THE EMPTY CRADLE.
When Cherry and Jem had really set forth to the hospital, Meg, who had
been lying very quiet for some time, opened her eyes and spoke to her
mother-in-law.
"Are you very busy, dear mother?" she asked.
"No, my dear, I have nothing to do now but to wait on you. Do you want
anything?"
Meg was silent for a moment, and Mrs. Seymour saw traces of tears on her
face, which, however, Meg was evidently anxious should not be noticed.
"You feel a little low, my dear," observed Mrs. Seymour kindly; "but you
will be better soon, I hope."
"No," said Meg; "I don't exactly feel low, mother; but should you think
it very wrong in me to ask you to let me hold him once more?"
"Will it upset you, my child?"
"I think not--I will try not; but, mother, I had so looked forward to
it, and I should like to hold him once more."
Mrs. Seymour made no further objection, but went into the other room,
whither the little cradle had been carried, and lifted the tiny baby out
carefully. She brought it to Meg's side, placed it in her arms, and then
went back to clear away Jem's tea, leaving the young mother alone with
her grief.
Dickie slept quietly, and Meg could cry over her babe unseen. She could
lay her cheek against its little head, she could wrap her arms round it,
she could press her lips upon its lifeless ones. But after all it was
lifeless, and Meg shed some bitter tears over the thought that it could
never know her love; but by-and-by these were wiped away. The
remembrance stole over her that her little child was only parted from
her for a short time, and was meanwhile in such safe keeping as she
could never hope, at the best, to give it here. "The Lord gave, and the
_Lord_ hath taken away," she murmured half aloud. "He has got him safe
waiting for me."
Whether her soft words woke Dickie, or whether her slight movements had
done so, she did not know; but at this moment he turned over and flung
his arms about her neck.
"Are you awake, dear?" she asked, hoping he would not notice the little
form lying at the other side of her.
"Yes, mo'ver-Meg. Are you cryin'?"
"I was crying, Dickie, but I'm better now."
"What for?" asked the child.
"Because I had a little baby-boy, and the Lord Jesus has taken him to
His Home."
Dickie pondered.
"Did that make yer _cry_, mo'ver-Meg?"
"Yes, dear; but I shan't cry any more," at which words Meg burst into
such weeping that Dickie was frightened, and Mrs. Seymour came in from
the other room.
She was going to take the babe, but Meg put out her hand beseechingly.
"One moment, dear mother," she said.
Mrs. Seymour waited while Meg pressed one long kiss on the little face,
and then she allowed her mother to bear her child away from her sight.
Meanwhile Dickie with clinging arms was trying to comfort her in his
tender little way, and Meg turned round and yielded herself to his
caresses.
"Is the home Jesus 'as taken him to better than this?" he asked in his
gentlest tones.
"Oh, yes!" said Meg, drying her eyes, and trying to stop her tears.
"Then why do yer mind, mo'ver-Meg?"
"Because he's gone away from _me_, Dickie. But I shan't be sorry soon."
"And fa'ver-Jem said as He'd sent me _instead_," said Dickie
comfortably, "and so that's nice for ev'wybody."
Meg smiled, though she almost cried again.
"Yes, Dickie," she answered, "and I'm not sorry for that part of it. I'm
sure our Father in heaven knows best, and will make me glad in time that
He has taken my little baby."
Dickie laid his soft cheek against her face, and then Meg saw her
mother-in-law coming in with a little tray in her hand.
"Look, Dickie," she said; "here is a kind mother with some gruel or
something for us. Why, here are two basins! How kind she is. Can you
open your eyes now, Dickie?"
He tried, but quickly put up his hand to shield them from the light.
"How bad they are!" remarked Mrs. Seymour. "Meg, did Jem say what they
did to him?"
"No," answered Meg, shuddering. "He said it was so dreadful, yet so easy
that he should never tell it, lest any one else should be so cruel."
"How strange!" said Mrs. Seymour.
"Did the doctor say this morning that they should be tied up?" asked
Meg.
"No; only bathed often. He said while he kept them shut of his own
accord it was better not to harass him with a bandage. He looked very
serious over it, Meg."
Meg did not answer. She was stroking the little face tenderly, and
smoothing the soft brown curls.
"Poor little man," she whispered at length.
Mrs. Seymour fed the child with a spoon, and just as she had finished a
knock came at the sitting-room door, which she went to answer.
Meg guessed what it was, but she lay quiet, her thoughts dwelling on
what Dickie had suggested--that the Home above was better than this.
Mrs. Seymour did not return for some time, nor indeed till the steps of
Jem and Cherry were heard coming back from the hospital. She went
outside to meet them, telling Cherry to go up-stairs, and preparing Jem
by a low word for what he would find in his room when he entered.
Though he knew it would be so, the little coffin having been promised at
seven o'clock, yet it was a shock to him after all; and he was glad that
his kind mother had let him go alone into the room, that he might have
time to get over his feelings.
Mrs. Seymour, finding that Meg was quiet, and even cheerful, went
up-stairs to look after Cherry, and to see if her invalid lodger should
want anything. She found the poor child sitting near the fire, looking
very mournful; and guessing at once that she had lost her father, she
went up to her and kissed her kindly, saying--
"You must tell me all about it presently, dear child. Just now I want
you to help me as nicely as you did this morning."
Cherry looked up, greatly relieved to be set to work at something.
"What can I do?" she asked.
