Maggie is Claimed.
"DID you have your tea before you came out, Maggie?" asked Mrs.
Thornton, when they were alone.
"No," said Maggie; "but I didn't want any."
In truth she had eaten very little that day, and was beginning to feel
faint for want of food.
"You shall have some tea with me," said the lady. "I am just going to
have a cup. Ring that bell for me, please, and then Mary will bring it."
In a few minutes a very appetizing meal was placed before the child.
But she did but scant justice to the dainties which Mrs. Thornton
pressed upon her. Her heart was too heavy for her to care much about
eating.
"I have been very ill, Maggie, since I last saw you," said the lady,
presently.
"Yes, I know; I was very sorry to hear it," said Maggie. "I asked God
to make you well."
"You asked God to make me well," exclaimed the lady, in astonishment;
"what could make you trouble yourself about me, child?"
"Because I love you; you are so pretty," said Maggie, with the perfect
simplicity of childhood.
The lady smiled and blushed. She thought Maggie's artless words a very
nice compliment.
"You really are better, aren't you?" asked the child. "You don't think
you will die now, do you?"
"Oh dear no, I hope not," replied the lady, with a shudder; "what a
question to ask me! My husband says I am out of danger now, and getting
well fast. At one time I was dreadfully afraid I was going to die."
"Why were you afraid?" asked the child. "Didn't you think that Jesus
would take you to heaven?"
The lady's face flushed again—this time with a flush of shame.
"No, Maggie," she said, in low, tremulous tones, "I could not feel
sure about heaven. I thought I knew all about those things; but when
death seemed near, I couldn't feel sure that I was good enough to go to
heaven."
"Jesus would have made you good enough, if you had asked Him," said
Maggie; and then she repeated in a low voice:
"'He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good;
That we might go at last to heaven,
Saved by His precious blood.'
"That's a verse of my hymn; do you know it?"
"Yes, I have heard the words before," said Mrs. Thornton. "Can you sing
that hymn?"
"Oh yes," said Maggie; "I often sing it."
"Then sing it to me now," said the lady.
Maggie hesitated. How could she sing in that strange house the hymn she
had lately sung so often beside her grandfather's bed? She felt more
inclined to cry than to sing. But she thought it would be unkind to
refuse; so with an effort she kept down her emotion, and sang the hymn
right through, though in a voice that was sad and tremulous.
"Thank you, dear; you sing very sweetly," said Maud, when she had done.
And then the young lady lay back with closed eyes, and was silent so
long that Maggie fancied she was sleeping.
But Maud had but closed her eyes that she might think undisturbedly.
She was in truth pondering the words of the child's hymn, and for the
first time realizing the preciousness of the truth, that "whilst we
were yet sinners, Christ died for us."
To little Maggie, sitting beside the couch, the time passed slowly
and wearily. Her heart was in that other room, where old John Griffin
was awaiting the approach of death. She longed to know how he was. It
seemed as if the colonel would never come to release her.
"Are you getting tired, Maggie?" asked Mrs. Thornton, when some slight
movement of the child attracted her attention. "You have been sitting
there so long, as quiet as a mouse. I love to have you near me. I wish
you were my little sister. How should you like now to come and live
here with me, and be my little sister?"
Maggie shook her head. "I would rather stay with grandfather," she said.
But then the tears came into her eyes, and her chest heaved with
emotion as she remembered that it was impossible for her to be much
longer John Griffin's "little maid;" for was he not going to leave her?
Mrs. Thornton saw her tears, and could guess the thought that caused
them.
"You are very fond of your grandfather, Maggie," she said, gently;
"have you always lived with him?"
"Oh no," said Maggie; "only since last year. He is not really my
grandfather, you know. I have no one belonging to me. I should have
gone to the workhouse if Mr. and Mrs. Griffin had not been so good as
to let me live with them."
"You don't mean it?" said the lady. "How you surprise me! Tell me all
about it."
And Maggie told her sad story; and as they talked together another
half-hour slipped by.
Then, at last, Maggie heard the front door open, and the steps of men
in the hall.
Mrs. Thornton's ears too caught the sound. "Leslie has come home," she
said, with a look of delight.
They came upstairs together, the colonel and Dr. Thornton, talking
in low, earnest tones as they ascended. They even lingered outside
the door for a few minutes to continue their talk. Then the colonel
entered, looking strangely agitated, and Dr. Thornton followed.
Colonel Platten walked quickly to where Maggie stood, she having risen
from her chair in her haste to be off.
The child was surprised to see that he carried in his hand the Bible
and prayer-book which had belonged to her mother. In another moment,
to her still greater astonishment, she found herself clasped in the
stately old soldier's arms, whilst he kissed her on the forehead.
Then releasing her, he turned to Mrs. Thornton, who was no less amazed
than Maggie at this sudden manifestation of affection.
"Maud," he said, "this little girl is my grandchild, the daughter
of your sister Maggie. What John Griffin has told me, and these
books—which are well-known to me—prove it plainly enough. My poor girl
is dead—she died miserably; but she has left me this child to care for.
Maggie, I am your grandfather."
"You are not!" cried Maggie, indignantly, as she tried to push him
away. "Mr. Griffin is my grandfather, and I want no other grandfather.
Oh, please let me go to him! He is very ill, and he wants me, I know he
does. I can't stay here another minute."
"Yes, Maggie, you shall go to him," said Dr. Thornton, interposing; "he
is longing for you to come. My chaise is at the door, and will take you
there in a few minutes. The colonel has come on purpose to fetch you."
And the doctor helped the child to wrap herself up for the drive.
"I would not trouble her with explanations if I were you," he said to
Colonel Platten, as they went downstairs. "She will be glad to hear
it in time, I have no doubt; but just now she can think only of old
Griffin."
[Illustration]