Little Meg's Last Money
'What's the matter with you?' asked Meg, laying her small rough hand
upon the girl's head.
'Oh, Meg, Meg!' she cried, 'I do want to be good, and I can't. You
don't know how wicked I am; but once I was a good little girl like you.
And now I can never, never be good again.'
'Yes, you can,' answered little Meg, 'if you ask God.'
'You don't know anything about it,' she said, pushing away Meg's hand.
'I don't know much,' replied Meg meekly; 'but Jesus says in the Bible,
that if our fathers 'll give us good things, God 'll much more give
good things to anybody as asks for 'em.'
'But I'm too bad to ask Him,' said the girl.
'I don't know what's to be done, then,' answered Meg. 'The Bible says,
"Those that ask Him"; and if you are too bad to ask Him, I suppose He
won't give you any good things.'
The girl made no reply, but crouching down upon the hearth at Meg's
feet, she sat looking into the fire with the expression of one who is
thinking deeply. Meg too was silent for a time, smiling now and then
as she recollected that father would be at home to-morrow.
'I don't know what you're called,' said Meg, after a very long silence.
'Oh, they call me Kitty, and Puss, and Madcap, and all sorts o' names,'
answered the girl, with a deep sigh.
'But that's not your christen name?' said Meg.
'No,' she replied.
'What does your mother call you?' asked Meg.
For a moment little Meg was terrified, for the girl seized her hands in
a strong and painful grasp, and her red eyes flamed with anger; but she
loosed her hold gradually, and then, in a choking voice, she said,
'Don't you never speak to me about my mother!'
'Have you got any money, Kitty?' inquired Meg, by way of turning the
conversation.
'Not a rap,' said Kitty, laughing hoarsely.
'I've got two shillings left,' continued Meg, 'and I'll give you one;
only, if you please, you mustn't come into my room again, at least till
father's at home. I promised mother not to let anybody at all come
here. You'll not be angry, will you?'
'No, I'm not angry,' said Kitty gently, 'and you must always do what
your mother told you, little Meg. She spoke kind to me once, she did.
So I'll go away now, dear, and never come in again: but you wouldn't
mind me listening at the door when Robbie's saying his prayers
sometimes?'
'No,' answered Meg; 'and you may listen when I read up loud, if you
like. I always read something afore I go to bed, and I'll speak up
loud enough for you to hear.'
'I'll listen,' said Kitty, standing up to go to her own dark, cold
attic, and looking round sadly at Meg's tidy room, all ready as it was
for her father's arrival. 'I suppose you'd not mind me kissing the
children afore I go?'
'Oh no,' said Meg, going with her to the bedside, and looking down
fondly upon the children's sleeping faces. The baby's pale small face
wore a smile upon it, as did Robin's also, for he was dreaming of the
gardens he had visited on his birthday. The girl bent over them, but
she drew back without kissing them, and with a sharp painful tone in
her voice she said, 'I wish I was dead, I do.'