Things are rather apt to settle themselves; and so did Paul Blackthorn's
stay at the post-office, for the poor boy was in such an agony of pain
all night, and the fever ran so high, that it was impossible to think of
moving him, even if the waiting upon him in such suffering had not made
Mrs. King feel that she could not dismiss him to careless hands. His
patience, gratitude, and surprise at every trouble she took for him were
very endearing, as were the efforts he made to stifle and suppress moans
and cries that the terrible aches would wring from him, so as not to
disturb Alfred. When towards morning the fever ran to his head, and he
did not know what he said, it was more moving still to see that the
instinct of keeping quiet for some one's sake still suppressed his voice.
Then, too, his wanderings shewed under what dread and harshness his life
had been spent, and what his horror was of a return to the workhouse. In
his senses, he would never have thought of asking to remain at
Friarswood; but in his half-conscious state, he implored again and again
not to be sent away, and talked about not going back, but only being left
in a corner to die; and Mrs. King, without knowing what she was about,
soothed him by telling him to lie still, for he was not going to that
place again. At day-break she sent Harold, on his way to the post, for
an order from the relieving officer for medical attendance; and, after
some long and weary hours, the Union doctor came. He said, like Mr.
Blunt, that it was a rheumatic fever, the effect of hardship and
exposure; for which perhaps poor Paul--after his regular meals, warm
clothing, and full shelter, in the workhouse--was less prepared than many
a country lad, whose days had been much happier, but who had been
rendered more hardy by often going without some of those necessaries
which were provided for the paupers.
The head continued so much affected, that the doctor said the hair must
be taken off; which was done by old Master Warren, who singed the horses
in the autumn, killed the pigs in the winter, and shaved the men on
Saturday night. It was a very good thing for all parties; and he would
take no pay for his trouble, but sent down a pitcher with what he called
'all manner of yarbs' steeping in it, with which, as he said, to 'ferment
the boy's limbs.' Foment was what he meant; and Mrs. King thought, as it
was kindly intended, and could do no harm, she would try if it would do
any good; but she could not find that it made much difference whether she
used that or common warm water. However, the good will made Paul smile,
and helped to change his notion about its being very few that had any
compassion for a stranger. So, too, did good Mrs. Hayward, who, when he
was at the worst, twice came to sit up all night with him after her day's
work; and though she was not as tender a nurse as Mrs. King, treated him
like her own son, and moreover carried off to her own tub all the clothes
she could find ready to be washed, and would not take so much as a
mouthful of meat or drink in return, struggling, toil-worn body as she
was.
The parish, as might have been foreseen, would afford nothing but the
doctor to a chance-comer such as Paul. If he needed more, he might come
into the House, and be passed home to Upperscote.
But by the time this reply came, Mrs. King not only felt that it would be
almost murder to send a person in such a state four miles on a November
day, but she was caring so much for her patient, that it sounded almost
as impossible as to send Alfred away.
Besides, she had remembered the cup of cold water, she had thought of the
widow's cruse of oil and barrel of meal, and she had called to mind,
'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren,
ye have done it unto Me;' and thereupon she took heart, and made up her
mind that it was right to tend the sick lad; and that even if she should
bring trouble and want on herself and her children, it would be a Heaven-
sent trial that would be good for them.
So she made up her resolution to a winter of toil, anxiety, and trouble,
and to Lady Jane's withdrawal of favour; and thinking her ungrateful,
which, to say the truth, grieved her more than anything else, excepting
of course her forebodings for Alfred.
Ellen was in great distress about my Lady's displeasure. Not that she
dreamt of her mother's giving up Paul on that account; but she was very
fond of her little foster-sister, and of many of the maid-servants, and
her visits to the Grange were the chief change and amusement she ever
had. So while Mrs. King was busy between the shop, her work, and Paul,
Ellen sat by her brother, making the housekeeper's winter dress, and
imagining all sorts of dreadful things that might come of my Lady being
angry with them, till Alfred grew quite out of patience. 'Well, suppose
and suppose,' he said, 'suppose it was not to happen at all! Why,
Mother's doing right would be any good for nothing if she only did it to
please my Lady.'
