GONE.
And so time went on happily and swiftly. The summer days came and went,
while Meg and her young husband worked cheerily at their allotted tasks.
Many a time did Meg visit the forlorn attic, carrying not only dainties
for poor suffering Dickie, but cheer and sunshine for his devoted little
sister. If Meg had discovered in Cherry traces of "a disciple," she did
not fail to do her part in giving her many "a cup of cold water."
This she did in various ways, so tenderly and unobtrusively, as to be
almost unnoticed by Cherry at the time. She brought her some soap and an
old towel, and coaxed Dickie "to feel how nice the warm water was," and
when his ablutions were done, to their joy he had a long sound sleep.
Cherry made up her mind she would try it again another day.
Then Meg begged a bowl without a handle, which her mother-in-law had
done with as useless for washing; this she carried round to Cherry and
taught her to wash over her floor, so that if the old boards might not
look white, they would at least be fresh. And once Meg put on her oldest
dress and scrubbed the room from end to end. She also took home the old
shawl one hot August day and returned it in the evening clean and sweet.
She was rewarded, if reward she needed, by Cherry's brightened face, and
by Dickie's creeping off his mattress and up into her arms, where he
would lie peacefully while she told him story after story of the little
lamb who was lost on the mountains, and was sought by the Good Shepherd,
until He carried it home rejoicing.
By-and-by Dickie began to run about the bare room with fresh energy; but
as he began to revive, so Cherry seemed to get despondent. There was a
look of alarm on her face which puzzled Meg; but the child would never
give any explanation. She resolutely kept Dickie up-stairs, hushing him
from making any extra noise, and Meg heard her once whisper to him in a
warning voice--
"Dickie, they'll know yer well again if yer don't mind; and then--I hope
they've forgot you, Dickie, for a bit."
He seemed to comprehend, and turned to the bits of toys and broken
crockery which he called tea-things as contentedly as before.
"Is he ever naughty?" asked Meg softly.
Cherry nodded.
"What do you do then?"
"I talk to 'im, and tell 'im how sorry mother'd ha' been, and how sorry
_He_ is," reverently; "and then he soon gets right again, and says he's
'good now.'"
One day when Meg went she found Cherry with an old hat on, and Dickie
also with some apology for walking things.
"Are you going out, dear?" she asked, surprised, for Cherry's aversion
to leave her room had been so great.
"We're goin' hopping," answered the child. "Father's goin' to take us;
and I think it 'ull be the best thing for Dickie. He'll be able to run
out in the air, and so--"
She placed in Meg's hand a pawn-ticket, as if she would perfectly
understand.
"What is this, dear?"
"That's the blanket. I don't know no one as would keep it for us, and so
I put it there. Here's the money, and you can get it out for me, if you
will, when we come back. I'd ha' come to you about it, only I didn't
rightly know where you lived."
It did not occur to Meg to explain where her home was at the moment,
though afterwards it cost her many a pang that she had not done so. She
was busy thinking about the blanket; and just as she had promised to do
as Cherry wished about the pawn-ticket, Cherry's father came up the
stairs and entered the room.
It was the first time Meg had met him, and he stared in surprise at such
a sweet vision in that desolate place.
"This is a friend what came to see Dickie when he was ill, father," said
Cherry in a deprecating tone.
"Eh! Oh, well, Dickie's all right now; and the train 'ull be gone if you
don't come at once. We shan't be back again for many a long day."
He looked askance at Meg, and evidently waited for her to go. She bade a
hasty good-bye to the children, and went down-stairs with a sad heart.
So Meg lost sight of her little friends, and though in a month or two's
time she went several times to their attic, she could hear nothing of
them. The attic had other occupants, and the child and his crippled
sister seemed forgotten.
Meanwhile, the winter came and was passing away, while Meg was busy from
morning till night. If she were not rendering efficient help to her
mother-in-law, she had some work of her own, over which she bent with a
happy look in her face which made it like sunshine.
One morning as she was returning from fetching some yeast for her
bread-making, for Meg had set up a regular practice of supplying her
husband with her own baking, she entered the doorway just as the
toddling girl belonging to the woman on the ground floor did the same.
The little one was running at full speed, and before Meg could put out
her hand to save her, she tripped over a bit of brick which was lying in
her path, and down she came with her head against the stone doorstep.
Meg quickly picked her up, and recognizing her, knocked at the door just
as the child's mother ran to see what the screams were about.
"I'm afraid she's hurt," she said, entering; "her head came right
against the corner."
"Dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the mother, with an inward feeling that
here was another misfortune; "I never did _see_ such children! There,
child, leave off screaming and I'll see to yer."
Though the words were rough, the face of the woman was not unkindly.
Somehow Meg had never come across her before, and had been too shy to
make any advances without being asked, though she had often pitied the
poor woman as she passed and heard the crying babies and general hubbub.
"Thank you, Mrs. Seymour," said the woman, taking the child from Meg's
arms. "My! ain't it bleeding! Whatever shall I do?"
