NO LONGER DESOLATE.
ERE the horse had run many yards, it was stopped by a passer-by.
Kathleen sprang out of the cab, and rushed back to the spot where Molly
lay—a dark little heap on the white snow.
Mr. Vavasour had disappeared.
The child neither moved nor moaned when they lifted her from the ground.
"Oh, she is dead, she is dead!" cried Kathleen, in an agony of grief.
"Oh, Molly, Molly, what shall I do?"
"No, there is life in her yet," said the cabman. "Don't make a noise,
but help me to get her home. Do you live far from here?"
"Not far—in Church Lane, close to the Edgware Road," replied Kathleen.
Already a crowd of persons was beginning to collect on the spot. This
crowd attracted the attention of a tall, strongly-built man, wrapt in
a large overcoat, and wearing a travelling cap drawn down comfortably
over his ears, who was coming along on the opposite side of the
road, carrying a carpet-bag in his hand. Seeing that an accident had
occurred, he hastened across the road to inquire what it might be.
Something in the appearance of this gentleman made the people give
place to him as he pressed into their midst.
"Are you a doctor, sir?" asked the cabman, as the stranger bent down to
look at the child, whom he was supporting in his arms.
"Yes, I am a doctor," he replied. "Let me see the extent of the
mischief. Are there any bones broken, I wonder? Ah, some ribs
displaced, and there may be injury to the spine, I fear. Where are the
child's friends?"
"Her sister is here, sir," said the cabman, pointing to Kathleen; "the
poor little girl has no one else belonging to her, I believe. It's a
bad business, and the mean scoundrel who was the cause of it all has
taken himself off, I see. The child lives close by, sir. I was thinking
p'raps I could take her home in my cab?"
"Just so; I will help you. Now, my good girl, stand aside for a moment."
And, with the aid of this kind stranger, Molly was lifted into the cab
and slowly conveyed through the snow-cumbered streets to the place she
called her home.
Mrs. Jones, the landlady, was thrown into a flutter of excitement when
she learned what had happened to her little lodger. Her best feelings
came to the fore, and she bustled about, and did all she could to help
in the sad emergency. The gentleman who had accompanied the child home
was surgeon on board a steamship lying in the London Docks on its
return from Australia. He was as kind as he was skilful, and handled
the young sufferer with the utmost tenderness.
It was impossible, he said, to ascertain at present the full extent
of her injuries. On the morrow he should be able to speak with more
certainty, but it seemed to him a most serious case. When he had done
all he could for poor Molly, he took his departure, promising to come
again early the next morning.
"What is your name?" he asked Kathleen, as he went out of the room.
"Kathleen Macardie," she said.
"And you have neither father nor mother?"
"No, they are both dead."
"Macardie! Macardie!" said the surgeon to himself, as he went away.
"Strange that this girl's name should be the same as that of my
pleasant fellow-traveller. What was it that he said about wanting to
find a brother, who had two little girls? Can it be possible that
these children are the same? Surely not. And yet I remember he said
he had been away from England so long that he could scarcely know if
his friends were dead or alive. It's hardly likely to be as I imagine.
But still, if I see him at the hotel to-night, I will tell him of the
coincidence."
Throughout that night, Kathleen kept watch beside her sister. For many
hours Molly continued in a state of insensibility.
Once Kathleen fancied she heard Molly murmur her name. But when she
spoke in reply, her fond words awakened no response.
Unhappy indeed were Kathleen's thoughts as she watched. How she blamed
herself as the cause of what had happened, and with what remorse she
reflected on the unkindness and neglect with which she had treated her
sister!
Her self-reproach grew keener on the following day, when Madame
Ganelli, alarmed at Molly's non-appearance at the boarding-house, came
to inquire for her.
The singer listened sorrowfully to Kathleen's account of what had
happened. Then in return, she confided to the girl a story of wrong
and cruelty, which showed the true nature of the man in whom she had
been so ready to trust. Kathleen understood now from what deadly peril
her faithful little sister had saved her. Bitter tears of grief and
shame did she shed as she looked on Molly's pale, sad face, as she lay
unconscious of the love which wept over her.
