FRIENDS IN NEED.
“He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which
he hath given will He pay him again.”—PROV. xix. 17.
Alie went to the place of meeting early one morning, but Madge was not
beneath the old thorn-tree. Alie did not hear the gipsy girl’s
accustomed greeting as she ran forward barefoot to meet her. Alie called
her name softly, but no voice replied. She looked in the direction where
the tent had been pitched; the tent was gone, there was nothing now to
obstruct her view to the very end of the green lane! Alie felt sad, and
yet thankful. What a short time had been given to her in which she could
serve poor Madge! But that short time had not been wasted; she had
caught the opportunity on the wing, before, as she believed, it had
passed away for ever.
“But I should have liked to have seen her once more. I should have liked
to have said ‘good-bye,’ and to have given her something to keep as a
remembrance of me,” thought Alie, as she slowly walked along the lane
towards the blackened spot which showed where the gipsies had lighted
their fire.—“Perhaps we shall never look on each other’s faces again,
until we meet before the great white throne. Oh! may we both be on the
right hand then. She _did_ love to listen when I told her of the Lord;
and He can keep her from temptation, and guide her to Himself. She
promised to repeat, morn and night, that little prayer which I taught
her. I think that she will do so, if only for my sake; for I am sure
that she loved me—poor unhappy little Madge. Oh! if I had had time to
teach her a few verses more.”
[Illustration: THE GREEN LANE.]
Alie was startled from her reflections by a sound something between a
sob and a cry, which came from some place near the spot where the tent
of the gipsies had stood. She stopped, listened, and heard it again. The
voice was like that of one in bitter distress. Alie fancied that she
could distinguish her own name! Doubtless it was poor Madge who was
crying; but if she were there, so might her parents be also, and Alie
was terrified at the idea of meeting the gipsies in so lonely a spot,
quite out of sight of any dwelling. She could see nothing of them as she
looked down the lane: but again and again rose that wailing cry.
“It is that _fear of man_ which would keep me now from doing to others
as I would they should do unto me,” thought Alie; and, mustering all her
resolution, she ventured further into the lane. She had not proceeded
many steps when she heard the voice of Madge distinctly exclaim, in
tones of tremulous joy, “Oh! it is you, Alie! it is you at last! I
thought that you would come to the thorn; but, oh, I was so afraid that
you would not hear my crying—that you would go away, and leave me here
to starve!”
“Where are you?” exclaimed Alie, looking about her in surprise at not
seeing the speaker.
“Here—up here, just at the other side of the hedge.”
“Why don’t you come down?”
“I can’t—I’m tied to a tree! I’ve been tied all night!” exclaimed the
poor child, bursting into an agony of tears, which for some time
prevented Alie from understanding another word which she uttered.
Alie lost no time in making her way to the place. She clambered up the
mossy bank, careless of nettles—scrambled over the low briery hedge on
the top—and beyond it, fastened to the trunk of a tree she found the
unhappy Madge, pale, exhausted with crying and want of rest, her arms
chafed by the cord which bound her, and which she had vainly struggled
to break. Happily Alie had a knife in her pocket, or she could never
have unloosed the tightened knots. The moment that Madge was free, she
fell sobbing into the arms of her deliverer.
“How cruel! oh, how cruel to bind you so!” exclaimed Alie; “what had you
done to make them so angry?”
“I had done nothing!” cried Madge between her sobs. “Perhaps they wanted
to keep me from going after them: they need not have been afraid—I’d
have given no trouble!”
“Do you think that they mean to come back soon?” said Alie, glancing
timidly around.
“I don’t think so,” replied the girl. “They would not tell me where they
were going, nor let me see which way they went. It was all done so
quick! Father came home late yesterday, and said something to
mother—something about being found out; mother started, seemed afraid,
and pointed to me. Then they whispered together—looking at me every
minute; and then they pulled down the tent, and packed up all in haste;
and before they left, father tied me up here, and said he’d beat me if I
made any noise.”
“Let’s come to my home,” said Alie, “and ask mother what’s to be done.
You must want a little breakfast sadly, and a little rest too, poor,
poor Madge!”
Before many minutes were over the gipsy girl was seated at Mrs. Morris’s
deal table with a basin of warm bread and milk before her, feeling
something like a traveller after a stormy voyage, when he has cast
anchor in a haven at last. When Madge’s hunger was satisfied, Alie led
her to her own little crib, where the poor child soon fell into a
refreshing sleep.
Great was the wrath, great the indignation of Jonas, the old sailor,
when, on returning from his morning stroll, he heard from his sister the
story of Madge. The idea of a helpless and innocent child being thus
maltreated and abandoned, roused all the lion in his soul. Down came his
brown fist with startling violence on the table—as with hearty good-will
he might have laid it on the gipsy; and a torrent of fierce abuse was
about to pour from his lips, when, recollecting his resolution, he
pressed them together with a mighty effort, and suffered his indignation
to escape only through his flashing eyes.