Certainly this was the very touchstone to shew whether the fear of man
were the guide. And Ellen was still more terrified that day, for when
she went across to the farm for the evening's supply of milk and butter,
Mrs. Shepherd launched out into such a torrent of abuse against her and
her mother, that she came home trembling from head to foot; and Mrs. King
declared she should never go thither again. They would send to Mrs.
Price's for the little bit of fresh butter that was real nourishment to
Alfred: the healthy ones would save by going without any.
One word more as to the Shepherds, and then we have done with him. On
the Sunday, Mr. Cope had an elder brother staying with them, who preached
on the lesson for the day, the second chapter of the Prophet Habakkuk;
and when he came to the text, 'Woe to him that coveteth an evil
covetousness to his house,' he brought in some of the like passages, the
threats to those that 'grind the faces of the poor,' that 'oppress the
hireling in his wages,' and that terrible saying of St. James, 'Behold,
the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of
you kept by fraud, crieth; and the cries of them which have reaped are
entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabbath.'
Three days after, the Curate was very much amazed to hear that Mr. and
Mrs. Shepherd did not choose to be preached at in their own church, and
never meant to come thither again. Now it so happened that he could
testify that the sermon had been written five years ago, and that his
brother had preached it without knowing that the Shepherds were in
existence, for he had only come late the night before, and there was so
much to say about their home, that the younger brother had not said a
word about his parish before church, though the Kings and their guests
were very near his heart.
But it was of no use to say so. It was the _truth_ that wounded the
farmer and his wife, and no one could make that otherwise. They did not
choose to hear their sin rebuked, so they made an excuse by pretending to
take offence, and except when they now and then went to the next parish
to a meeting-house, cut themselves off from all that might disturb them
in the sole pursuit of gain. It is awful to think of such hardening of
the heart, first towards man, then towards the warnings of God.
And mind, whoever chooses profit rather than mercy, is in the path of
Farmer Shepherd.
Some certainty as to Lady Jane Selby's feelings came on the second
evening of Paul's illness. Mrs. Crabbe, the housekeeper, was seen with
infinite trouble and disgust getting her large person over the stiles
across the path fields. A call from her was almost a greater event than
one from my Lady herself. Why! Mother had been her still-room maid, and
always spoke to her as 'Ma'am,' and she called her 'Mary,' and she had
chosen Matilda's name for her, and had given her a silver watch!
So when Mrs. Crabbe had found her way in, and had been set down to rest
in the arm-chair, she proceeded to give 'Mary' a good round scolding
against being weak and soft-hearted, saying at last that my Lady was
quite in a way about it. She was sure that Harold would catch his death
of cold, putting him to sleep in the kitchen, upon the stones--and so--my
Lady had sent off the cart with the little chair-bed, that would take
down and put up again--mattress, bed-clothes, and all.
That was a comfortable finish to the scolding! Not that it was a finish
though, for the thanks made Mrs. Crabbe afraid the family thought
themselves forgiven, so she went on to declare they all would be pinched,
and get into debt, and she should advise her god-daughter, Matilda, not
to help them with a farthing of her wages, and as to going without their
full meals, that was what none of them were fit to do. With which it
appeared that the cart was bringing a can of broth, a couple of rabbits,
some calves'-feet jelly, and a bottle of port wine for Alfred, who lived
on that and cod-liver oil more than on any other nourishment.
At that rate, Lady Jane's displeasure did not seem likely to do much
harm; but there was pain in it too, for when Mrs. Crabbe had managed to
get up-stairs, past the patch-work quilt that was hung up to shelter Paul
from the draught, and had seen Alfred, and been shocked to find how much
wasted he was since she last had seen him, she said, 'One thing you
know--my Lady says she can't have Miss Selby coming down here to see
Alfred while this great lad is always about. And I'm sure it is not
proper for her at any time, such a young lady as she is, over all those
inconvenient stiles. I declare I shall speak to Mr. Price about them.'
Losing Miss Jane's visits was to Alfred like losing a sunbeam, and his
spirit felt very dreary after he had heard this sentence. Ellen knew her
well enough to suspect that she was very sorry, but that she could not
help herself; and Mrs. King caught the brother and sister making such
grumbling speeches to each other about the old lady's crossness, that her
faithful, grateful spirit was quite grieved, and she spoke strongly up
for the just, right-minded lady to whom she had loyally looked up for
many and many a year, though, with the right sort of independence, she
would not give up to any one's opinion what she knew to be her duty.