"I should lay a wet rag on it," said Meg; "and then we can see how big
the place is. Perhaps it isn't so much as it looks."
"Dear, dear, dear!" said the mother again; "I haven't one bit of rag
handy; I have had to use all mine up for my boy's leg what was bad so
long."
Meg ran up-stairs, and soon returned with a nice clean piece from a
store of old linen which had been given her at the Hall. She looked
round for a basin, and soon had a little lukewarm water in it, and the
rag put on the child's forehead. She sat holding it, the mother looking
on at Meg's swift gentle ways with evident surprise and pleasure.
When the crying grew less, and the little thing, pale and miserable, was
laid on the little bed in the corner, Meg bethought herself of her
bread, and took up her basket to go.
"Thank you _kindly_," said the woman gratefully; "you've quite cheered
me up a bit. This is a hard life for us poor mothers."
Her eyes, which had once perhaps been as bright as Meg's, were sunken
and tired. She glanced at the deserted breakfast-table, and said
wearily--
"Work as me and him do, you may say, night and day, we can't satisfy
their mouths. I can't tell you how I long for somethin' different from
bread, Mrs. Seymour!"
Meg's eyes had followed hers, and she could see that there had been
nothing on that table that morning but milkless tea and dry bread.
Nothing remained but a few small crumbs.
"My 'usband says as it's hard to work and bring 'ome all he've earned,
and then not to have enough after all. But what can I do? They've eaten
a loaf and a half this mornin', and not one of 'em but could ha' eaten
double!"
"You have six children, haven't you?" said Meg, sympathizing truly, but
feeling powerless to help.
"Eight," answered the woman, "and all under twelve year old. Here's the
baby."
She led the way into the back room, where in a good-sized bed a baby
still slept soundly.
"You must have your hands full," said Meg kindly; "I wish I could think
of anything to help you. Where are they all?"
"Gone to school. They take even my biggest girl away from me, her as
might be some 'elp, and I'm sure she don't want schooling as bad as she
wants food."
"It comes very hard on you. And so you have to stay at home with the
babies?"
"That's just it. I might put 'em out to be 'minded,' but I'm not going
to have 'em starved under my eyes, and burnt and neglected and slapped!
Not but what I slap 'em myself sometimes," she added with compunction,
"when I'm that tired--but not so often considering; and I'm not going to
put 'em out for nobody."
She seemed glad to have some one to pour out her griefs to, and Meg
hardly liked to hurry away.
"I thought when I see you first as you'd soon get untidy like the rest
of the girls, but you ain't yet!" remarked the woman, as they went back
to the other room.
Meg smiled.
"I hope not," she said gently; "but you know I have not got a lot of
children to feed and see to. I should have no excuse now."
Just as she was turning to the door she thought of something.
"I wonder if you ever make oatmeal porridge for your children?" she
asked.
The woman made a wry face.
"Law, my dear, they wouldn't touch it!"
"I think they would if it were made nicely."
"I'm sure you've been so kind and clever, that I ought to think of what
you say," apologized the woman; "but I'm afraid--"
"What have you for dinner to-day, if I may ask?" said Meg, hesitating,
in her shy way.
"Bread," answered the mother emphatically; "and I meant to pour some
boiling water on it, and put some salt, and make believe it was soup.
It's so bitter cold to-day."
"I wonder if you'd be offended if I offered to make some porridge for
you?"
"I shan't be _offended_; but I know they won't touch it!"
Meg laughed.
"You see!" she said brightly. "Tell them a friend brought them some,
and you give them their choice of that or bread, and I expect--"
"I haven't any oatmeal," said the woman.
"But I have; I'll go and fetch some. My husband has it every day for
breakfast."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed the woman.
"But I must make my bread first, for if I don't it will not have time to
rise. When I have done that I'll bring the oatmeal down with me, and
make it for them. Will you let me?"
The woman thanked her; but before Meg went up to her bread she requested
that a saucepan of water might be put over the fire instead of the
kettle, which the woman had already put on for the early dinner.
"Will you mind measuring the water into it?" asked Meg; "eight
half-pints is what I want, and a good teaspoonful of salt."
Mrs. Blunt said she would, and Meg went away to her bread.
That did not take her half-an-hour, but when she came down the woman had
done her best to smarten up her room. The little hurt child had had its
hands washed, and was now fast asleep, and the woman herself looked
three degrees fresher than when Meg left her.
"I have brought half-a-pound of oatmeal if you will accept it," she
said, entering, with her clean cooking apron still on, and her neat hair
uncovered by her hat.
"It's very kind, I'm sure," said the woman. "Now you must show me the
right way, and then I shall know."
"Is the water boiling yet?" asked Meg, seating herself near the fire and
peeping into the steaming saucepan.
"That it is! Don't it look like it?"
"Because it must boil," explained Meg, "or the oatmeal would sink to the
bottom and burn."
"Oh, that's the reason?"
"Yes; and I've brought down my wooden spoon in case you had not got one.
The iron ones get so hot."