The doctor arrived at an early hour the next morning, and to
Kathleen's surprise, he brought a friend with him. His companion was a
homely-looking man of medium height, and strong, square frame, whose
honest sunburnt face bespoke a kind, true heart. As the stranger
entered the room, Kathleen was reminded of her father, yet why she
could not tell, for this strong, sturdy man was after all very unlike
him.
But she was too anxious to hear the doctor's opinion of Molly's state
to think twice of the subtle resemblance she had perceived.
Molly still lay in a stupor, but the doctor's touch aroused her. Her
eyes slowly opened and gazed at him with a look of terror, whilst she
cried out in a sharp tone, full of pain, "Kathleen! Kathleen!"
"I'm here, Molly, close to your side," said Kathleen.
"You won't leave me!" cried the child. "You won't go away!"
"No, Molly, I'll never leave you, 'never!'" said Kathleen, earnestly.
Molly seemed satisfied, and her eyelids closed again.
[Illustration: "ARE YOU IN PAIN, MY CHILD?"]
The doctor bent over his little patient.
"Are you in pain, my child?" he asked, speaking in clear, distinct
tones.
Molly opened her eyes and looked at him wonderingly for a moment, then
shut her eyes once more.
"You speak to her," said the doctor, turning to Kathleen.
"Do you feel any pain, Molly?" she asked.
Molly looked up again with a faint smile. "No, no pain," she said
softly.
"Are you quite comfortable?"
"Yes, quite comfortable," she answered.
The doctor proceeded to examine her more closely, handling her with
what Kathleen thought was unnecessary roughness, but not a sound
escaped the child. She seemed unconscious of his touch.
"It is as I thought," said the surgeon, turning to the stranger. "That
numbness is a bad symptom. The lower limbs are paralysed."
His companion, who had been gazing intently at the sisters, started at
the doctor's words. "You do not mean," he whispered, "that the case is
hopeless!"
The doctor nodded his head. "She may linger for days," he said, "but
recovery is impossible."
The stranger looked shocked at this announcement. After a minute's
silence, he turned and addressed Kathleen.
"Your name is Macardie, is it not?"
"Yes, sir, Kathleen Macardie."
"Ah! I think I heard you had lost both your parents?"
Kathleen gave a sign of assent.
"Was your father's name James?"
"Yes, sir, it was," replied Kathleen, looking her surprise at being
thus questioned.
"Did you ever hear your father speak of his brother Tom?"
"Oh yes, sir, often. He said his brother Tom had gone to Australia, and
was making his fortune there."
"I am that brother Tom, child," said the stranger.
"You, sir—you? It can't be!" exclaimed Kathleen, in great astonishment.
"Yes, my dear girl, I am he! I returned to England a week ago, and have
since been trying to discover some trace of my brother's whereabouts.
I should not have guessed you were his children, however, had it
not struck me just now, when hearing you call each other Molly and
Kathleen, that those were the names by which your father spoke of his
two girls in his last letter to me."
"Then you did get the letter?" said Kathleen.
"Yes, but it was a year old ere it reached me. I was leading a
wandering life in the bush at that time, and had no settled home, so
the letter went from one place to another, till at last it fell into
my hands. I wrote in reply to the address which your father gave, and
enclosed some bank-notes, but I suppose my letter never reached your
father, as he had probably left that place long before."
"He never got the letter; I am sure of that," said Kathleen.
"I thought not, for I heard nothing more of him, though I wrote several
times. How long is it since your father died?"
"Nearly a year," replied Kathleen.
"And who has taken care of you? How have you lived since then?"
"There's been no one to take care of us," she said; "we've taken care
of ourselves."
Her uncle glanced round the cheerless attic, and his eyes filled with
tears as he thought of the hardships these children must have had to
endure in their lonely, friendless life.
"I will take care of you in future, Kathleen," he said. "Let us thank
God that He has watched over you in your loneliness, and now guided me
to you."
Kathleen's eyes drooped. Tears were glistening on their long, dark
lashes. She had indeed cause for thankfulness, but she could not help
the thought, "Oh! If only uncle had come sooner!"
"How glad Molly will be!" she said at last.
But her uncle knew that Molly would not long need his care. Her work
was done. Nobly had she kept her promise to her father, and striven to
guard Kathleen from harm.
Now the Good Shepherd, who had all along cared for this lone lamb, was
coming to gather her in His arms, and take her to rest in His heavenly
fold.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]