THE LOST ONE FOUND.
Mrs. Turner sat alone, busily sewing, but she heard her darling's
well-known step come pattering up the stairs; so she put on the
tea-kettle directly, for she knew the little one would be tired and
hungry; and forthwith it began to sing cheerily, filling the room with
its homely melody, as though it would say "Pollie is coming," "Pollie is
coming;" and somehow the mother felt cheered. It may be the kettle's
fancied greeting was but the echo of her own loving heart.
Time was too precious to be wasted, so the widow continued her work, and
the light from the one candle being centred to the spot where she sat,
the entry was consequently dark; but on looking up with a smile of
greeting, expecting only to see Pollie, she was surprised to see her
hesitate on the threshold, apparently clutching some one tightly by the
dress: but directly she saw her mother, she seemed to feel she might let
go her hold, her charge was safe; so running in, she threw her arms
around her neck and whispered--
"O mother, darling, this poor lady has no home; let her stay here
to-night."
The widow rose from her seat in some surprise, but before she could say
a word, trusty Sally Grimes led in the woman, and then in a moment Mrs.
Turner comprehended it all. She saw a poor lost girl, and she thought of
her own innocent little one; then came into her heart those merciful
words--
"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more."
With womanly tenderness she took the poor shivering creature by the
hand, seated her close to the fire, saying gently--
"God help you, my poor child, you are welcome here."
Then the flood-gates of the unhappy girl's heart were opened, and
leaning her head on the widow's shoulder she sobbed aloud.
Meanwhile Pollie, assisted by her faithful friend, was busy getting the
tea ready, thinking it would refresh their strange visitor; and whilst
Sally cut some bread-and-butter the child arranged her violets in a cup,
to make, as she said, "the table look pretty." But the stranger was
unable to partake of the simple meal; she seemed utterly worn and weary,
for, leaning her head upon the arm of the chair, she lapsed into an
apathetic sleep, as though completely exhausted.
Whilst she thus slept, Sally Grimes (who had been invited to remain)
told Mrs. Turner in a whisper all that had taken place that evening.
"May God bless you, my dear," said the widow fervently; "you are indeed
a good girl."
"But Pollie helped me," exclaimed the warm-hearted girl.
The mother looked at her delicate little child, and smiled to think of
those tiny hands doing their part in saving this woman.
Then she turned for counsel to Sally.
"I have but this one bed," she said hesitatingly, "and--and--I should
not like her to sleep with Pollie; what shall I do?"
"Let us make her a nice bed on the floor," suggested the child.
"That's the thing!" assented Sally, and the widow agreeing to the plan,
they soon had a comfortable bed ready for the stranger. The poor
creature suffered them to remove her hat and dress, then they laid her
down, and she rested, thankful for the shelter so cheerfully given,
humble though it was.
She was still very beautiful. Her golden brown hair, released from its
massive braids, fell in rippling waves around her; the long black
lashes, now that the eyes were closed, lay like a silken fringe upon the
pale and wasted cheeks. Yes, she was very beautiful; and as the good
Samaritans stood looking at her (the children with wondering pity), the
widow thought of the time when this lost girl was tenderly loved by
parents, who perhaps were even now sorrowing for their erring child.
It was getting late, and as it was Pollie's bedtime the mother and child
prepared to read their evening chapter. Sally, too, sat down by the fire
to listen, wondering in her own mind what they were about. It was all so
strange to this poor London waif, this cleanly, peaceful home, this
simple worship.
The appointed chapter for this evening was the parable of the Good
Shepherd, and the girl's attention was riveted by those words of Divine
love and mercy.
"And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must
bring, and they shall hear My voice; and there shall be one fold, and
one shepherd."
Would _she_ be gathered into that fold also? could there be room for
_her_? Yes; the seed was sown on that hitherto rugged soil; it would
take root and bring forth fruit for the Lord of the harvest.
* * * * *
Just as Sally had put on her time-worn shawl, and was bidding her kind
friends "good-night" before going home, heavy steps were heard ascending
the stairs, and soon the portly form of Mrs. Flanagan entered the room.
"Well, here I am again," she exclaimed, "and right-down tired, I can
tell you; why don't cooks know what they want, and order things in the
morning? Dear, dear! what a walk I've had, to be sure--all the way to
Grosvenor Square, and with such a load too!"
"Hush, please," whispered Mrs. Turner, pointing to the sleeper.
"Who have you got there?" she asked in surprise.
In a few words, spoken in a subdued voice, the widow told the sad tale,
and also of the two children's brave conduct.
"What be she like?" was the natural question; "is it right to have her
here, think ye?" she added.
Then, as if to satisfy herself on the first point, she stole softly to
where the poor wanderer lay sleeping. The light on the table was but
dim, not sufficient to enable her to see distinctly, so that she was
compelled to kneel down to scan the face of the sleeping girl.
At that moment a bright flame shot up from the flickering fire, and
lighted the corner where the bed had been made for the stranger.
There was a quick convulsive gasp.
"My God! oh, can it be?" the old woman cried in a hushed voice. "No,
no, I've been deceived too often. Quick! quick! a light!"
Mrs. Turner hurried with it to her side. She almost snatched it from her
in her eagerness; she gazed long and earnestly upon those wasted
features, her breath coming thick and fast, almost as though her very
heart was bursting. In silence she gave the light back into the hands of
her wondering friend, then laying her head down on the pillow beside the
fallen girl, and folding her arms around her, she sobbed out--
"My darling, my Nora! you've come back at last to your poor old mother!
Nothing but death shall part us now!"