth was beginning to bring forth her
loveliest and fairest blossoms. They made the large garden sweet with
fragrance, and beautiful beyond description.
One corner of it was an especial favourite with Davie. It was a corner
where the lily of the valley grew in rich profusion. Of all the
flowers, he thought this was the loveliest, and he never wearied of
looking at the tiny nodding bells and dark green leaves, a charming
contrast both in size and colour to the dainty, spotless blossoms that
leant against them for support.
From this corner, too, Davie was the witness of another of God's
marvellous works—and it afforded him even more pleasure than the
lilies—the soaring lark, which in its upward flight towards the blue
sky overhead, warbled forth such melody that the boy listened in wonder
and delight, yet always with a feeling that the bird was but giving
utterance to its joy that the earth was so fair and beautiful, and to
its praise to God for the creation of the world and itself. And many
deeper lessons yet did Davie learn from the lark. Doubtless they came
home with all the more power because they were given in a language that
was full of meaning to him—the wonderful language of music.
Many pleasant events served to mark that happy time at the Convalescent
Home, but perhaps the proudest and happiest day of all to Davie was
that on which he received a letter from his dear friend—for as such,
though with the deepest respect, he always thought of Mr. Kilmarnock.
It was a beautiful letter, full of wise counsel and affectionate
encouragement, and ended with the promise of another at no very distant
date.
After a month's visit—but even that was all too short for Davie—came
his last day at the Home. Although it was long ere the benefit had made
itself apparent, the strengthening food, the care, and the attention
he had received ever since his accident, brought about a good result
in the end, and he now looked a very different boy from the pale,
half-starved little crossing-sweeper of three months ago, or even from
the feeble invalid who had been sent from the hospital to gain strength
and vigour in the pure country air.
His mother came to fetch him, and quite a crowd collected to wish him
good-bye, for Davie had made many friends among his young companions of
the past month, and it is difficult to say whether they were the more
sorry to lose him, or he to go. The name he had won for himself in the
hospital had followed him to the Home. And now they all called out in
chorus, "Good-bye, King Davie, good-bye, good-bye."
He was very silent during the journey, and his mother, thinking he was
tired, drew him up close to her side and made him lean upon her. Her
shoulder made a comfortable resting-place for his head, and as he sat
with closed eyes and perfectly still, Mrs. Willis quite believed he was
asleep.
But Davie was not asleep. He was thinking of what he had to do—of the
future that lay before him. It was by no means a bright picture. It
meant hard and disagreeable work, and for 'home,' the bare room at the
top of a high house in a dirty street in Westminster, where he and his
mother, and the "little 'uns" "had" lived, and "would" live till the
end of the chapter, as Davie supposed. True, it had not been so very
dreary and uncomfortable once. He remembered that on those days when
they could afford to have a fire, it had seemed to him cheerful and
cosy enough. But lately he had enjoyed far pleasanter quarters, and
he shrank from the bareness of the room, with its two or three dingy
pieces of furniture.
But that was wrong, as Davie knew right well, as Mr. Kilmarnock would
have told him had he been there. Then he recalled certain passages of
the clergyman's letter, for it had been read to him so often that he
now almost knew it by heart.
"Remember," Mr. Kilmarnock had said, "that you have resolved henceforth
to serve God. You must never go back from that; and don't be afraid of
what lies before you. You must expect troubles, but God will help you
through them all. Recollect for your comfort, that though He sometimes
sends 'as much' as we can bear, yet He never sends 'more' than that.
Just go steadily on doing your duty; live for 'others,' not for
'yourself,' and it will make you happy both in this world and the next."
Such thoughts as these did good, and though his heart was still heavy,
it was with quite a bright face that Davie stepped out of the train at
Westminster. Some marks of the accident yet remained, a slight limp was
one of them, and his mother was anxious that they should take a cab
from the station to their home. She had more than one reason for her
proposal, but that Davie should not be over-fatigued was the chief.
He would not hear of it, however, declaring stoutly that he was quite
equal to the walk.
"But, mother, this isn't the right way," he said, as she took a turning
that was certainly not in the direction of what for a long time had
been "home" to him.
"We don't live in Brock Street now, Davie," was her reply. "I've taken
a couple of rooms in Ringdon Road."
"In Ringdon Road! But that's quite a nice street. The rent's ever so
much higher there, isn't it?"
"Yes, but you see I'm better off now than I have been for years. Lady
Cloudesley, she's been that kind that I declare I've often felt quite
queer about taking all the things she's sent me. Then better than
that, she's given me plenty of needlework, and recommended me to other
ladies, and Dr. Scott, he's done the same. I get well paid for it, too.
How much do you think I earned last week, Davie?"
"I don't know, mother."
"Thirteen shillings. What do you say to that?"
She was delighted with the look of incredulity with which this piece of
information was received. "Ah! Home isn't the same place as it used to
be, I can tell you," she went on cheerfully. "That's 'one' reason why I
wanted a cab; I thought, perhaps, as how you wouldn't notice the way we
went then, and so you wouldn't know anything about the change till we
got to Ringdon Road.