'We all knew it must cost us something,' she said, 'and we'll try to be
ready with it, though it does go to one's heart that the first should be
what vexes you, my Alfy; but it won't be for long.'
'No, Mother; but if it ain't here long? Oh! I don't seem to have
nothing to look to if Miss Jane ain't coming here no more, with her
pretty ways!'
And there were large tears on his cheeks. Mrs. King had tears in her
eyes too, but she bent down over the boy, and turning his eyes to the
little picture on the wall, she said in a whisper in his ear, 'Didn't He
bear His Cross for the sake of other people?' Alfred did not answer; he
turned his face in towards the pillow, and though Ellen thought he was
crying, it did not seem to her to be so sadly.
Cost them something their kindness did. To be sure, there came a party
of boys with the master from Ragglesford, when there had been time for
them to write the history of the robbery to their homes; and as it came
just before the monthly letter which they all had to write by way of
practice, to be shewn up to the master, it was a real treasure to them to
have such a story to tell. Some of their friends, especially the uncle
who gave the watch, had sent small sums of money for the lad who had
behaved so well, and these altogether came to a fair amount, which the
boys were highly pleased to give over into Mrs. King's hands. She, like
Harold, never made the smallest question that it was all for Paul's
benefit, and though, when she mentioned it to him, he gave a cheery
smile, and said it would lessen the cost of his illness to her, yet she
put it all aside with the first twelve-and-sixpence. She told Ellen that
it went against her to touch the orphan's money, and that unless it came
to very bad times indeed, it should be kept to set him up decently when
he should recover.
No one else could afford aid in money, not Mr. Cope, for he had little
more than a maintenance for himself; indeed, Mrs. King was not in a
station where it would seem becoming to offer alms to her. Lady Jane
gave help in nourishing food, but the days when this would come were
uncertain, and she had made a resolution against undertaking any share of
the expense, lest she should seem to encourage Mary King, as she said, in
such weak good nature--cramming up her house with a strange boy like
that, when she had quite enough to do with her own son. So they had to
fight on as they could; and the first week, when Paul's illness was at
the height, Ellen had so much more to do for Alfred and about the house,
and was so continually called off her work, that she could not finish
Mrs. Crabbe's gown as soon as was expected; and the ladies' maid, who was
kept waiting, took huff, and sent her new purple silk to Elbury to be
madeup.
It is not quite certain that Ellen did not shed a few tears.
Harold had to go without his butter, and once took it much to heart that
his mother would buy no shrimps for tea, but after some one had whispered
to him that if there were a trouble about rent, or about Mr. Blunt's
bill, Peggy would be sold, he bore it all pretty well; and after all,
Alfred and Paul were so apt to give him tastes of their dainties, that he
had not much loss!
Rent was the care. The pig was killed and cut up to great advantage;
Mrs. King sold a side of it at once, which went a good way towards it,
but not the whole; and there was a bad debt of John Farden's for bread,
contracted last winter, and which he had never paid off in the summer.
That would just have made it up, but what hopes were there of that?
Just then, however, came a parcel from Matilda. It was her way of
helping her family to send them the clothes which her mistresses allowed
her to have when they left them off, when Mrs. King either made them up
for herself or Ellen, or disposed of them at Elbury.
What a treat those parcels were! How curious were all the party at the
unpacking, looking at the many odd things that were sure to come out, on
the happy doubtful certainty that each one would be remembered by the
good sister.
So there were the little directed parcels--a neat knitted grey and black
handkerchief for Mother to wear in the shop; a whole roll of
fashion-books for Ellen, and a nice little pocket-book besides; and a
bundle of 'Illustrated News' to amuse the boys; a precious little square
book of 'Hymns for the Sick' for Alfred; and a famous pair of
riding-gloves, like bears' paws, for Harold. And what rolls besides!
