ROYAL CHILDREN.
"You didn't think as I was near you this afternoon, did you?" asked Jem,
when he came in to his tea, a few days after their marriage.
"No, indeed," answered Meg, looking up; "were you?"
"Yes; you know the court what runs up under these houses, first turnin'
on the right?"
"I think I do."
"Well, one of them houses. My master has the job to repair them a bit;
they're goin' to change hands, I believe, and so I shall be about here a
good while before they're done."
"I wish I'd known; then I'd have watched for you," said Meg.
"Would you? Well, my dear, I don't know as it will make much difference,
only for knowing as we're near each other, because I never do use
myself to leave my work, for nothing."
"Ah! no," answered Meg.
He sat down to the table, and after he had asked a blessing they began
their meal; but Jem was unusually preoccupied.
Meg was not an old enough wife to understand all her husband's moods,
and supposed he was tired with his day's work.
"Meg," he said suddenly, "I suppose we haven't such a thing as an old
blanket?"
Meg looked rather astonished.
"Why, you know, Jem, as everything nearly is new what you got ready for
our home."
"Yes," said Jem, "yes, I know. I wonder how we could do?"
"What is it for?" asked Meg.
"Why, my girl, my heart's just achin' at a little feller I saw there in
a attic. He's been lyin', his sister told me, ever since the first week
in May, and he's like a skeleton. She don't seem to have much to give
him, nor to live on herself neither, and he's got nothing on him but an
old shawl, and the girl says as he's awful cold of nights. It's a
frightful draughty place."
Meg's happy eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, Jem," she exclaimed, "can we give them one of ours?"
"Well, ye see, Meg, it won't do for us to be giving away our things one
by one; for if we began in this poor neighbourhood, we should not have a
rag to our backs, as the sayin' is. But yet this little chap--"
"Oh, yes, Jem, we ought not to 'pass by on the other side,' as the Bible
says. Do let us give one of ours."
"I was thinkin'," said Jem; "you know, Meg, you and me made up our minds
when we was married to put by somethin' to give to our God out of every
shillin' we earned--"
"Yes, we did," answered Meg eagerly.
"Now, though we haven't earned much yet," he went on, "yet we've had a
deal give us; and 'sposin' I was to get a blanket for the poor little
chap: how would that be?"
"Oh, Jem, do! Will you take me out with you to get it?"
Jem smiled; then turning grave again, he added:
"But, sweetheart, I'm loth to sadden you with such tales when your dear
heart's a bit sore at leavin' home. Eh, Meg?"
Meg's tears were very near, but she answered as steadily as she could--
"It would be poor thanks to Him who's given me so much, Jem, to say as I
was too happy to be made sorrowful by helping any one in need."
Jem said no more, but went into the other room and fetched Meg's hat and
jacket; but when they got outside in the brilliant light of the
declining June sun, he said to himself, that he had never before seen
his Meg look so beautiful.
The blanket was bought, a very ordinary one--"all wool" as Jem had said,
remembering his mother's bringing-up, but not so good as to be
immediately noticed and perhaps stolen in the large lodging-house in
which the children lived.
Then they retraced their steps, and when they came to the court Jem
stopped.
"I'll soon be home, my girl; you go on without me."
"Shan't I come too?" asked Meg.
"If you'd like to, my dear; but it ain't a nice place."
It was by this time getting dusk between the high houses, and Meg
followed her husband in silence. It was the first time she had ever been
into any crowded abode. A country cottage was the only experience she
had had.
Jem led the way up the dark and rickety stairs to the very top, and then
stooped his head under a low doorway.
The room was close under the roof, open to the tiles, and was very bare,
but neat and orderly. On a mattress in the corner lay the little
sufferer, while by him sat his crippled sister, nearly as pale and thin
as he.
"My child," said Jem in a kind voice, addressing her, "do you think if
I brought you a blanket you could keep it from being stolen?"
The child looked up suddenly. A face, with all its want and suffering,
on which something indescribable was written. Jem did not analyze it,
but he felt it.
"I think so," she answered. "I know a place outside up under the roof
where I could hide it away if I go out. That's what I have to do with
most things as it is."
Meg seated herself on the box by the child's side and looked down on his
little face. She put his wavy hair back from his forehead and said
tenderly--
"Poor little dear, you have a bad cough!"
"Yes," said the child; "me cough all de time."