"Let us get the bath ready for Dickie again, and then you go down and
fetch him, Cherry. Wrap this about him. He is awake; but I shall bathe
him up here, for I think Meg has had enough excitement."
Cherry quickly understood, and in a few minutes all was ready, and she
was standing by Meg's side asking Dickie if he would not like another
warm bath.
"I'd rather stay 'ere," said Dickie; "but you'll let me come back,
Cherry?"
"Oh, yes; only Mrs. Seymour has got such a lovely fire for yer, Dickie;
and I'm goin' to try to carry yer up."
Meg added her word that it would be very nice; so Dickie allowed himself
to be lifted out of bed.
"I 'tom back soon," he nodded, as he was borne towards the door.
"Yes, dear."
Then as Cherry went out, Jem came in from the other room, and sat down
by his wife's side.
"Let me carry him, dear," said Mrs. Blunt's voice outside. "He's too
heavy for you, and I was just a-goin' up."
"Oh, thank you; but I often do carry him," said Cherry.
"My! ain't he light? Well, dear," to the child, "you're not afraid as I
am old Sairy?"
For Mrs. Blunt had heard the whole story from Miss Hobson that morning.
"No," said Dickie; but the very name made him tremble, and Mrs. Blunt,
perceiving it, knew she should not have said that.
When he was placed on Mrs. Seymour's lap, Mrs. Blunt produced something
which she had carried on her arm.
"There!" she said, with evident delight; "don't you think as we've been
quick? This little nightgown was calico in the shop at nine o'clock
this mornin', and here it is ready for him to put on now."
"You've made it for him?" asked Mrs. Seymour, too astonished to find
words.
"That we have! When you sent for me this mornin' to tell me about
borrowin' mine--bless 'im, he was welcome to it!--and to ask me to 'elp
you with your laundry work, as 'as been put so behind this week, I ran
down to Jenny to see if she would mind my children. (She's a kind girl
at a pinch.) And then thinks I, 'Mrs. Seymour won't be ready with her
irons and things for a few minutes;' and I pops on my bonnet, and takes
the little 'uns round to the shop to get the calico. We was back in no
time, and there was Jenny smiling at the door waitin' for me.
"'Jenny,' says I to her, 'I know as you're good at your needle, and I
want to surprise Mrs. Seymour. I haven't made a present to any one
these many years, but if you'll help me, I will to-day!'
"Jenny, she takes it in as kind as anythink.
"'All right,' she says. 'And I'll mind those precious babies of yours,
and do the work as well; for I'm right down sorry for 'em up-stairs,
that I am.'
"So we cut it out, and she was set-to with her needle afore I come up to
you. When I got down again at twelve o'clock, after you'd finished with
me, she'd done more than half of it, that she had!"
Mrs. Blunt was out of breath, so Cherry unfolded the little nightgown
and showed it to Dickie, who, however, only smiled gratefully, but did
not venture more than a peep with his poor little inflamed eyes.
Mrs. Seymour was so pleased at the thoughtful kindness that she could
not say much.
"Don't think as I grudged him the _other_!" said Mrs. Blunt; "but I
thought as you'd feel it nicer for him to have one of his own."
"I'm sure Meg will take it very kind of you," said Mrs. Seymour,
gratefully.
"Kind!" echoed Mrs. Blunt. "Nothin' as I could do for her would be kind,
after all she has done for me. Why, my dear, I'm a new woman!"
Mrs. Seymour was too surprised to answer, and Mrs. Blunt went on
earnestly:
"'Tisn't only as I have a tidy dress now, and a clean room, and better
food, but 'tis the inside of me as is different. Instead of frettin'
over the little money I've got, she's taught me to make the most of it;
and instead of being cross, and tired, and miserable, she's taught me as
there is One above as cares for me, and will bear my burdens and lighten
'em, and comfort and cheer me into the bargain. There! if ye don't think
that's enough to make a body grateful, I don't know what is."
"Is that mo'ver-Meg," asked Dickie, "as you're talkin' on?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Seymour, softly. "She's a dear mother-Meg, isn't she?"
"Cherry and me's goin' to stay 'long of her," he said, addressing
himself to Mrs. Blunt.
"I know you are. You're happy children."
Cherry smiled brightly; and then Mrs. Blunt, having said her say,
bethought herself of her children and hurried away, only pausing at the
door to say, "T'other one's cut out, and we'll make it as soon as we
can; only to-morrer's Sunday."
Yes, to-morrow was Sunday; and in the afternoon the little coffin was
carried away and laid in the cold ground; while Meg, shedding no more
tears, but full of peace, listened to Cherry's musical voice. Though she
was very small for her age, she was a good scholar, and read fluently.
Meg had chosen the account, in the eleventh chapter of John, of the
Lord's sympathy: how He waited, that He might bless the more abundantly;
how He wept, showing Himself the comforter of all who mourn; how He
raised the dead, and gave precious promises of everlasting life to all
who believe in Him.
Cherry and Meg, both mourning, and both needing the Heavenly food which
should sustain their souls, found in that chapter, and above all in that
beloved Saviour of whom the chapter treats, the rest and comfort that
they needed.
When Jem came back from seeing the earth laid over his child, he met the
glance of Meg's serene eyes and wondered.
She held out her hand and clasped his.
"Jem," she said, "come and read this over again to us, and then you'll
get comforted, as we have been."
So Jem sat down and read it all through again, and got lifted, as they
had been, from the dark grave to the bright sky, where He dwells "who
liveth, and was dead," and is "alive for evermore."
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