XIV.

_VISIT TO THE FAIRY._

BLANCHE'S temporary maid was a very silent woman, and was therefore

regarded by her little mistress as an extremely dull, uninteresting

attendant. She longed for Ellis's return to her post; forgetting all the

passages-at-arms which had taken place between them during her reign.

And especially since the evening at the pantomime, she wanted to have

somebody to talk to about the poor fairy. Grant merely replied to her

remarks in the briefest possible way; and Blanche decided that she was

hard-hearted as well as uninteresting, for, if she were not, she could

not fail to express her sympathy for the poor little girl who seemed in

such pain, and had such a dreadful mother. The remembrance of the little

pinched face quite haunted her. She went over the scene again and again

in her mind; and wondered where her home was, and what would become of

her. Miss Prosser assured her that she would certainly be taken to the

hospital, and very well cared for; but still Blanche was not satisfied.

Whenever she went out to walk, she looked eagerly, among the faces in

the crowd, for the face of the terrible mother, and she resolved that

however dreadful she looked, she would go to her and inquire about her

little girl.

She sometimes wondered, too, whether the poor fairy knew anything about

that unseen Friend whom, in these last days, she had been learning to

know and love. It would be such a comfort to speak to Him when her

mother was so wicked and so cruel, Blanche thought, and she did not

forget to ask the Lord Jesus Christ to make the poor, bruised fairy well

again, and to soften her mother's hard heart.

One day, in particular, she had been thinking a great deal about the

fairy; and, in the evening, after she was comfortably tucked into bed,

her maid still lingered with the candle in her hand, as if she had

something that she wanted to say.

"I've been to see a little girl, to-day, who has not such a comfortable

bed as you have, Miss Clifford, though her poor little bones need it

sore enough."

"Ah! have you, Grant?" replied Blanche, sitting up in bed, in a

listening attitude. "Do tell me about her. Who is she, and how did you

come to know her? Is she as poor and pinched-looking as the fairy, do

you think?"

"She is the fairy, Miss Blanche--the poor little thing we saw at the

pantomime."

"O Grant, you don't mean to say so! Have you really found her out? I'm

so very, very glad. It's what I've been longing to do. Where does she

live, and was she very much hurt? You must take me to see her; indeed

you must, Grant. Do tell me all about it before you go."

The maid then narrated how, the day before, she chanced to meet the

terrible mother, in company with another woman, somewhat less tipsy than

she, and able to give Grant the information she required concerning the

poor child, who, from her account, was still very ill and very

destitute. Grant went immediately, in the mother's absence, and saw the

little girl in her wretched home. Her leg appeared to have been very

badly hurt; the doctor, whom a kind neighbor had once brought to see

her, said that she would always be lame, and the child's chief regret

seemed to be that she would never be able to act at the pantomime any

more.

Blanche listened eagerly to all the information Grant had to give, and

before she went to sleep that night was plotting and planning how she

could accomplish a visit to the fairy's home.

Next day, when Miss Prosser announced that she would dine out in the

evening, and had made arrangements for Grant to sit in the schoolroom

with her pupil, Blanche looked upon the circumstance as the most

delightful opportunity for carrying out her plan. Her governess very

rarely made engagements for the evening, or left her pupil to her own

devices; so it seemed to Blanche the rarest piece of good luck that she

should be going out to-night. She knew very well that Miss Prosser would

not give her sanction to a visit to the wretched little girl; and though

Blanche felt doubtful whether she was doing right in thus taking

advantage of her governess' absence, she was so bent upon seeing the

fairy again, that she tried only to look at her own side of the

question.

She did not divulge her plan to Grant till Miss Prosser was fairly gone,

and then she brought all her coaxing artillery to bear on the maid, who

at last reluctantly yielded to her self-willed little mistress.