"Must it be stirred all the time?"
"Oh no, every now and then. See, I'm going to sprinkle in the oatmeal
with my hand. If I put it in all at once it would fall into lumps, and
children hate lumps! At least _I_ did when I was a child."
Mrs. Blunt stood by watching.
"And how much do ye pay a pound for it, Mrs. Seymour?"
"Twopence-halfpenny where Jem gets it."
"What do ye eat it with? I've heard tell of treacle, but I'm no hand at
sweet things myself."
"No, more am I," said Meg. "Of course the best thing is a little milk; I
dare say half a pint would do; but you might give them their choice of
sugar."
Mrs. Blunt sighed. She had spent nearly all she had left on the baker's
loaves which went so fast, and she hardly knew where the milk and sugar
were to come from.
Meg guessed that, from the change in the woman's face from bright
interest to despondency.
She thought for a moment, and then she said with some little
hesitation--
"I wonder if the children would think me interfering if I were to bring
them a little milk and sugar as a present?"
The woman turned away to the other room, nominally to fetch the baby,
who was stirring, but really to get rid of a few tears. It was the way
it was done, she told herself, that was so nice. She couldn't have let
every one do her such a kindness.
"Mind you stir it while I am gone," said Meg, "because they won't take
to _burnt_ porridge, for certain! You see it doesn't need much fire
after once the saucepan boils."
When she came back with the pound of sugar and a pint of milk, the
porridge had had its full half-hour, and was done.
"Now stand it on the hob, and if it simmers a little it will not hurt at
all. Pour it out the last thing, and see if they do not like it better
than bread, and feel more satisfied too. I've heard that it is the best
thing you can have to make children grow."
"May I bring back your spoon and tell you how I got on with it?" asked
Mrs. Blunt, already longing to taste what looked and smelt so good.
"Do; I shall be glad to see you," answered Meg. Then pausing with a
sudden remembrance, she said, blushing, "Do you remember those loving
words of our Saviour to all who are weary and troubled, 'Cast thy burden
upon the _Lord_, and He shall sustain thee'?"
"I've heard 'em before," answered the woman, "but I don't know much
about it."
"We all can, just by taking Him at His word," said Meg gently, "and I
don't know a burden that any one can have that will be too hard for Him
to help in."
The woman looked in Meg's face to see if she really meant it, and the
clear eyes she met were too earnest to be mistaken.
The woman wrung her hand and went back to the porridge without speaking.
When Meg had finished dinner, and was sitting down to her needle, there
was a tap at the door, and on saying "Come in," Mrs. Blunt with her two
babies appeared in the doorway.
"Well?" asked Meg, smiling.
"Well," said the woman, sinking into the seat Meg pushed forward, "when
they came in they sniffed and looked about, and asked where the loaf
was, and peeped into the milk-jug, and then they spied the saucepan, and
came over as curious as anything to see what it was. I told 'em as it
was a present to 'em, but they had no call to eat it unless they liked;
and with that I poured out a little into the basins. Some of 'em was
that hungry that they didn't think twice about it, and after a mouthful
or two that they wasn't sure about, they finished what I gave 'em, and
asked for more! That they did--all but one of 'em, and she turned up her
nose at it and stuck to the bread."
"Did they finish it?" asked Meg.
"All but a bit I put by for their father. And they told me to say as
they was much obliged, and hadn't had such a nice hot dinner I don't
know when."
Meg was delighted. She got up to look into her little bread-pan, and the
woman's eyes followed her curiously.
"I wish I could see ye do it," she said, "'cause I've heard as it's a
deal cheaper."
"Of course it is," said Meg; "and if you have to stay at home to mind
your babies, you could not use some of your time better. Mother used to
say it went quite twice as far as baker's bread. I'll show you how to do
it next time I bake. I don't do it every day, because we don't need it."
"Will you?" asked Mrs. Blunt earnestly.
"That I will. I'll let you know when to come."
The woman rose, and called her little girl from the window, where she
had been absorbed in looking out from such an unusual height.
"She's better then?" asked Meg.
"Yes," answered her mother, undoing the bandage; "see, it ain't such a
great place. How it did bleed to be sure!"
"I should keep it wet for the present," said Meg; "water softens things
so."
"That's true," said the woman. Then hesitating, she added, "Mrs.
Seymour, you and your mother-in-law has been the only creatures since I
came to London who has ever done me a kindness--I don't forgit it. The
neighbours come in at times, and they mean to be kind; but one and
another 'ull say a little word as 'ull make ye discontented with yer
lot; and it ain't a bit of good. We've got to bear it, and makin' the
worst of it don't mend it."
"No," answered Meg softly, "that's why----"
"Yes," interrupted the woman. "_You_ say I've got a burden, but you say
there's the Lord as can lighten it, and I shan't forgit. For one thing,
I can see as you let Him carry _yours_."
She turned abruptly and left the room, and Meg's eyes filled with tears
to think how little, after all, she loved and trusted that dear Lord who
loved her and gave Himself for her.
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