"However, I may as well go on and tell you all about it now. We've got
a good big room, furnished quite pretty with some things that Lady
Cloudesley sent me. It's got a bed in it for the twins and me, but you
wouldn't know it in the day-time, for there's a curtain to draw right
across, and then you'd take it for a regular sitting room. Then just
opposite, so that if you were bad and called out in the night, I could
hear you in a minute, there's a nice little room that you're to have
for your very own, Davie. It ain't very big, of course, but it holds a
bed, and a chair, and a bit of a table. And, as if that wasn't enough,
Lady Cloudesley sends a beautiful picture—leastways, 'tisn't a picture
exactly, it's a text done in gold and coloured letters, and framed,—
"'He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.'
"Those are the words. Lady Cloudesley said as how she thought they'd be
just the sort that you'd like. And there are the twins! They're grown
so that I expect you'll hardly know them."
Mrs. Willis stopped for sheer want of breath.
Davie waited till she had recovered it.
"I am sure I shall be able to go to work to-morrow," he said bravely,
though his heart sank still lower at the near and by no means
enchanting prospect of a day's sweeping in the streets. "I am quite
well now, you know, and I can stand for a good long time without
feeling tired."
"There, Davie, don't go saying nothing about that," rejoined Mrs.
Willis hastily. "You aren't going to work at anything just yet, I can
tell you, and then I hope it won't be at the sweeping business. Perhaps
you won't mind seeing to the twins a bit, but that's as much as you'll
do at present. Time was—" and now from being husky, Mrs. Willis broke
down completely, and went on in a voice choked with sobs—"time was when
I couldn't help myself, but was obliged to let you go on slaving and
starving for me. That's all altered now, I hope. If it's months and
months before you get to work again, you needn't fret. Never fear, but
I shall be able to earn enough for all."
There was no time for any reply from Davie, for they had now arrived
at the house where Mrs. Willis lodged. And there, on the door-step,
standing hand-in-hand and anxiously awaiting their arrival, were the
twins.
As their mother had said, they were very much grown. They were
wonderfully improved too, in looks, being quite fat and rosy now. And
then they could walk quite quickly, whereas when Davie saw them last,
Polly could only stand with the help of a chair, while Tom went from
place to place on all fours.
But when Davie, led by the twins, entered the room of which his mother
had been telling him, he could scarcely believe his eyes. It more than
answered the description. It had two windows, and was most comfortably
furnished, even to a square of carpet in the middle of the floor
beneath the little centre table. This same little table was just now
groaning beneath the weight of a feast that was tempting to behold, as
was evidently the opinion of the twins, for no sooner had they reached
the door than they left their long absent and sorely-missed brother,
and rushing towards the more fascinating goodies, clambered on their
chairs with simultaneous shouts of—
"Can din now, moder, can din now Dadie's tome."
They were good children, however, for when they found that their
patience was to suffer a yet further trial, they submitted quietly,
and sat sucking their thumbs with a relish that doubtless owed much to
the anticipated richness of the plum-cake, the centre of attraction to
their longing eyes and watering mouths.
"Now, Davie, just you look here."
He followed his mother across the passage and into another room—a very
tiny one this time.
"Why, it's 'beautiful!' You don't mean to say it's for 'me' to sleep
in!"
"Yes, Davie, it's your very own. You're going to have it all to
yourself, dear, and if you feel bad from the children's noise, you can
just come in here and be quiet a bit. You don't know what a pleasure
it's been, to get it all nice and comfortable for you, against you come
back."
Davie tried to speak but he couldn't, and his mother, seeing how
matters were, and knowing his thoughts, perhaps, almost as well as he
did himself, put her arms around him, and folded him in a close and
warm embrace. At that, the tears that he had been struggling to keep
back, burst forth, and for a few minutes he sobbed upon his mother's
breast as though his heart would break.
"Oh! Mother, I've had such bad thoughts. I didn't want to come home,
and now it's all so nice and so comfortable. I don't deserve it—I don't
deserve it."
She soothed and comforted him, calling him her "own Davie," her "best
of boys," and many other loving names.
Then, his tears having ceased, they went back to the other room. It
was quite a merry tea-drinking. The twins were brimming over with
happiness—as they were with plum-cake, before the meal came to an
end—and said such queer things that Davie had no sooner finished
laughing at one than he went off into a fresh peal at another. Smiles
and tears kept close company with him that night, but after all, there
were more of the former than of the latter, and Davie felt strangely
happy when his mother came to tuck him up in his little bed in his tiny
room.
Left alone, his thoughts turned into a more serious channel. How good,
how "very" good, God had been to him! He would never be fearful again;
he would trust Him for the future. And had he not cause? Out of what
had seemed at first nothing but a terrible misfortune had come the
greatest blessings both to him and his mother. How could he "prove" his
gratitude and love? He knew well enough, though passively by faith yet
actively by "service."
Looking up at that moment, he saw the illuminated text on the wall at
the foot of his bed; a moonbeam fell upon it, and by its light he was
able to read the words:
"He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much."
They seemed wonderfully applicable to his case, and somehow they
reminded him of the "other" text he loved so dearly. With the words of
that upon his lips, Davie fell asleep.
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