Worn flimsy dresses, once pretty, but now only fit for the old-clothes
man, yet whose trimmings Ellen pulled out and studied; bonnets that
looked as if they had been sat upon; rolls of soft ragged cambric
handkerchiefs, on which Mrs. King seized as the most valuable part of the
cargo, so useful would they be to poor Alfred; some few real good things,
in especial, a beautiful thick silk dress which had been stained, but
which dyeing would render very useful; and a particularly nice grey cloth
mantle, which Matilda had mentioned in her letter as likely to be useful
to Ellen--it was not at all the worse for wear, except as to the lining
of the hood, and she should just fancy Ellen in it.
Ellen could just fancy herself in it. She had a black silk one, which
had come in the same way, and looked very well, but it was just turning
off, and it was not warm enough for winter without a shawl under it. That
grey looked as if it was made for her, it suited her shoulders and her
shape so well! She put it on and twisted about in it, and then she saw
her good mother not saying one word, and knew she was thinking of the sum
that was wanting to the rent.
'Well, Mother,' said Ellen, 'I'll go in and take the things to Betsey on
the next market-day, and if we can get thirty shillings on them without
the mantle--'
'Yes, if you can, my dear,' said her mother; 'I'm sure I should be very
glad for you to have it, but you see--'
And Mrs. King sighed.
Ellen passed by Paul on the landing, and saw him with his face flushed
with pain and fever, trying to smile at her. She remembered how her
unkind words had brought trouble on him, and how her mother had begun by
telling her that they must give up their own wishes if they were to nurse
him.
Ellen went to Elbury on the market-day, and by the help of Betsey
Hardman, she got great credit for her bargaining. She brought home
thirty shillings, and ten shillings' worth of soap for the shop, where
that article was running low; but she did not bring home the cloak,
though Betsey had told her a silk cloak over a shawl looked so mean! and
she feared all the servants at the Grange would think the same!
'They always were good children to me,' said Mrs. King to Mr. Cope, 'but
somehow, since Paul has been here, I think they are better than ever!
There's poor Alfred, though his cough has been so bad of late, has been
so thoughtful and so good; he says he's quite ashamed to find how patient
Paul is under so much sharper pain than he ever had, and he's ready to
send anything to Paul that he fancies will do him good--quite carried out
of himself, you see; and there's Harold, so much steadier; I've hardly
had to find fault with him since that poor boy made off--he's sure to
come in in time, and takes care not to disturb his brother, and helps his
sister and me all he can.'
Mr. Cope was not at all surprised that the work of mercy was blessed to
all the little household, nor that it drew out all the better side of
their dispositions.
There was no positive change, nor sudden resolution, to alter Harold; but
he had been a good deal startled by Dick's wickedness, and in him had
lost a tempter. Besides, he considered Paul as his own friend, received
for his sake, and therefore felt himself bound to do all he could for
him, and though he was no nurse, he could do much to set his mother and
Ellen free to attend to their patients. And Paul's illness, though so
much less dangerous, frightened and subdued Harold much more than the
quiet gradual pining away of Alfred, to which he was used. The severe
pain, the raging fever, and the ramblings in talk, were much more fearful
things to witness than the low cough, the wearing sore, and the helpless
languor, though there was much hope for the one, and scarcely any for the
other. While to Harold's apprehension, Alfred was always just the same,
only worsening visibly from month to month; Paul was better or worse
every time he came in, and when fresh from hearing his breath gasp with
sharp pain, or receiving his feeble thanks for some slight service, it
was not in Harold to go out and get into thoughtless mischief.
Moreover, there were helpful things to do at home, such as Harold liked.
He was fond of chopping wood, so he was very obliging about the oven, and
what he liked best of all was helping his mother in certain evening
cookeries of sweet-meats, by receipts from Mrs. Crabbe. On the day of
the expedition from Ragglesford, the young gentlemen had found out that
Mrs. King's bottles contained what they called 'the real article and no
mistake,' much better than what the old woman at the turnpike sold; and
so they were, for Mrs. King made them herself, and, like an honest woman,
without a morsel of sham in them. She was not going to break the Eighth
Commandment by cheating in a comfit any more than by stealing a purse;
and the children of Friarswood had long known that, and bought all the
'lollies' that they were not naughty enough to buy on Sundays, when, as
may be supposed, her shutters were not shut only for a decent show.