"Yes," pursued his sister. "Dickie's been bad this five weeks, and if it
hadn't been for father having a bit of work, and bringin' home a little
for once, he'd ha' died."
Dickie did not seem to mind being thus spoken of, but he turned his head
wearily away, as if it were too much trouble to think.
"I like bein' ill," he whispered, as Meg bent over him.
"Like it, dear?" she questioned, thinking she had not heard aright.
He nodded ever so slightly, and then added in a little determined
voice--
"'Cause then they don't _hurt_ me no more."
Meg would have asked for an explanation, but Jem was unfolding the
blanket, and the girl was absorbed in wonder at its comfort and
whiteness.
"Dickie, look!" she exclaimed in a low joyful tone.
But the child was too ill to be interested. He did not turn his head
again, and Cherry said, with all the life gone out of her eyes, which
had so quickly lighted up at sight of the blanket--
"That's how he is most times. Sometimes I wish he was safely in heaven
with mother."
Jem put his hand gently on the girl's arm.
"Ah, my dear, that's how we feel when we're sad; but if we understand
that God loves us, we'll be willing to wait, so as we may do His will."
Her wide-open, sad blue eyes filled slowly, and she turned in silence to
cover over her little brother. She took up the old shawl and spread the
blanket next him, then unfolding the shawl, which had been doubled for
warmth, she carefully covered every bit of the blanket with it, even
seeking a bit of rag from somewhere to stop up a hole through which the
whiteness peeped.
"He might guess it else," she explained, and her hearers had to draw
their own conclusions.
"Wouldn't he like him to have it?" questioned Jem.
"He'd like drink better," answered Cherry, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Since poor father's taken to that so much, he don't have the heart he
used to have, He wouldn't have took this attic for us, so comfortable,
only the landlady let us have it cheap 'cause the other folks wouldn't
have Dickie no longer."
"Why, dear?" asked Meg pitifully.
"'Cause he cried and coughed so. The attic was empty, and I told father
I didn't mind the holes in the roof so long as they wouldn't worry
Dickie. So he was in a good humour, and let us come, and we've been here
a month."
Cherry spoke in a congratulating tone, but soon grew sober again when
she looked towards the little brown head that moved so restlessly.
"Jem," whispered Meg, "might I make him some bread and milk, and bring
it round to him at once?"
Jem willingly agreed, and Meg hurried away. While she was gone, he sat
down and drew from his pocket a little Testament, and with Cherry's eyes
curiously watching him, he turned over the leaves till he came to the
tenth chapter of John. Then in a clear, low tone, that soothed while it
wooed them to listen, he read about the Good Shepherd giving His life
for the sheep.
Cherry sat down on the bottom of the mattress and listened, evidently
not as if it were a new tale, but yet as a thirsty man will stretch out
his hand for water which he has not tasted for so long.
"Dickie," she whispered, as Jem paused, "don't yer like to hear about
Jesus? That's the Good Shepherd what I've told you about, as loves the
little lambs."
Dickie opened his eyes just enough to give her the shadow of a smile of
assent; but he was too weak to care to speak.
"Here, dear," said Meg, coming in and leaning over him; "do you like a
little nice hot bread and milk?"
The child could not remember the time when such a name had been
mentioned to him; but when Meg put a spoonful to his lips the smell of
it brought back vividly the remembrance of his mother.
"Yes," he said, answering Meg's question now; "I 'ike it very much."
When he had eaten about half he put his little hand out, and gently
pushed the basin away. "No more," he whispered, and sank into sleep such
as he had not had since that terrible May day, when he had been brought
home nearly dying.
Then Meg turned to Cherry.
"Eat the rest of it, dear," she said.
"Oh, no," answered the child, drawing back; "it 'ull do him such a deal
o' good. He never gets nothing nice."
"Jem will let me bring him some more another day," answered Meg; "but if
you would rather keep this till he wakes, see, I have brought something
for you."
She unfolded a piece of paper with two thick slices of
bread-and-butter, which Cherry took in her hands with a look of
gratitude which went to Meg's heart.
"Oh, you _are_ good!" the girl exclaimed, throwing her arms round Meg;
"nobody was ever so good to us before--since mother went. He's always
callin' for mother."
Meg gazed in the upturned face, and then after an instant's hesitation
she stooped and kissed it--the soiled little face, upon which Meg was
certain was written the name of the King of kings.
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