SUNDAY.
BILLY'S first Sunday in Devonshire was a beautiful day, with sunshine
and a soft westerly breeze. The little boy accompanied "Grandfer,"
as he had decided to call his grandfather in imitation of the Dingle
children, to church in the morning, and, after the service, lingered
with him in the churchyard to speak to the Dingles, all of whom had
been to church, too. Then Tom Turpin, his mother on one side of him,
his father on the other, came out of church, and stopped and spoke,
afterwards introducing Billy to his parents.
"I hope to call at Rowley Cottage to-morrow," the young soldier told
William Brown; "I want to go around your garden and see everything.
Father tells me you're doing your 'bit' to help win the war."
On their way home Billy asked his grandfather what Tom Turpin had meant
by this remark. William Brown explained that food was likely to be very
short on account of the German submarines, which were torpedoing so
many food ships, and that he was doing his "bit" to help win the war by
cultivating every inch of his garden, and growing as many vegetables as
he could.
"The worst of it is I can get so little help," he said; "there isn't a
fit man left in the village for me to employ. That means that I shall
have to work doubly hard during the coming winter and spring."
"Don't you think I could help you, Grandfer?" Billy inquired eagerly.
"You?" William Brown looked at his grandson with a slightly amused
smile. "Well, I don't know about that," he said doubtfully. "Harold
helps his father in his allotment garden, but he's very strong for his
age, whilst you're such a delicate little chap—"
"Oh, Grandfer," Billy burst in, "I do believe I'm stronger than I look!
Oh, let me help you! Let me try, at any rate! I want so much to do
something to help win the war!"
"Well, we'll see what you're fit to do," was the cautious response.
With that Billy had to be satisfied for the time. They were descending
the hill to Rowley Cottage by way of the pathfields now, and a few
minutes later found them in the orchard, where Jenny was browsing
contentedly. She allowed Billy to put his arm around her neck and
caress her. His grandfather looked on, rather anxiously at first, then
with great satisfaction.
"She's taken to you very well, Billy," he said. "You'll be able to do
anything with her, you'll find."
"Shall I?" cried Billy, delighted. "Do you think she'd let me ride her,
Grandfer?"
"I shouldn't wonder! You shall try one of these days, perhaps!"
They entered the house by the back door. Mrs. Brown was in the kitchen,
dishing dinner. She was very hot, and looked exceedingly ill-tempered.
"Well, Maria, my dear!" her husband said cheerfully.
"Oh, it's well for you, I daresay," she retorted, "you who've had an
easy morning; but what about me who's been cooking all the time you've
been at church? There, take your seats! Dinner's ready!"
"I often wish you'd manage to do your cooking on a Saturday and have a
cold dinner on Sunday like Elizabeth," William Brown remarked; "then
you'd be able to go to church—we'd such a nice service this morning,
and—"
"Oh, no doubt Elizabeth's a better manager than her mother!"
interrupted his wife sarcastically. "I've always cooked on Sundays, and
I always shall."
It was a very good dinner, but Billy did not enjoy it, for Mrs. Brown,
who carved, gave him a thick slice of fat mutton which he could not
eat. Noting this, his grandfather remarked that he was not getting on,
and he admitted that he did not like fat meat.
"Can't you give him a cut of lean, Maria?" William Brown suggested.
"No, I can't—not without disfiguring the joint, and I'm certainly not
going to do that," Mrs. Brown answered. "Billy must learn not to be so
particular. If we can eat fat meat he can."
Her husband looked troubled, but said no more. As soon as the meal was
over he rose and went out, while Mrs. Brown began to put together the
dinner things with a clatter of plates and dishes. Billy watched her in
silence for a minute, then asked timidly: "Can I help you, Granny?"
"Help me? You?" cried Mrs. Brown, raising her eyebrows in a
contemptuous fashion. "What can you do to help me, I should like to
know?"
"I could wash up," Billy answered, flushing, "or I could wipe the
things as you wash them—I always did that for mother. If you'll say
what you'd like me to do—"
"I'd like you to keep out of my way and leave me to do my work as I
please!" Mrs. Brown interrupted. "Stay, though, you can give these
scraps to the fowls."
The little boy took the plate of scraps she offered him and went out
into the yard. When he returned with the plate empty Mrs. Brown had
cleared the table and was washing up.
"So your mother used to make you useful?" she remarked inquiringly.
"Yes, Granny," he answered, "and I liked helping her. She used to be so
tired sometimes—she worked very hard, you know."
"Humph! She'd have been wiser if she'd gone into a situation when your
father died instead of starting a business of her own."
Billy was silent. His mother—she had been a milliner's apprentice
before her marriage—had opened a little business of her own when his
father, who had been employed in a warehouse, had died. She had earned
enough to support her child and herself, but there had been nothing
over.
"Mother didn't want to be parted from me," the little boy said, in a
faltering voice; "and now—and now—oh, I can't bear it! Oh, what shall I
do?"
He flung himself on the settle by the fire, covered his face with his
hands, and wept.
"Don't go on like that, child," Mrs. Brown said hastily; "perhaps we'd
better not talk of your mother any more. Come, stop crying, like a
sensible boy! Why, here's May! You don't want to upset her, do you?"
Billy sat up, struggling to regain composure. He was wiping his eyes
with his pocket-handkerchief when May, entering by the back door,
appeared upon the scene. She ran to her grandmother and kissed her,
then, turning to Billy, was struck with dismay at his woe-begone look.
"Billy's been crying," she said, in an awed tone. "Why, Billy, why?"
she asked, stealing softly to his side. Then, as the little boy's only
answer was a suppressed sob, she cried, "I know! You haven't found your
mother yet!"
"Oh, May, you don't understand!!" Billy exclaimed, with a wail of grief
in his voice. "Mother's dead!"
"Dead?" May echoed, a faintly troubled look disturbing the usual sweet
serenity of her face. "But I thought Granny said she was lost?"
"That's often said of folks who are dead," explained Mrs. Brown.
"But it isn't true, Granny," May said gravely. "If people are good and
love Jesus they go to Jesus for always when they die, don't they?"
"Oh, yes," agreed Billy. "I know my mother's safe with Jesus, May."
"Then," said May, triumphantly, the faintly troubled expression passing
from her face, "she can't be lost!"
At that minute Harold came in, looking flushed and heated. Mrs. Brown
immediately accused him of having been teasing Jenny. He did not admit
it, only laughed, and hastened to tell her that he and May had come to
take Billy to church with them.
"Yes, he shall go," Mrs. Brown decided. "Hurry and wash your hands and
brush your hair, Billy."
The Vicar of Ashleigh always held a children's service in the church on
Sunday afternoons. This afternoon the service had commenced before the
Dingle children and Billy got there. They slipped noiselessly into a
back seat and joined in the hymn which was being sung. After the hymn
the Vicar—an old man with a kind, gentle face—gave an address, and then
moved about the church, questioning the children. More than once Billy
saw his eyes fixed on him with sympathy and interest.
"I like the Vicar very much," he said to Harold in the churchyard
afterwards.
"So does May," Harold replied; "she thinks there's no one like Mr.
Singleton. Can you find your way home by yourself, Billy?"
"Oh, yes," assented Billy, "of course I can."
"That's all right, then," smiled Harold, adding: "you'll meet nothing
you need be afraid of, and hear nothing—being Sunday there's no
blasting going on at the stone quarry to-day."