And now Harold did not often ride up to the school without some little
master giving him a commission for some variety of sweet-stuff; and
though Mrs. King used to say it was a pity the children should throw away
their money in that fashion, it brought a good deal into her till, and
Harold greatly liked assisting at the manufacture. How often he licked
his fingers during the process need not be mentioned; but his objection
to Ragglesford was quite gone off, now that some one was nearly certain
to be looking out for him, with a good-natured greeting, or an inquiry
for Paul. He knew one little boy from another, and felt friendly with
them all, and he really was quite grieved when the holidays came, and
they wished him good-bye. The coach that had been hired to take them to
Elbury seemed something to watch for now, and some thoughtful boy stopped
all the whooping and hurraing as they came near the house on the bridge.
Some other stopped the coach, and they all came dropping off it like a
swarm of black flies, and tumbling into the shop, where Mrs. King and her
daughter had need to have had a dozen pair of hands to have served them,
and they did not go till they had cleared out her entire stock of sweet
things and gingerbread; nay, some of them would have gone off without
their change, if she had not raced out to catch them with it after they
were climbing up the coach, and then the silly fellows said they hated
coppers! And meeting Harold and his post-bag on his way home from
Elbury, they raised such a tremendous cheer at him that poor Peggy seemed
to make but three springs from the milestone to the bridge, and he could
not so much as touch his cap by way of answer.
Somehow, even after those droll customers were gone, every Saturday's
reckoning was a satisfactory one. More always seemed to come in than
went out. The potatoes had been unusually free from disease in Mrs.
King's garden, and every one came for them; the second pig turned out
well; a lodger at the butcher's took a fancy to her buns; and on the
whole, winter, when her receipts were generally at the lowest, was now
quite a prosperous time with her. The great pressure and near anxiety
she had expected had not come, and something was being put by every week
towards the bill for flour, and for Mr. Blunt's account, so that she
began to hope that after all the Savings Bank would not have to be left
quite bare.
Quite unexpectedly, John Farden came in for a share of the savings of an
old aunt at service, and, like an honest fellow as he was, he got himself
out of debt at once. This quite settled all Mrs. King's fears; Mr. Blunt
and the miller would both have their due, and she really believed she
should be no poorer!
Then she recollected the widow's cruse of oil, and tears of thankfulness
and faith came into her eyes, and other tears dropped when she remembered
the other more precious comfort that the stranger had brought into the
widow's house, but she knew that the days of miracles and cures past hope
were gone, and that the Christian woman's promise was 'that her children
should come again,' but not till the resurrection of the just.
And though to her eye each frost was freshly piercing her boy's breast,
each warm damp day he faded into greater feebleness, yet the hope was far
clearer. He was happy and content. He had laid hold of the blessed hope
of Everlasting Life, and was learning to believe that the Cross laid on
him here was in mercy to make him fit for Heaven, first making him afraid
and sorry for his sins, and ready to turn to Him Who could take them
away, and then almost becoming gladness, in the thought of following his
Master, though so far off.
Not that Alfred often said such things, but they breathed peace over his
mind, and made Scripture-reading, prayers, and hymns very delightful to
him, especially those in Matilda's book; and he dwelt more than he told
any one on Mr. Cope's promise, when he trusted to be made more fully 'one
with Christ' in the partaking of His Cup of Life. It used to be his
treat, when no one was looking, to read over that Service in his Prayer-
book, and to think of the time. It was like a kind of step; he could fix
his mind on that, and the sense of forgiveness he hoped for therein,
better than on the great change that was coming; when there was much fear
and shrinking from the pain, and some dread of what as yet seemed strange
and unknown, he thought he should feel lifted up so as to be able to bear
the thought, when that holy Feast should have come to him.
All this made him much less occupied with himself, and he took much more
share in what was going on; he could be amused and playful, cared for all
that Ellen and Harold did, and was inclined to make the most of his time
with his brother. It was like old happy times, now that Alfred had
ceased to be fretful, and Harold took heed not to distress him.
One thing to which Alfred looked forward greatly, was Paul's being able
to come into his room, and the two on their opposite sides of the wall
made many pleasant schemes for the talk and reading that were to go on.