“It is evident,” said Mrs. Morris, “that they have found the poor child
a burden, and so, hoping that she has made friends in this village, they
have gone off and left her, taking care that no one should be able to
trace them.”
“They are—” commenced the sailor fiercely, then closed his lips tightly
again.
“And now,” continued Mrs. Morris, “the difficulty is how to dispose of
this poor child. Notwithstanding all my efforts, I find it no easy
matter in these hard times to maintain my own family, and send Johnny
and Alie to school. I do not see how it would be possible for me to
undertake the support of another child.”
“Then, mother,” said Johnny, who was present, “what will you do with
poor Madge?”
“I do not see what I can do,” replied his mother, “but send her at once
to the workhouse.”
“The workhouse!” exclaimed Johnny.
“The workhouse!” echoed Alie. “Oh, mother, I’d work my fingers to the
bone rather than send poor Madge away! She can share my dinner, my
breakfast, my bed.”
Mrs. Morris gravely shook her head; but Alie was too earnest to be
easily discouraged.
“I could earn something—I really could, mother! You know that Mrs. Mant
said that I might help her in mending!” and the little girl looked
imploringly into the face of her mother.
“My dear child, what you could earn would not supply Madge with enough
of food to keep life in.”
“I could get something for chopping firewood,” began Johnny, and then
stopped short; “but I hate the trouble, and shouldn’t much like to tie
myself up to do it! ’Twouldn’t do to begin and not go on, I take it.”
“It wouldn’t do at all,” replied Mrs. Morris.
Jonas sat in profound thought, appearing as though he were making some
deep calculation on his fingers. The truth is that the old seaman had as
warm a heart and as strong a desire to help the outcast as any one
present; but his means of doing so were very small. Much the greater
part of his little pension was regularly paid to his sister, to cover
the necessary expenses of the sailor’s board and lodging; and what Jonas
reserved for himself was such a mere trifle that it barely sufficed to
supply him with clothing, and replenish his little tobacco pouch. But
he, like Alie, was disposed to regard the desolate stranger as one whom
the Almighty had committed to their protection, and the idea of sending
her away to the workhouse was repugnant to his kindly nature. Jonas
turned over and over in his mind the means of supporting the child until
she should be able to do something for herself, and at length he came to
a decision.
“Yes,” he muttered half to himself, “yes, that’s the thing! ’Twill cost
me something maybe at first; but it’s right, and I’ll do it! The gipsy
lass shall have my pipe!”
The children could not forbear laughing. “Little use she could make of
it!” cried Johnny.
“That’s the way with you younkers,” said Jonas rather pettishly; “you
never know how to put two and two together. What’s a pipe without
’bacco, and how’s ’bacco to be had without money?” he continued, raising
his voice;—“the money that buys ’bacco for me would buy bread for the
gipsy; and your little earnings, my lass,” he added, turning to Alie,
“put on the top of my savings, might serve to keep the little boat
afloat, without running it on the rough shore of a workhouse.”
Alie clapped her hands in delight. The eye of Mrs. Morris glistened. “My
dear brother,” said she, “I won’t be behind you in this labour of love.
If you think of making such a sacrifice—”
“Think!” cried Jonas bluffly, “it’s not thinking, but doing!” and,
stumping up to the fireplace with an air of resolution, he again took
his pipe from its place and deliberately snapped it in two! but could
not refrain from a sigh as he looked on the broken pieces.
“You need not have broken it,” observed Johnny; “’twould have done no
mischief where it was.”
“’Twould have been a temptation,” replied Jonas, rubbing his chin;
“’twould ha’ been always putting me in mind of a want. If I hadn’t broke
my pipe, maybe I’d ha’ broke my resolution.”
“You will miss it sadly, I fear,” said Mrs. Morris.
How much the poor old sailor missed his accustomed indulgence can only
be guessed by those who have, like him, formed a habit of smoking till
the pipe seems as necessary as daily food. It is a habit which I hope
that none of my young readers will adopt; the expense of it being one of
its least disadvantages. But Jonas had been accustomed to smoke from his
youth; he looked to his pipe as to his comfort and companion, and, in
giving it up, he sacrificed really more than a lady would in putting
down her carriage, or a sportsman in selling off his hounds. Therefore
his pence were a nobler offering than their hundreds of guineas would
have been.