It was quite a new experience for Blanche to find herself out walking

after dark. As she linked her arm into her maid's, and they began to

thread their way along the lamp-lit streets, Blanche felt somewhat of

the feeling of adventure which she had on that autumn morning at Glen

Eagle, when she found herself alone in the fir-forest. And there was a

strange resemblance between the occasions in another way, though Blanche

did not know it. On that morning she went, unconscious of it though she

was, to bring life and love and hope into the heart of the lonely little

maiden who leant against one of the old fir-trees. And, to-night, she

was going on a similar mission--not along the pleasant roads of

Stratheagle in a sunshiny morning, but through a dreary November drizzle

to a wretched haunt of misery, where a poor little desolate heart sorely

needed some ministry of love.

Strange to say, the wretched cellar in the narrow court was not so far

distant from Mr. Clifford's stately mansion as might have been expected,

so Blanche and her guide were not long in reaching the fairy's home.

After going down a flight of steps, Grant led the way to a dreary room.

Opening the door quietly, Blanche peeped cautiously in. The poor child

lay on a heap of straw. When the door opened, she raised her head and

eagerly scanned the visitors. Evidently recognizing Blanche, she fixed

her sharp, unchildlike eyes on her, saying, in her shrill voice, "Have

you been to it again? Aren't it a pretty pantomime? You seemed much

'appier than that t'other 'un. _We_ noticed you. I wish I was there,--I

do. It's wery dull a-lyin' here. Tim's never looked near, neither."

Then, turning to the maid, she said, in her sharp, querulous tone,

"Well, s'pose you've brought me a bit of somethink to eat. You said you

would, mind!"

[Illustration: Morag.]

Blanche felt rather repulsed, but she hastened to uncover a dish of

fruit which Grant had placed upon a stool near her, and handed some to

the little girl, who seized it eagerly, saying, "I haven't tasted

nothink since last night--seen nobody--she's been at it again, drinkin'

dreadful. And what made a pretty, fine lady like you come to see me?"

she asked, turning to survey Blanche more closely when her hunger was

somewhat appeased. "'Ave you got anythink else for 'un?"

"O poor fairy! I'm so sorry for you, I came to see you because I was. I

have thought so much about you since that evening at the pantomime, and

I was so very glad when Grant told me she had found your home," said

Blanche, kneeling down beside the child and taking the little thin

fingers into her hand. The little girl glanced rather suspiciously at

Blanche, who, while Grant went to unfold a warm blanket she had brought,

came closer and whispered in a low, nervous tone, "And I came to see you

besides, fairy, because I wanted so very much to tell you about a good

Lord Jesus, who, I'm sure, loves you, and will be very kind to you.

Indeed it's only quite lately I've come really to know Him, myself. But

I'm sure He loves you very much even now, and would be such a kind

Friend for you to have."

"Don't b'lieve it," replied the fairy, as she drew her hand away, which

Blanche had been stroking. "We see lots on 'em--Tim and me--at the

pantomime. Most likely seed this 'un. They never give us a fardin,

though we sometimes beg for somethink when they're a-comin' out of the

play. But we're forbid to, you know," she added, nodding and winking as

she glanced at Blanche's earnest face.

"Oh! but indeed, fairy, you are quite mistaken. You couldn't possibly

see him at the pantomime. He is not to be seen anywhere at all in the

world now. But though we can't see Him, He lives still, and hears us

when we speak to Him and loves us so much,--indeed He does."

"Don't b'lieve it. Tim says them kind hates poor folks, and that he'd

choke 'em if he could--and 'opes he'll have the chance some day."

"Oh! but, indeed, fairy, the Lord Jesus Christ does not hate anybody,"

gasped Blanche. "I know He loves everybody, and just died on the cross a

very cruel, dreadful death because He loved people so much. And, indeed,

I think He cares especially for poor, sick, sad people, who want a

friend."

A look of interest seemed to come into the little pinched face, and

Blanche felt encouraged, and continued, in a pleading tone--"And do you

know, fairy, if you were to ask Him for anything, He will really hear

you, though you cannot see him standing there listening. I know an old

woman, and a little girl not much older than you, and they both love the

Lord Jesus Christ so much, and speak to Him a great deal. And I do, too;

but I've only begun a little while ago. But I'm quite sure He does hear

us and help us too," said Blanche earnestly. Her faith in the Saviour

seeming to grow stronger every moment as she gazed on this lost child

whom He had come to seek and to save.

