[Illustration: THE LITTLE ORPHANS DISCOVERED.]
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THE
MOTHERLESS BAIRNS,
AND
WHO SHELTERED THEM.
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THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY:
56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD; AND
164, PICCADILLY.
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CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. MOTHERLESS AND HOMELESS 5
II. THE DOOR ON THE LATCH 15
III. THE RAGGED SCHOOL 23
IV. BESSIE AND HER TEACHER 37
V. SEASIDE PLEASURES 50
VI. THE HARBOUR OF REFUGE 59
VII. FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS 76
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CHAPTER I.
“I was a Stranger, and ye took Me in.”
It was a sharp, frosty night late in December, the wind driving
the snow in unfriendly gusts into the faces of the passers-by, and
compelling all who were not actually obliged to encounter its violence
to seek as speedily as possible the shelter of their own homes.
At the corner of a street leading out of one of the many crowded
thoroughfares in the heart of the city, stood an old-fashioned crockery
shop, from the inner parlour of which the cheerful glow of a coke fire,
reflected on the window-panes, made the darkness without only seem
more dreary and desolate. Unmindful of wind and snow, two little faces
might have been seen closely pressed against the window, eagerly gazing
on a sight which greeted their eyes through the glass door separating
the shop from the room behind. The muslin blind, which usually hung
before it to screen those within from the gaze of the outer world, had
accidentally dropped, and left to view a cheerful group, consisting of
father, mother, and several children, seated at their evening meal.
The kettle singing on the fire, the cat comfortably lying on the snug
hearth, the clean white cloth, with the neat cups and saucers, the
home-made cake, and bread-and-butter, above all, the happy faces of the
children, did not escape the eager notice of the poor little wanderers,
whose own sad experience of life might have been summed up in the few
short but expressive words--hungry and cold, motherless and homeless.
It was the old story, alas, only too common, of sin, suffering,
and sorrow; the drunkard husband going away, and leaving the poor,
worn-out, sorrow and care-stricken wife to die in a miserable garret,
and the friendless little ones turned out alone on the world, which
seemed to them so large and dreary. Sleeping now on a doorstep, now
under one of the numerous railway arches, too often the only refuge of
the homeless and destitute, in the daytime begging a few halfpence, or
some scant crusts, growing every day more dirty and more forlorn; no
wonder that the sight of a home which seemed to them (unaccustomed
to aught but want and woe) rich in all that could be desired, should
arrest their eyes and make them gaze on wistfully, forgetful of wind
and cold.
No such home had ever been for them; their earliest remembrances were
of a dark, damp cellar, a cruel father, and a sorrowful and ailing
mother; their latest of an old tumble-down garret, where that mother
lay dying, without proper nourishment or kind, loving care--no voice to
whisper to her of a Saviour’s love, or to bear to her heart the glad
tidings which could have shed a light over the dark valley. Mingled
with these came the remembrances of the coarse tones of the rough
woman, who, as soon as their mother was buried, had pushed them into
the street, telling them to “be gone, and never to darken her doorway
again, the good-for-nothing brats.”
After gazing intently for some time at the happy scene before them,
the elder of the two children, by a sudden, irresistible impulse, at
length darted up the steps, and softly turning the handle of the door,
crept inside the shop, the younger one clinging to her sister’s arm.
Crouching down in a corner, where they hoped to escape observation, but
with eyes and ears both on the alert, they bent forward to catch the
sound of what was passing in the inner room. For a moment all seemed
to be quiet, and then the father’s voice was heard reading aloud.
They saw the children seated round the table, the elder ones reading
in turn, while the younger sat by, quietly listening. They could even
distinguish some of the words, but, alas, they were no familiar tones
which fell on the ears of the little beggar children; they heard
something about a Father pitying His children, and, as the words were
read, instinctively the younger child whispered, “That’s not our
father. Whose father can that be?”
“Hush!” softly said the elder one, “or they will hear us, and then we
shall be turned out.”
At that moment the outer door opened, and another customer coming in,
Mr. Morley, the owner of the shop, stepped out from behind the glass
door. It was only a message respecting some order which had been given
earlier in the day; and no light being required, the trembling children
remained in security in their hiding-place. At length, overcome by
fatigue, cold, and hunger, they fell asleep in one another’s arms, the
younger child whispering, as she kissed her sister, “I wish, Polly, we
might stay here every night, instead of sleeping out in the cold.”
Poor little ones! Uncared for on earth, and deserted by the father
who should have watched over them with tender care and love, but not
uncared for up in heaven, where even the little birds do not escape
notice. All unseen by them, there was bending down over those sleeping
children an Eye which never slumbers nor sleeps; and even now, when
they thought themselves friendless in the wide world, their Father in
heaven did not forget them, but was guiding their feet into the way of
peace, and disposing the hearts of His servants to receive in His name
and for His sake these forlorn and weary outcasts, the little ones for
whom Jesus died, and whom He is ever ready to “receive favourably and
to embrace with the arms of His mercy.”
* * * * *
As Mr. Morley was putting up his shutters that night, and seeing that
all was safe in the shop, he caught his foot, and stumbled over some
plates which had been piled on the floor; and on bringing a candle to
discover what mischief had been caused, he caught sight of what seemed
to him a bundle of rags heaped together under a shelf. Great was the
good man’s astonishment, on a closer inspection, to discover beneath
the rags the forms of the sleeping children. Hastily calling his wife,
and carefully shading the light with his hand, he stooped down and
examined their faces. Traces of tears could easily be seen on the
cheeks of the elder, who appeared to be about eleven years of age, and
the most hasty glance at either could not have failed to discover many
unmistakeable signs of want, hunger, and poverty.
Touched with tender pity for the forlorn little ones, Mr. and Mrs.
Morley consulted together as to what they should do for them. “Surely
the Lord Himself has brought them within the shelter of our roof; and
it’s a mercy to think they reached it in safety, for with the wind and
snow driving as they are, there’s no telling whether the poor little
creatures would have lived to see the light of another day.” Then,
hurrying upstairs, the kind-hearted woman speedily returned with a warm
blanket from her own bed, and wrapped it carefully round the little
sleepers, discoursing to herself the while.
“Certainly they might have slept in the attic, up at the top; but then
there’s the fear lest they might have felt frightened like at finding
themselves in a strange bed, or at being woke of a sudden--no, John’s
right; John always knows best. Well, thank the Lord for keeping the
poor babes from perishing on a night like this; and thank Him too for
giving us, just now, when our hearts are sorely yearning after our own
little one in the heavenly fold, something to do for His lambs still in
a world of sin and sorrow.”
A tear stood in the good woman’s eye as she spoke. Only a few months
back she had known what it was to part with the little child that had
twined itself round her mother’s heart in no ordinary way--loving
little Lily; so sweet and gentle, with such endearing ways, and taken
after an illness of only a few days, leaving a sore blank behind. The
tender mother’s heart seemed to open at once to the little friendless
ones whom God had led to her door; and she lay awake long that night,
planning how to do the best for them, should it prove, as she felt in
her own mind persuaded, that they were homeless and destitute.
Surely that night, over the homely dwelling, a heavenly smile was
resting, even the blessing of Him who has said in His own holy Book:
“Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the
least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.”
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