THE SUNBEAM CLAIMED.
It was a cold, cheerless morning; the wind was blowing, and the rain was
beating against the windows. It was far too wet and stormy for little
Timpey to be out, so she and I had a game of ball together in the
kitchen, whilst my father and grandfather went down to the pier.
She looked such a pretty little thing that morning. She had on a little
blue frock, which my grandfather had bought for her, and which Mrs.
Millar had made before she left the island, and a clean white pinafore.
She was screaming with delight, as I threw the ball over her head and
she ran to catch it, when the door opened, and my father ran in.
'Alick, is she here? They've come!'
'Who've come, father?' I said.
'Little Timpey's father and mother; they are coming up the garden now
with your grandfather!
He had hardly finished speaking before my grandfather came in with a
lady and gentleman. The lady ran forward as soon as she saw her child,
put her arms round her, and held her tightly in her bosom, as if she
could never part from her again. Then she sat down with her little
darling on her knee, stroking her tiny hands and talking to her, and
looking, oh, so anxiously, to see if the child remembered her.
At first, Timpey looked a little shy, and hung down her head, and would
not look in her mother's face. But this was only for a minute. As soon
as her mother _spoke_ to her she evidently remembered her voice, and
when Mrs. Villiers asked her, with tears in her eyes,--
'Do you know me, little Timpey? My dear little Timpey, who am I?' the
child looked up, and smiled, as she said, 'Dear mother--Timpey's dear
mother!' and she put up her little fat hand to stroke her mother's face.
And then, when I saw that, I could feel no longer sorry that the child
was going away.
I can well remember what a happy morning that was. Mr. and Mrs. Villiers
were so kind to us, and so very grateful for all that my grandfather and
I had done for their little girl. They thought her looking so much
better and stronger than when she left India, and they were so pleased
to find that she had not forgotten all the little lessons she had learnt
at home. Mrs. Villiers seemed as if she could not take her eyes off the
child; wherever little Timpey went, and whatever she was doing, her
mother followed her, and I shall never forget how happy and how glad
both the father and the mother looked.
But the most pleasant day will come to an end; and in the evening a boat
was to come from shore to take Mr. and Mrs. Villiers and their child
away.
'Dear me!' said my grandfather, with a groan, as he took the little girl
on his knee, 'I never felt so sorry to lose anybody, _never_; I'm sure I
didn't. Why, I calls her my little sunbeam, sir! You'll excuse me
saying so, but I don't feel over and above kindly to you for taking her
away from me; I don't indeed, sir.'
'Then I don't know what you will say to me when you hear I want to rob
you further,' said Mr. Villiers.
'Rob me further?' repeated my grandfather.
'Yes,' said Mr. Villiers, putting his hand on my shoulder. 'I want to
take this grandson of yours away too. It seems to me a great pity that
such a fine lad should waste his days shut up on this little island. Let
him come with me, and I will send him to a really good school for three
or four years, and then I will get him some good clerkship, or something
of that kind, and put him in the way of making his way in the world. Now
then, my friend, will you and his father spare him?'
'Well,' said my grandfather, 'I don't know what to say to you, sir;
it's very good of you--very good, indeed it is, and it would be a fine
thing for Alick, it would indeed; but I always thought he would take my
place here when I was dead.'
'Yes,' said my father; 'but, you see, _I_ shall be here to do that,
father; and if Mr. Villiers is so very kind as to take Alick, I'm sure
we ought only to be too glad for him to have such a friend.'
'You're right, David; yes, your right. We mustn't be selfish, sir; and
you'd let him come and see us sometimes, wouldn't you?'
'Oh, to be sure,' said Mr. Villiers; 'he can come and spend his holidays
here, and give you fine histories of his school life. Now, Alick, what
say you? There's a capital school in the town where we are going to
live, so you would be near us and you could come to see us on holiday
afternoons, and see whether this little woman remembers all you have
taught her. What say you?'
I was very pleased indeed, and very thankful for his kindness, and my
father and grandfather said they would never be able to repay him.
'Repay _me_!' said Mr. Villiers. 'Why, my friends, it's _I_ who can
never repay _you._ Just think, for one moment, of what you have given
me'--and he put his arm round his little girl's neck.' So we may
consider that matter settled. And now, when can Alick come?'
My grandfather begged for another month, and Mr. Villiers said that
would do very well, as in that time the school would reopen after the
holidays. And so it came to pass, that when I said good-bye to little
Timpey that afternoon, it was with the hope of soon seeing her again.
Her father called her Lucy, which I found was her real name. Timpey was
a pet name, which had been given her as a baby. But though Lucy was
certainly a prettier name, still I felt I should always think of her as
Timpey--_my_ little Timpey.
I shall never forget my feelings that month. A strange new life was
opening out before me, and I felt quite bewildered by the prospect.
My grandfather, and father, and I sat over the watchroom fire, night
after night, talking over my future; and day after day I wandered over
our dear little island, wondering how I should feel when I said good-bye
to it, and went into the great world beyond.
Since old Mr. Davis's visit, there had been a great change in our
little home. The great Bible had been taken down from its place and
carefully read and studied, and Sunday was no longer spent by us like
any other day, but was kept as well as it could be on that lonely
island.
My grandfather, I felt sure, was a new man. Old things had passed away;
all things had become new. He was dearer to me than ever, and I felt
very sorrowful when I thought of parting from him.
'I could never have left you, grandfather,' I said one day, 'if my
father had not been here.'
'No,' he said, 'I don't think I could have spared you, Alick; but your
father just came back in right time,--didn't you, David?'
At last the day arrived on which Mr. Villiers had appointed to meet me
at the town to which the steamer went every Monday morning, when it
left the island. My father and grandfather walked with me down to the
pier, and saw me on board. And the very last thing my grandfather said
to me was, 'Alick, my lad, keep on the Rock--be sure you keep on the
Rock!'
And I trust that I have never forgotten my grandfather's last words to
me.
'It was founded upon a rock.'
MATT. VII. 25
My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesu's blood and righteousness;
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesu's name.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.
When long appears my toilsome race,
I rest on His unchanging grace;
In every high and stormy gale,
My anchor holds within the veil.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.
His oath, His covenant, and blood,
Support me in the whelming flood;
When every earthly prop gives way,
He then is all my hope and stay.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.
When the last trumpet's voice shall sound,
Oh, may I then in Him be found;
Robed in His righteousness alone,
Faultless to stand before the throne.
On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.
MOTE.