Madge was now the happy inmate of a home, whose simple comforts appeared
luxuries to her. Its inmates vied with each other in showing her
kindness. Except in school-time, or when she was at meals, Alie’s little
hands were busy from morning till night; and even Johnny tried his skill
in cobbling a very old pair of his sister’s shoes for Madge, and
succeeded, more to his own admiration, it must be owned, than to that of
any one else. Madge was now made neat and clean, her hair cut and
brushed, her rags mended; and the change in her appearance was so great
that Jonas said, looking at her with quiet satisfaction, that “he should
not ha’ known the lass.” There was a bright, happy expression now in
Madge’s blue eyes, and she did not start when suddenly addressed, as if
she were afraid of being struck.
And if the outward change was so great, there was every probability that
the inward would be yet more striking. Madge was docile and willing to
be taught, and she could not be long under the roof of Mrs. Morris
without receiving knowledge of the best and highest kind. The
distinctions between right and wrong, truth and falsehood, honesty and
theft, were becoming daily more and more clear to the child; and she was
gradually learning that which would give her the strongest motive for
refusing the evil and choosing the good.
Madge had not been many days in her new home, when, to the surprise of
the little family, then assembled round the dinner-table, a post-chaise
stopped at the entrance. A gentleman dressed in black, with a paper in
his hand, descended from the vehicle, and, after tapping at the door,
though it stood open on account of the heat of the weather, walked
straight into the kitchen.
“Beg pardon—pray don’t move,” said he, waving his hand slightly, as the
family rose at his entrance. “May I ask if your name is Morris?” he
continued, first glancing at his paper, then at Alie’s mother.
Wondering, and half alarmed at the unexpected visit, Mrs. Morris only
answered by dropping a little courtesy; while Jonas muttered something
about “land-shark,” which it was intended no one should hear.
“I thought so—hum!” said the lawyer, for such he was. “I have been
directed to you as one who might give me some information as to the
movements of a party of gipsies, upon whose track I have been for the
last ten days.”
“Indeed, sir, I know little about them,” replied Mrs. Morris. “Some
gipsies were in this neighbourhood about a week ago.”
“But they made all sail last Thursday night,” joined in the sailor.
“A tall woman, and a man with a patch over his eye,” said the lawyer,
examining his paper.
“That’s ’em,” cried Jonas; “an ill-looking pair, and a sight worse than
they look.”
“Can you tell me in which direction they went?” said the stranger,
addressing himself to the sailor.
“Not I, sir,” replied honest Jonas.
“They have a child with them, have they not—a little girl?”
“They had a child, sir, but they tied her up like a dog, and left her
behind when they made off.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the lawyer eagerly; “and have you any knowledge where
she may be now?”
“I should think that I have, seeing she’s just alongside,” cried Jonas,
looking round for poor Madge, who, alarmed at finding herself the
subject of conversation, had slunk behind her little friend Alie.
All the lawyer’s attention was now turned towards Madge. He fixed his
piercing gaze upon the timid child, questioned and cross-questioned her
without mercy, not only about events which had happened recently, but,
as it appeared to Johnny and Alie, about everything that could possibly
have occurred in the whole course of a gipsy’s life. The dinner on the
table was becoming quite cold; but the stranger had as little apparent
regard for the hunger of the family as he had for the feelings of Madge.
He wrote down most of the replies which he drew from her shy, reluctant
lips, and concluded by proposing that she should accompany him in the
post-chaise, as there was very important business connected with the
child.
This was too much for poor Madge. She clung tightly to Alie, and,
bursting into tears, begged that she might not be sent away.
“But if I were to take you to a fine house and fine friends, my dear?”
said the lawyer, in an insinuating tone. “I may tell you that you were
not born a gipsy; nor were those who deserted you your real parents. You
were stolen long ago by those who have passed you off as their child.
Your mother, Mrs. Everard, has been anxiously searching after you for
years, and joyful indeed will she be to find that our search has at last
been successful.”
Alie and Johnny gave exclamations of pleasure and surprise, Jonas was
startled into uttering a whistle, but Madge scarcely understood the good
news—she still clung to her early friend, and sobbed out that she didn’t
want to go away, she wouldn’t go away with that man!
“Well,” said the lawyer, with a smile, after a few vain attempts to coax
her into confidence, “it is evident that she is both safe and contented
where she now is. Let her remain here for the present, till her mother
can come herself and claim her stray lamb from those who have so
hospitably afforded her shelter and protection.”
It would be difficult to describe all the talking, wondering, guessing,
which went on in Mrs. Morris’s dwelling after the lawyer had driven from
her door. The news spread like wild-fire through the village; all kinds
of additions were made to a story in itself sufficiently strange; and
the kitchen was soon filled to overflowing with neighbours eager for
news. Before night came, the patience of Jonas was fairly tired out by
insatiable questioners; and his pipe, had he still possessed one, would
have been in imminent peril. The person who appeared least excited and
delighted was poor little Madge herself, who would rather have been told
that she might remain with Alie and her mother to the end of her days,
than that she was to live in a palace and be the daughter of a queen.
