It was a Sunday morning--nearly a year after my first and last sight of
King Roy. He was nearly two years old at the time, and his little
sister Faith was laboriously and with infinite care dressing him to
accompany her for a walk. Warden was out, and the two children had the
pleasant and cheerful sitting-room to themselves. The moments of
Warden's absence were the moments of Faith's sunshine. Her object now
was to get out before he returned, and take Roy with her. She thought
her father a very good and wonderful man; but it was quite impossible
for her to feel absolutely at home with him. She had a keen perception
of his real indifference to her; she was not surprised, for Faith
thought very humbly of herself. But his absence took away a sense of
restraint which she could not shake off, and now the glorious sunshine
of this autumn morning seemed to beckon her out, to beckon and lure her
into the fulness of its own beautiful life. No summer's day that ever
came was too hot for little Faith; she would get into the full power of
the sun herself, and Roy should have the shelter of the trees. Yes, it
was Sunday morning; there was nothing whatever to keep them at home;
they would go into Regent's Park, and sit under the trees, and be very,
very happy. "'Tis _such_ a lovely day, Roy," she said to her little
brother. Roy, seated on the floor, was rebelling at his shoes and
stockings being put on, and Faith had to use all her powers of
imagination in describing the outside world, to induce him to submit to
the process. At last, however, he was ready, and taking his hand, they
went down together into the street. Roy was such a lovely child that
people turned to look at him as he trotted along. Those who often saw
him have told me that he had by no means perfect features, but the
brightness and sweetness of the little face were simply indescribable.
He babbled as much as of old; but his babbling was now intelligible to
other creatures besides the flies. Faith looked nearly as happy as he
did as they walked together. In process of time, as fast as the little
legs would permit they arrived at Regent's Park, and Faith, choosing a
sheltering tree, placed her little brother in a shady corner, and came
close to his side. Roy picked bits of grass, which he flung into
Faith's lap. Faith laughed and caressed him. They were both in a most
blissful child-world, and thought of no darker days at hand.
"Please, I _should_ like to kiss the baby," said a voice suddenly quite
close to Faith's ear.
It was a thin, high-pitched voice, and raising her head at the sound,
Faith saw a very white-faced, very ragged girl, a little older than
herself, standing near.
"I'm so afraid as you mayn't be clean enough," she answered anxiously.
"Oh, but I'll run to mother, and she'll wash my lips. Just wait, and
I'll be back in a jiffy."
The ragged girl flew across the grass, came to a woman who was seated
with some other children round her, stayed away for a very short time,
and quickly returned.
"Now, ain't I h'all right?" she said, showing a pair of pretty rosy lips
enough, in the midst of an otherwise black and dirty little face.
"You'll kiss me now, pretty, dear little boy?" she said.
"I tiss 'oo once," replied King Roy solemnly, and allowing his little
rose-bud mouth to meet hers.
"Oh, but ain't he a real duck?" said the girl. "We 'ad a little 'un
somethink like him wid us once. Yes, he wor _werry_ like him."
"Ain't he with you now?" asked Faith.
"No, no; you mustn't speak o' it to mother, but he died; he tuk the
'fecti'n, and he died."
"Wor it fever?" asked Faith.
"Yes, perhaps that wor the name. There's a many kinds o' 'fecti'n, and
folks dies from they h'all. I don't see the use o' naming 'em. They're
h'all certain sure to kill yer." Here the ragged girl seated herself on
the grass quite close to Faith. "You'll never guess where I'm a going
this afternoon," she said.
"No; how could I guess?" replied Faith.
"Well, now, you're _werry_ neat dressed, and folks like you have a
kinder right to be there. But for h'all that, though I'm desperate
ragged, I'm goin'. You're sure you can't guess, can you?"
"No, I can't guess," answered Faith. "I ain't going nowhere particular
myself, and I never wor good at guessing."
"Well, now, ain't it queer?--I thought h'all the 'spectable folks went.
Why, I'm going to Sunday-school--'tis to Ragged Sunday-school, to be
sure; but I like it. I ha' gone twice now, and I like it wonderful
well."
"I know now what you mean," replied Faith. "I often wished to go to
Sunday-school, but father don't like it; he'd rayther I stayed to take
care o' Roy."
"I guess as my father wouldn't wish it neither. But, Lor' bless yer! I
don't trouble to obey him. 'Tis werry nice in Sunday-school. Would you
like to hear wot they telled us last Sunday?"
"Yes, please," answered Faith, opening her eyes with some curiosity.
"Well, it wor a real pretty tale--it wor 'bout a man called Jesus. A
lot o' women brought their babies to Jesus and axed Him to fondle of
'em, and take 'em in His arms; and there wor some men about--ugh! I
guess as _they_ wor some'ut like father--and they said to the women,
`Take the babies away as fast as possible; Jesus is a great, great man,
and He can't no way be troubled.' And the mothers o' the babies wor
going off, when Jesus said--I remember the exact words, for we was got
to larn 'em off book--`Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and
don't forbid 'em;' and He tuk them 'ere little babies in His arms and
kissed 'em. I guess as some of 'em worn't too clean neither."
"I wish ever so as I could take Roy to him," answered Faith. "That's a
real lovely story. Mother, afore she died, telled me 'bout Jesus; but I
don't remember 'bout Him and the babies. Now I must be going home.
Thank you, little ragged girl. If you like you may kiss Roy once again,
and me too."