But when the day came, Alfred was more disappointed than pleased.
Paul had been cased, by Lady Jane's orders, in flannel; he had over that
a pair of trousers of Alfred's--much too long, for the Kings were very
tall, and he was small and stunted in growth--and a great wrapping-gown
that Mr. Cope had once worn when he was ill at college, and over his
shaven head a night-cap that had been their father's.
Ellen, with many directions from Alfred, had made him up a couch with
three chairs, and the cushions Alfred used to have when he could leave
his bed; the fire was made up brightly, and Mrs. King and Harold helped
Paul into the room.
But all the rheumatic pain was by no means over, and walking made him
feel it; he was dreadfully weak, and was so giddy and faint after the
first few steps, that they could not bring him to shake hands with Alfred
as both had wished, but had to lay him down as fast as they could. So
tired was he, that he could hardly say anything all the time he was
there; and Alfred had to keep silence for fear of wearying him still
more. There was a sort of shyness, too, which hindered the two from even
letting their eyes meet, often as they had heard each other's voices, and
had greeted one another through the thin partition. As Paul lay with his
eyes shut, Alfred raised himself to take a good survey of the sharp
pinched features, the hollow cheeks, deep-sunk pits for the eyes,--and
yellow ghastly skin of the worn face, and the figure, so small and wasted
that it was like nothing, curled up in all those wraps. One who could
read faces better than young Alfred could, would have gathered not only
that the boy who lay there had gone through a great deal, but that there
was much mind and thought crushed down by misery, and a gentle nature not
fit to stand up alone against it, and so sinking down without exertion.
And when Alfred was learning a verse of his favourite hymn--
'There is a rill whose waters rise--'
Paul's eye-lids rose, and looked him all over dreamily, comparing him
perhaps with the notions he had carried away from his two former
glimpses. Alfred did not look now so utterly different from anything he
had seen before, since Mrs. King and Ellen had been hovering round his
bed for nearly a month past; but still the fair skin, pink colour, dark
eye-lashes, glossy hair, and white hands, were like a dream to him, as if
they belonged to the pure land whither Alfred was going, and he was quite
loath to hear him speak like another boy, as he knew he could do, having
often listened to his talk through the wall. At the least sign of
Alfred's looking up, he turned away his eyes as if he had been doing
something by stealth.
He came in continually after this; and little things each day, and
Harold's talk, made the two acquainted and like boys together; but it was
not till Christmas Day that they felt like knowing each other.
It was the first time Paul felt himself able to be of any use, for he was
to be left in charge of Alfred, while Mrs. King and both her other
children went to church. Paul was sadly crippled still, and every frost
filled his bones with acute pain, and bent him like an old man, so that
he was still a long way from getting down-stairs, but he could make a
shift to get about the room, and he looked greatly pleased when Alfred
declared that he should want nobody else to stay with him in the morning.
Very glad he was that his mother would not be kept from Ellen's first
Holy Communion. Owing to the Curate not being a priest, the Feast had
not been celebrated since Michaelmas; but a clergyman had come to help
Mr. Cope, that the parish might not be deprived of the Festival on such a
day as Christmas.
Harold, though in a much better mood than at the Confirmation time, was
not as much concerned to miss it as perhaps he ought to have been.
Thought had not come to him yet, and his head was full of the dinner with
the servants at the Grange. It was sad that he and Ellen should alone be
able to go to it; but it would be famous for all that! Ay, and so were
the young postman's Christmas-boxes!
So Paul and Alfred were left together, and held their tongues for full
five minutes, because both felt so odd. Then Alfred said something about
reading the Service, and Paul offered to read it to him.
Paul had not only been very well taught, but had a certain gift, such as
not many people have, for reading aloud well. Alfred listened to those
Psalms and Lessons as if they had quite a new meaning in them, for the
right sound and stress on the right words made them sound quite like
another thing; and so Alfred said when he left off.
'I'm sure they do to me,' said Paul. 'I didn't know much about "good-
will to men" last Christmas.'
'You've not had overmuch good-will from them, neither,' said Alfred,
'since you came out.'
'What! not since I've been at Friarswood?' exclaimed Paul. 'Why, I used
to think all _that_ was only something in a book.'