She was like a weary, wounded bird, that has found a peaceful nest; and
she was too young and ignorant to understand all the reasons that might
make it an advantage to her to quit it for another.
But Madge was a very happy girl the next day, when she found herself in
the arms of a mother—a _real_ mother—one who, with love and joy
streaming from her eyes, pressed her long lost darling close and closer
to her heart, as though she would hold her there for ever. With feelings
of natural delicacy, Mrs. Morris and her family retired to Jonas’s
little room, and closed the door, not to intrude by their presence on
the intense joy of a parent at such a meeting. What the lady said to
Madge, or Madge to the lady, they therefore never knew; but what account
the child had given of the generous kindness of her friends was easily
to be seen when, at her mother’s desire, she called them to speak to
her. Mrs. Everard grasped the hand of Mrs. Morris with deep emotion;
thanked her with tears in her eyes; and insisted on her accepting from
her, as an acknowledgment of her debt, a sum which would have covered
poor Madge’s expenses for years! The lady had brought her carriage half
full of presents for the children; beautiful books, choice sweetmeats
and cakes—never before had the plain deal table been loaded with such a
heap of good things! Alie found herself dressed from head to foot in
nicer clothes than she ever had worn; for Madge insisted on her putting
them on at once, that she might see how Alie looked in them, and laughed
and clapped her hands with delight, as though this were to her the
greatest treat of all. Johnny felt almost ashamed to accept the numerous
presents; he felt that he had so little deserved them—he had done so
little, sacrificed so little, to promote the comfort of the stranger.
Suddenly a thought seemed to cross the mind of Madge, which cast a
momentary shade over her bright little face. She ran up to her mother,
laid hold on her arm with childish eagerness, and, pointing to old
Jonas, who was looking with hearty enjoyment on the scene before him,
exclaimed in an audible whisper, “Have you brought nothing for him?”
“Blessings on the lass!” cried the honest sailor; “I want nothing but
such a sight as this! ’Tis as good as the view of the old white cliffs
to the homeward-bound!”
“He was so kind—so very kind,” continued Madge, without noticing the
interruption; “he broke his pipe, and gave up all his smoking, that I
might not be sent to the workhouse. Alie told me he did, and Alie always
says true; and he ought to have some of the cake.”
The conclusion of Madge’s speech set all the party laughing—Jonas
laughing the loudest of all. Mrs. Everard put her arm fondly around her
little girl. “Perhaps we could think of something that our good friend
would like still better than cake,” she said, gently.
Madge looked wistfully at Alie, her usual counsellor as well as friend.
Suddenly her face brightened. “I know! I know!” she exclaimed; “I once
heard him say he wished he’d a glass like those on board a ship, and
he’d show us the hills a long way off, and the mountains in the moon
beside.”
“A telescope he shall have,” said Mrs. Everard, “and one of the best
that can be made.”
The lady was as good as her word, and the sailor the next day became the
happy owner of that which it had long been his wish to possess, though
that such a wish should ever be gratified had never entered into the
good man’s calculations.
“It seems so strange,” whispered Alie to Madge, “so very strange, that
we should be so thanked and rewarded for such little acts of kindness. I
don’t believe that such a thing ever happened before.”
“My child, you are mistaken,” said Mrs. Everard, who chanced to hear the
observation; “more wondrous things are happening every day—things of
which the present scene is like a type. The poorest, weakest little one
who suffers on earth, and needs the hand of Christian kindness, is the
child of a Parent infinitely rich, infinitely great, who deigns to
notice, and who will a thousand-fold reward, the smallest kindness shown
for His sake. Nothing given in charity is ever lost; no effort made for
charity is ever forgotten. _Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of
these My brethren, ye did it unto Me_, are the words of Him who holds in
His hands all the treasures of earth and heaven. We may not, perhaps,
see in this world—but assuredly we shall see in the next—that however
worthless in themselves our services may be, the Almighty condescends to
accept them; and that, _he that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the
Lord, and that which he hath given will He pay him again_.”
Help the poor who need your aid,
Help with silver and with gold.
Ye whom God hath stewards made.
In your hands His wealth to hold.
Help the poor by kindly deed;
Hands in willing service move,
Clothe the bare, the hungry feed,
Weary ne’er in acts of love.
Help the poor by kindly word;
Comfort, counsel, wisely given,
Such by wandering sinners heard.
May those sinners lead to heaven.
Help the poor by earnest prayer—
Lift your heart unto the Lord;
He alone can bless your care,
Make success its rich reward.
Gifts, words, works, and prayers shall yet
Bring the Christian harvest sure;
God will not your love forget:
Blessed he that helps the poor.