"He'd give a body somethink, you say," said the fairy presently, looking

sharply at Blanche with her cunning eyes, after she had thought over her

words for a little.

"Well now, lady, I say it's a shabby trick of the likes of you, as has

lots of nice things, to be goin' beggin'. Look 'ere, if He be as good as

you say, just you tell Him I'm a-lyin' here wery bad--and all about it,

you know. And ask somethink--a trifle, you know, to begin with," added

the child, winking knowingly, as she stuck her tongue into the corner of

her mouth, and looked into Blanche's face to see what impression this

practical proposal made. "Look 'ere, now; you see how wery bad I want a

dress--and there's my boots won't stick to my feet no ways."

Blanche felt sorely discouraged. She saw that she had evidently not been

able to impart to this dark soul a glimmering of what the Lord Jesus

Christ came to do. She did want so very much to make the little girl

understand what a real helper and friend He was; but she felt as if she

had only brought confusion into the poor child's mind, and failed to

represent the Saviour as anything more than a bountiful alms-giver. It

must be her fault that she could not make it plainer, Blanche thought;

and in her perplexity, she lifted up her heart to Him who turneth men's

hearts as rivers of waters, whither He will, and asked that His life and

light and love might penetrate the poor fairy's darkened soul.

Blanche Clifford rose from her knees from beside the straw pallet with a

very despondent feeling; but though she did not know it, her prayer of

faith was of better service to the little girl than her clearest

teaching or most eloquently spoken words.

"We must really go now, Miss Blanche," whispered the maid. "I'm afraid

of your standing in this damp place any longer. And it's getting very

late, besides. Do come now, Miss Clifford."

Blanche made a gesture of impatience; but she quickly remembered that

she had promised Grant she would leave whenever she was asked, and so

she prepared to go without further remonstrance.

"Good-bye, fairy. I'm so sorry I have to go now. But I'll try to come to

see you again, one day very soon. And I shall not forget to ask the Lord

Jesus Christ to come to you, and to love you and teach you Himself, and

give you everything that you need."

"Will you, though?" replied the child, looking keenly at Blanche's

earnest, guileless face. "Don't want no teachin' much--dreadful bad for

the dress and boots, though;" and then she added, with a softer

expression on her face than Blanche observed before, "You're a nice,

pretty little thing. I likes you." Then after a pause she continued, in

a reckless tone, "Don't b'lieve you'll come again, nor send Him neither,

though. Nobody never keeps no promises. Tim hasn't; he's never looked

near."

"Well, fairy, I know one Person who does keep promises, at any rate,"

said Blanche, smiling.

"I don't," nodded the child, decisively. "P'rhaps you keeps your

promises. You do look a nice little thing," she added, putting out her

thin fingers, and taking hold of Blanche's dress in a caressing way.

"No, fairy; I'm sure I don't always keep my promises. It's the Lord

Jesus Christ I mean. I've just been trying to remember one of His

promises to tell you, and I've found one--it's this, 'I will give you a

new heart.' Will you try to remember to ask Him for that?--do, dear

fairy."

"A new 'art. Well, did I ever--as if I wasn't needin' a new dress a

great sight more;" and the child threw herself back among the straw, and

laughed shrilly.

Grant had gone to the door to try and open it in the absence of a

handle, which had been wrenched off, and Blanche took the opportunity to

whisper, "I know you need a new dress very much, poor fairy; and perhaps

He'll give you that, too. But will you ask Him--quite low, if you

like--just when you are lying here all by yourself--to give you a new

heart? That means to make you good and happy always, you know. He does

really hear, though you cannot see Him. Will you not try, fairy?"

"Don't mind though I do. Nothink else to do lyin' here. I'm to ask a new

'art, you say,--just as if I was a-beggin' from a gintle-man on the

street, I s'pose? I know," said the child, with a nod. "Look, she's

waitin' for you--got the door open. Now, see you ax Him for the dress

and boots."