Meg, after her interview with Warden, went straight bade to what home
she possessed. Her violent anger, her passion of tears, had left behind
them a kind of calm--nay more, a very deep calm; it was as though a
thundercloud had rolled across a very blue sky, leaving it when past
bluer and brighter than before. Meg, though tired in body and a little
faint, for she had eaten no food that day, felt as though she was being
carried home in the arms of Jesus. She looked up at the sky and behind
all its London gloom and fog she seemed to see the smile of Jesus
shining through directly upon her. She ran down the ladder to her
cellar with almost gay steps, and she found Faith there, still very
depressed and miserable. She told her of her interview with her father,
by no means relating the whole scene, but simply that part which
concerned little Roy. Faith listened and shook her head more dismally
than ever.
"I seen mother in a dream last night," she said; "she come close to me
and axed me what I had done wid Roy. I ought never to have left my
little Roy wot mother give me to mind when she was dying; it's all my
fault as little Roy is lost."
"Why that's som'ut like wot yer father said," answered Meg. "He said as
he wor a hard man, and it wor his fault. It seems to me that wot you
ought both to do is to get down on yer bended knees and pray most bitter
hard to Jesus to furgive yer; when He ha' furgiven yer He'll let you
have little Roy back again."
Faith stared very hard at Meg but made no reply, and Meg having devoured
a small piece of dry crust, which remained over from the little which
she had put carefully by for Faith to eat while she was out, lay down on
the bed and dropped asleep. She awoke in the dusk of the evening to
find Faith kneeling by her bed. Faith had lit a little bit of fire, and
its cheerful rays revealed a change in her thin face, her eyes had lost
their hardness and were full of tears.
"Meg, Meg!" she said, "near h'all the time you ha' bin asleep I ha' bin
praying, and I think, I do think as Jesus has quite forgiven me."
"Ah! 'tis jest wonderful how willin' He is to forgive," said Meg, "and
wot cuts me h'up so is when folks know that, why they're allus a
fretting of Him."
"Well, I'll try not to fret Him no more," said Faith.
"Faith," said Meg lying still, and gazing hard at Faith out of her big
black eyes, "how long 'ud you say as gals like me, under-fed,
under-clothed gals, 'ud be like to live?"
"I dunno," answered Faith in some surprise; "I suppose same as other
folks."
"No they don't though," replied Meg; "it comforts me a deal to think on
it, fur they most sartin don't. Ef they're wot's called lucky and don't
catch no 'fection, and don't meet no h'accident, why then they may pull
through; they lives then to be werry, werry skinny and ugly. Ugh! I
shivers when I sees 'em; I says to myself, that's me when I'm old. But,
Faith, the chances ere h'all agen gals like me living to be old; let the
least bit o' 'fection come to a gal like me, or the werry smallest
h'accident, so as I'd have ter be tuk to 'orspital, and then where am I?
why, no where. You never, never seen a gal like me come h'out of
'orspital, Faithy."
"But, Meg," said little Faith, "why do you say it comforts you to think
that?"
"Well, and so it do! Why, Faith, I'm no use down yere; no one wants me,
and I h'an't never a chance as far as this world goes, besides,
besides," and here Meg pressed her hand upon her beating heart,
"besides, I ha' a real hankering to see Him. Oh! to see wid my h'own,
h'own eyes the lovely, lovely face o' Jesus! and then perhaps arter a
time He'd take a bit o' notice of me and say, `Is that you, Meg? I know
as you love me, Meg.'"
Faith was silent, too puzzled, too unlike Meg in her own frame of mind
to make any reply, and after a time the two little girls went out. As
they went down the street which led from the court to the more open
thoroughfares, Meg said something which comforted her little companion
greatly.
"I think, Faith," she said, "as we'll werry, werry soon now see little
Roy; I think may be as we'll find him to-night."
"Oh Meg! oh! where?" asked Faith.
"I dunno, only I feel it. Jest you wait and see."
As Meg said this the little girls turned a corner and came full upon the
flaring light of one of the largest gin-palaces in the neighbourhood.
