MOLL CHANGES HER ABODE.
LITTLE PHIL, as he trudged painfully behind his mother along the London
streets, looked back with an aching sense of regret to the days he had
passed in the hospital. Moll's voice angrily bidding him move faster
warned him that he need expect no kinder treatment from her than he had
been wont to receive.
His heart sank low indeed when they reached the miserable alley in
which Moll Dutton lived, for at the sight of him, coming along by the
aid of his crutch, the ragged children who were playing in the street
left their play to point at him and shout derisively. The neighbours,
too, showed not the least consideration for the child's feelings, as
they freely commented on his misfortune, and his mother led a laugh at
his crippled appearance.
Phil, shrinking sensitively from the looks and words bestowed on him,
was glad to find shelter in Moll's close, evil-smelling room, hung
with secondhand or perhaps third-hand garments in various stages of
shabbiness and dilapidation, for Moll was professedly a dealer in old
clothes, though she combined with this business other dealings of a
less bona fide character. The dim, dirty room, with its unhealthy
atmosphere, presented a sore contrast to the bright, airy ward in which
Phil had been for so long. He could not have expressed his sense of the
change, but he was keenly alive to it, and felt so unhappy on finding
himself again in this wretched home, that even his dread of his mother
had not power to hold back his tears. Throwing himself on a heap of
rags, he began to cry.
"Now stop that!" cried Moll, giving him a smart blow with her hand.
"I'll have none of that noise. I'm your mother, and you've got to stay
with me and to do as I tell you. And if you don't behave yourself, it
will be the worse for you."
Phil was not indifferent to this threat. He choked down his sobs and
rubbed away his tears with his knuckles.
[Illustration]
His mother offered him some food, but he felt too sick and miserable
to eat. She was not distressed by his want of appetite. Without paying
further heed to him, she took her own meal, and then set to work to
clear the room of the strangely-assorted clothes that hung around it.
Phil watched her in surprise as she took down one thing after another,
packing as many as it would hold into a box which she dragged from
under the bed, and making the rest into a huge bundle.
Phil wondered greatly to see her do this, and at last he ventured to
put a question. "What are you doing, mother? Are you going to take them
all away?"
"Yes, every rag of them, and you into the bargain," was Moll's reply.
"Me!" exclaimed Phil in alarm. "Where are you going to take me?"
"You'll see fast enough. I'm going to make a clean sweep out of this
place. It's not so nice that I should be sorry to leave it," said Moll,
with a grim laugh.
"Do you mean that you are going to leave the house?" asked Phil.
"That's it. We clear out the first thing to-morrow morning," returned
Moll, snapping her fingers with an air of triumph.
"But why?" asked Phil, looking puzzled and somewhat distressed.
"That's no business of yours," said his mother. "Are you sorry? I
didn't know you was so fond of this place."
"I am not fond of it," said Phil. "Where are you going, mother?"
"Never you mind," she replied to him.
And Phil was silent, pondering with a grave, anxious little face this
new aspect of affairs. He could certainly feel no attachment to that
dismal room, but he did not want to leave it now, for he was counting
on Sister Kathleen's promised visit, and the thought that she might
come there only to find him gone filled him with pain. But instinct
warned him to say nothing of this to his mother, though he did not
guess that she was changing her quarters in order that neither Sister
Kathleen nor any one who might be interested in him should be able to
follow him up.
When she had completed her preparations, Moll went out, leaving Phil to
put himself to bed when he felt so inclined.
Alone, Phil could no longer restrain his tears. The return to his
former life was even more hard and bitter than he had fancied it would
be. As he crouched crying on the floor, there was a tap on the door,
and the next moment, the familiar face of Fan the flower-girl was seen
peeping cautiously into the room.
"Are you there, Phil?" she asked, for at first she could not
distinguish him in the dim light.
"Yes, I'm here, Fan," he replied. "I'm glad you've come. You needn't be
afraid, mother's gone out."
Fan was several years older than Phil, but she was his friend, and the
boy loved her. He thought her one to be envied, for Fan, ragged and
untidy as she appeared, had a mother who looked after her in rough but
loving fashion. Phil had seen Mrs. Nankinell take off her shawl to
wrap it round Fan's shivering shoulders in bitter wintry weather. And
once, when times were hard, Fan had told him how her mother had given
her their last piece of bread, refusing to taste a morsel of it. These
things had made their impression on little Phil.
"It would be good to have a mother like that," he had said to himself.
"I thought Moll was out, or I should not have come," remarked Fan as
she approached the boy. "So you've lost your leg, Phil; that's a bad
job, ain't it?"
"Yes," said Phil, with a sigh, "but I can get along very well with
my crutch. I wouldn't have minded about the leg if only I could have
stayed at the hospital. I was so happy there, Fan. You can't think
what a nice place it is. The children's ward is just lovely. There are
pictures and flowers and toys, and oh! the Christmas tree! You 'should'
have seen that!"
