In the evening after Flo's funeral Mrs Jenks was seated by her bright
little fire.
Nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could
ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost
her old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze.
This might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on the
ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change
of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of Flo.
Mrs Jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously--perhaps not
overmuch. Those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death
at all. God had come and fetched her--that was what they said.
And the child was so manifestly fit to go--so evidently unfit to pass
through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender
regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her
gain.
No, Mrs Jenks was not mourning for Flo, but all the same she was
troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily
startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her
feet.
"'Tis only me, Mrs Jenks," said Miss Mary Graham, taking off her
snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on Flo's little stool at one side of
the fire.
"I thought you'd feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you."
"Thank you, ma'am--yes--I'm missing the child and her dog, maybe.
Anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing her
back, I'm very low like. If I 'ad Scamp, poor fellow, he'd keep me up.
It was 'ard he should come by such a bad end."
"Oh! Mrs Jenks, it was not a bad end. It was quite a glorious closing
of life for the fine old fellow--he died defending the one he loved
best. And, do you know, I could not bear to have him here without her,
he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she is
now."
"No, ma'am--that is true. He always lay close to her side, and curled
up on the foot of her bed at night--and not a look nor a thought would
he give me near her. And they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his
death must 'ave come like a flash of lightning to him."
"Yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone
at Flo's feet."
Miss Mary paused--then, bending forward, she touched the widow's arm.
"You are going to Wandsworth in the morning--may I come with you?"
At the word Wandsworth, Mrs Jenks' face flushed crimson, the tears, so
close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over
her head.
"Oh! Miss Mary, don't mind me, ma'am--I'm a poor weak creature, but
indeed my heart misgives me sore. Suppose the lad should refuse to come
back?"
"Suppose the Lord hath forgotten to be gracious?" replied Miss Mary,
softly.
"Oh! no, ma'am, it ain't that. He's gracious any way, anyhow. No, Miss
Mary dear, I feels your kindness, but I'll go alone. It will daunt the
poor boy less if I 'ave no one beside me. Down on my bended knees, if
need be, I'll beg of him to turn from 'is evil ways, and perhaps the
Lord will hear me."
"Yes, Mrs Jenks, the Lord _will_ hear you, and give you back your lost
son."
Miss Mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the
fire.
"Yes," she said after a pause. "I were a fool to misdoubt God. Don't
his heavenly Father and his blessed Saviour care more fur the lad than I
do?
"'Twill be all right for 'im, and if Flo was here to-night, she'd say,
sweet lamb,--
"`Mrs Jenks, ma'am, ain't you about ready to get hout that jacket, and
trousers, and vest, to hair 'em, ma'am?'
"Well! I just will get 'em hout, same as if she bid me."
The widow rose, went to her trunk, unlocked it, and taking out a parcel
wrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire.
There they were--the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavender
and camphor.
Mrs Jenks contemplated them with pride. How well grown her boy must
be, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! They would be sure
to fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind's eye
that sad day when he was taken to prison!
She examined the beautiful stitching she had put into them with pride;
when they were aired she took a clothes' brush, and brushed them over
again--then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips and
kissed them.
As she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, in
that fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the window
startled her considerably. Her room was on the ground floor, and she
remembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression and
sadness of spirit, to draw down the blind.
Holding her hand to her beating heart, she approached and looked out.
She had not been mistaken in supposing she heard a sob. A lad was lying
full length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, and
she heard suppressed moans still coming from his lips.
For the sake of her own son she must be kind to all destitute creatures.
She stepped out on her threshold, and spoke in her old cheery tones.
"Come in, poor fellow, come in. Don't lie there perishing--come in, and
I'll give you a cup of tea. I've just brewed some, and a good strong
cup will warm you."
As she spoke she went and laid her hand on the boy's arm.
"I'm a thief," he said without stirring; "you won't let in a thief?"
Something in the hoarse, whispered tones went straight to her heart.
"Of all people on earth, those I 'ave most feeling for are poor
repentant thieves," she said. "If you're one of them, you 'ave a sure
welcome. Why, there!" she continued, seeing he still lay at her feet
and sobbed, "I've a lad of my own, who was a thief, and 'as repented.
He's in prison, but I feel he 'ave repented."
"Would you let in your own lad?" asked the figure in the snow, in still
that strange muffled voice.
"Let him in!" cried the widow; "let in my own lad! What do you take me
for? I'm off to his prison to-morrow, and 'ome he shall come with all
the love in his mother's heart, and the prodigal son never had a better
welcome than he shall have."
Then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, and
stumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixed
his eyes on the widow's face, and before she could speak, threw his arms
round the widow's neck. "Mother," he said, "I'm that repentant lad."
Jenks had been let out of prison a day sooner than his mother had
calculated upon.
He had come back--humbled--sorry--nay more, clothed, and in his right
mind: ready to sit at the feet of that Jesus whom once he persecuted.
All the story of how these things had come to pass, all the story of
that sermon which had touched his heart, all the story of that simple,
childish letter, of those two locks of hair, he told to his happy and
rejoicing mother.
And of her it might be said, "O woman, great was thy faith; it was done
unto thee even as thou wouldest."
These things happened a few months ago. How do the characters in this
little story fare now?
Truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing to
relate about any of them.
Jenks, partly through Miss Mary's aid, and partly through his mother's
savings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, his
earnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, have
already made him a favourite with his master. Humanly speaking, few are
likely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dream
is some day wholly to support his beloved little mother.
Pick is still at the Reformatory School, but he promises to do well, and
Miss Mary promises never to cease to look after him.
Even little Janey, through this brave woman's influence, has been
rescued, and picked out of the mire of sin and ignorance, and has
learned something more of the true meaning of the Glory Song.
As for Miss Mary herself, she is still a sister--a true sister of the
poor, going wherever sins need reproving, and misery comforting. Not
joining any particular denomination, wearing no special badge, she yet
goes about, as her Master left her an example, doing good--and in the
last day, doubtless, many shall rise up and call her blessed.
And the widow--when her boy came home, when her boy became a Christian,
she seemed to have no other earthly good thing to ask for. She is very
happy, very bright, and very dear to all who know her.
Thus all are doing well.
But surely--the one in his unbroken sleep, the other in the sunshine of
her Father's House--there are none we can leave so contentedly, so
certain that no future evil can befall them, as the two, whom the child
always spoke of as
SCAMP and I.
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The End.