'All what?' asked Alfred.
'All about--why, loving one's neighbour--and the Good Samaritan, and so
on. I never saw any one do it, you know, but it was comfortable like to
read about it; and when I watched to your mother and all of you, I saw
how it was about one's neighbour; and then, what with that and Mr. Cope's
teaching, I got to feel how it was--about God!' and Paul's face looked
very grave and peaceful.
'Well,' said Alfred, 'I don't know as I ever cared about it much--not
since I was a little boy. It was the fun last Christmas.'
And Paul looking curious, Alfred told all about the going out for holly,
and the dining at the Grange, and the snap-dragon over the pudding, till
he grew so eager and animated that he lost breath, and his painful cough
came on, so that he could just whisper, 'What did you do?'
'Oh! I don't know. We had prayers, and there was roast beef for dinner,
but they gave it to me where it was raw, and I couldn't eat it. Those
that had friends went out; but 'twasn't much unlike other days.'
'Poor Paul!' sighed Alfred.
'It won't be like that again, though,' said Paul, 'even if I was in a
Union. I know--what I know now.'
'And, Paul,' said Alfred, after a pause, 'there's one thing I should like
if I was you. You know our Blessed Saviour had no house over Him, but
was left out of the inn, and nobody cared for Him.'
Paul did not make any answer; and Alfred blushed all over.
Presently Alfred said, 'Harold will run in soon. I say, Paul, would you
mind reading me what they will say after the Holy Sacrament--what the
Angels sang is the beginning.'
Paul found it, and felt as if he must stand to read such praise.
'Thank you,' said Alfred. 'I'm glad Mother and Ellen are there. They'll
remember us, you know. Did you hear what Mr. Cope promised me?'
Paul had not heard; and Alfred told him, adding, 'It will be the Ember-
week in Lent. You'll be one with me then, Paul?'
'I'd like to promise,' said Paul fervently; 'but you see, when I'm well--'
'Oh, you won't go away for good. My Lady, or Mr. Cope, will get you
work; and I want you to be Mother's good son instead of me; and a brother
to Harold and Ellen.'
'I'd never go if I could help it,' said Paul; 'I sometimes wish I'd never
got better! I wish I could change with you, Alfred; nobody would care if
'twas me; nor I'm sure I shouldn't.'
'I should like to get well!' said Alfred slowly, and sighing. 'But then
you've been a much better lad than I was.'
'I don't know why you should say that,' said Paul, with his hand under
his chin, rather moodily. 'But if I thought I could be good and go on
well, I would not mind so much. I say, Alfred, when people round go on
being--like Tom Boldre, you know--do you think one can always feel that
about God being one's Father, and church home, and all the rest?'
'I can't say--I never tried,' said Alfred. 'But you know you can always
go to church--and then the Psalms and Lessons tell you those things.
Well, and you can go to the Holy Sacrament--I say, Paul, if you take it
the first time with me, you'll always remember me again every time
after.'
'I must be very odd ever to forget you!' said Paul, not far from crying.
'Ha!' he exclaimed, 'they are coming out of church!'
'I want to say one thing more, while I've got it in my head,' said
Alfred. 'Mr. Cope said all this sickness was a cross to me, and I'd got
to take it up for our Saviour's sake. Well, and then mayn't yours be
being plagued and bullied, without any friends? I'm sure something like
it happened to our Lord; and He never said one word against them. Isn't
that the way you may be to follow Him?'
Illness and thought had made such things fully plain to Alfred, and his
words sank deep into Paul's mind; but there was not time for any answer,
for Harold was heard unlocking the door, and striding up three steps at a
time, sending his voice before him. 'Well, old chaps, have you
quarrelled yet? Have you been jolly together? I say, Mrs. Crabbe told
Ellen that the pudding was put into the boiler at eight o'clock last
night; and my Lady and Miss Jane went in to give it a stir! I'm to bring
you home a slice, you know; and Paul will know what a real pudding is
like.'
The two boys spent a happy quiet afternoon with Mrs. King; and Charles
Hayward brought all the singing boys down, that they might hear the
carols outside the window. Paul, much tired, was in his bed by that
time; but his last thought was that 'Good-will to Men' had come home to
him at last.