"I know!" said Fan, with a sagacious nod. "It's fine times being in a
hospital. I was in one myself once, though only for a few days, but
I know I liked it. I wouldn't mind being taken there again, as long
as they didn't cut off my leg. I shouldn't like that." And Fan gave a
pitying glance at Phil's empty trouser. "But tell me about it, Phil."
Phil was quite ready to relate his experiences, and he talked almost
without a pause for the nest half-hour. He said nothing of the pain
he had suffered, for already he had forgotten it. But he described to
Fan the glories of the Christmas tree and the fun of the Christmas
merrymaking, and told her about Aunt Lizzie's visits, and the flowers
and nice things she had brought him, and spoke in glowing terms of
Sister Kathleen.
"And you say she is coming to see you?" said Fan.
"Yes," said Phil, and then his face clouded as he added, "But oh, Fan,
I'm afraid she won't find me, for mother's going away from here. We're
to be off the first thing to-morrow morning."
"Going away!" exclaimed Fan. "You don't mean it? Well, she's kept it
pretty dark. I don't believe that any one knows that she's about to
flit. Where are you going?"
"I don't know," said Phil sadly; "she won't tell me."
"Ah, then, she doesn't mean any one to know," said Fan shrewdly. "She
wants to get out of the ken of the folks in the alley. That's her
dodge. I say, Phil, I'm real sorry that you're going away."
"So am I," said Phil. "This isn't a nice place, I know, but I'd rather
stay here than go anywhere else. Oh, what shall I do if Sister Kathleen
comes and can't find me?"
"It would be a pity," said Fan, "but I'll watch for her coming, Phil,
and if I can, I'll tell her where you are. Ask your mother again when
she comes home to-night."
"It wouldn't be of no use," said Phil. "She wouldn't tell me. And
besides, I shall most likely be asleep. I never can keep awake when I
want to."
"Can't you?" said Fan. "But I tell you what, if the lady can't find
you, you might go to the hospital to see her. You could find the way to
the hospital again, couldn't you?"
"Why, yes, I believe I could from here," said Phil, looking pleased
with the suggestion. "And if I didn't know how to start from the other
place, I could ask the way. Anyhow I'll try. And I'll pray to God about
it. Do you ever pray, Fan?"
Fan smiled and shook her head.
"I know what you mean," she said; "I've heard a man pray—the man who
used to come last summer and preach at the end of the alley. But mother
says that it's of no good to pray. It's only talking to the air, she
says, and can't make any difference."
"But it does make a difference!" exclaimed little Phil. "Jesus hears us
when we pray, and He'll do what we ask Him. Sister Kathleen says so.
I'm going to pray to Him every day."
"So she's taught you to pray, has she, Phil?" said Fan, looking at him
curiously. "What are you going to pray for?"
"Oh, lots of things," said Phil; "I'm going to ask Him to take mother
away, and give me a new mother—a good one, Fan."
Fan burst into a shrill laugh.
"Well, I never! That's a fine idea!" she exclaimed. "How could you have
a new mother, Phil? Moll's your mother, and you'll never have another."
"I daresay it may be difficult to manage," said Phil calmly, "but Jesus
will know how to do it."
"Really, Phil!" said Fan, and she laughed again.
But Phil was not to be laughed out of his hope. The talk with Fan had
cheered him, and he shed no more tears after she left him, but went at
once to bed, where he was soon sleeping soundly.
It seemed to him the middle of the night when he was roused by a rough
shaking from Moll.
"Get up at once and put on your clothes," she said in a harsh whisper;
"and make no noise about it, mind!"
Moll was already dressed, even to her bonnet and shawl. As he
tremblingly obeyed her, Phil saw that his mother had packed up all
her small possessions. Outside the house, a man was waiting with a
hand-barrow. One by one Moll carried out her few articles of furniture,
and with his help put them on the barrow. This was done as quietly as
possible, and what noise there was failed to rouse any of the dwellers
in the house, who were apparently heavy sleepers. Then Moll bade Phil
take his crutch and come along.
With a sore heart, he followed her from the house. It was hardly yet
light, and no one was astir in the alley.
An old woman, hearing the cart passing, leaned out of an attic window
and shouted to know what was up.
Moll vouchsafed no reply, and, grumbling angrily at having her slumbers
disturbed, the beldame retreated.
Phil's slow progress soon roused his mother's impatience, and she began
to scold him for not making more haste. But the man took pity on the
little cripple, and, lifting him on to the cart, found a seat for him
on the top of the furniture. Thus Phil travelled to his new home ere
yet the day had fully dawned or the tide of busy life had begun to flow
through the London streets.