"Let's cross over to it," said Meg. "I allus do hanker fur light.
Let's get inter the brightness of it."
She took Faith's hand as she spoke and ran across, hastening her steps,
for the sound of wheels approaching rapidly were heard.
At this very instant, just as the little girls set their feet on the
opposite pavement, a woman carrying a child in her arms came out of the
public-house; she walked unsteadily, and unheeding, probably not
hearing, the rapidly approaching carriage-wheels, stepped into the
street. As she did so her ragged shawl was caught by the wind and flung
aside, revealing to view a little child's blue frock, and showing for an
instant a golden head pressed heavily on her bosom. Faith saw nothing,
but Meg did. The woman was Hannah Searles; the child, little lost Roy--
she recognised him by his blue frock and golden head. She uttered a
joyful cry, and was about to touch Faith, when the sound on her lips was
changed to a scream of horror. The carriage and prancing horses were on
the woman, who was too tipsy either to see them or to save herself. In
an instant she and little Roy must have been killed. Quick, quicker
than thought brave Meg rushed to the rescue. She flew in the faces of
the excited horses and caught their reins. They swerved in their
course, swerved sufficiently to enable woman and child to pass by
unhurt, but they knocked Meg down and the carriage-wheels went over her.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Many hours later on the same Sunday evening a group of persons were
gathered round one of the white and narrow beds in a large London
hospital. On this bed lay a bruised and dying girl. The girl was Meg;
the people who stood so close were Roy's father, holding Roy in his
arms, Faith, and Hannah Searles. Faith and Hannah were sobbing, but
Warden, with dry eyes, knelt close, and when Meg at last opened her eyes
he placed the baby hand of his little son in hers.
"Meg--dear, dear, brave Meg," said Warden, "let me thank you. You have
saved the little chap's life. Oh, Meg, if for no other deed of mercy, I
must all the rest of my life believe in the Lord Jesus Christ."
It was a public confession, wrung from a proud and hard man in the
moment of his deep humiliation and thankfulness, and doubtless the
angels in heaven recording it rejoiced. But the earthly ears for whom
it was meant were deaf. Never again would Meg hear human voice of
either love or kindness; there was no place for Meg down here, she was
going to a place prepared for her long ago in heaven. Her eyes
travelled past those who surrounded her, and fixed themselves joyfully
on a Presence unseen to any but her dying eyes.
"'Tis you, Lord Jesus Christ," she said, "'tis you. You ha' come your
werry own self. I ain't to live to be old, I ain't to be ragged nor
hungry no more. _You--ha'--come_."
She tried to stretch out her arms, but they fell to her side, the breath
ceased, and Meg was in Paradise.
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After all, brave Meg was the only one to die. For long before the
daisies came into blossom on her grave in the country cemetery to which
Warden had her carried, the roses had come back to the bonnie cheeks of
sweet baby Roy, and the health and brightness to his eyes. He had been
rescued in time to save his little life. In that re-united home a new
order of things was established. Faith and Roy had never to complain of
a cold or hard father again. The great tribulation of those terrible
eight days had done their work on the man's heart, and the death of Meg
seemed to set the seal to it. Warden told Meg that he believed in Jesus
Christ our Lord. It is enough to say of his future life, that he acted
as only a man could act who carried that belief to its logical
conclusion, and who very humbly and very prayerfully followed in the
steps of the Master whom he loved. Faith and Roy were to grow up
knowing the meaning of true fatherhood, both human and divine. And
Hannah! God was very gracious to poor lost Hannah Searles. He gave her
treasure back to his own, but He did not take him quite away from her.
She still saw her baby boy, and as she grew steadier and more
respectable day by day, and week by week, Warden gradually gave her more
to do in his house, until finally she almost lived there.
"I said to the Lord that I'd be good ef He spared me the child," she was
often heard to say, "and I'm a trying. I'm a rare and wicked woman, God
h'Almighty knows that werry, werry well, but I'm a trying hard to be
good."
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The End.