Pat had not seen his old friends for many days, for Nannie was a good
deal out with the basket now her mother was confined to the house, and,
somehow, her manner toward him the last time he was there made him feel
shy, as if he was not wanted there any more. Still the pail was filled
as usual, and stood beside the door, with many a nice and pretty thing
for the baby. Mrs. Bates wondered why she never heard him come up the
stairs now, and if he had got tired of playing with Winnie, and if his
own home had grown more pleasant. She didn't know how often he had put
his ear to the key-hole to see if he could hear one of baby's gleesome
laughs, or the sound of Nannie's voice reading aloud, or talking to her
mother. Nannie caught him this time, though, as she returned from her
labors, and the boy's face grew redder still, as if he had been detected
in some mean act, but her good-natured smile reassured him, and he found
his tongue.
"It's listening for Winnie I am," said he, "and I've not seen her swate
face the week."
"But, Pat, why haven't you been here this long time?" asked Nannie,
opening the door and leading him in as if he were a child.
Pat felt that she would think him very foolish if he told her the reason
of his absence, so he kept silent, but he was happier than he had been
for many a day, as he sat in his old seat with Winnie snuggled close to
his breast. Winnie reciprocated the delight, but her demonstrations were
very violent; she slapped Pat's face with her rosy palms, and pulled his
hair, and bit his fingers with her aching teeth, forgetting the while
the painful gums that had made her so wearisome all the day.
Nannie was uncommonly cheerful, for all was right now, and Mr. Bond was
well enough to visit them on the morrow, and Pat was back again, and
they were to remain in the pleasant attic for another quarter at least,
and mother had some work that promised a good profit, so there was no
pressing want upon them just now. Mr. Bond had sent some shirts to be
made against the summer. He did not like the common way of bestowing
charity. He always required an equivalent for what he handed out. He
would not have Nannie grow up with the feeling that she was a beggar, so
he found something to be done, and paid good round prices for the work.
Mrs. Bates stitched so busily, thinking he needed the garments all the
while. She didn't quite understand Mr. Bond, though! It didn't matter to
him if there were piles on piles of pure white linen in his great
trunks. What if somebody did get the good of them after his death! he
did not care to take his worldly treasure with him, but was quite
willing to leave a goodly portion for the benefit of others; besides,
many a worthy man owed his prim Sunday suit to those same heaped-up
chests, and it would have done you good to see the broad ruffles
bedecking the sons of Erin as they escorted their sweethearts to
vespers. They would cross themselves, and murmur a prayer for the
"masther," heretic though he was, and they knew they would get him out
of Purgatory, if masses and penances would avail. As for Nannie and her
mother, it was dangerous to say a word against their benefactor in their
presence. Nobody had ever dared the thing excepting Mrs. Flin, and she
would not encounter such a belaboring of tongues again for all the
bachelors in the world. Pat, too, was his most enthusiastic admirer, for
he had encouraged his going to spend his evenings in the neat attic
rather than crawl to his own miserable abode to be contaminated with the
fumes of rum and tobacco, and the scurrilous example of his abandoned
parents.
It was a wonder to the good man that there could be a spark of virtue in
the boy's character, and that he had been so far preserved from the
taint of his vile home as to care for the purity of his gentle
neighbor's. He did not remember how beautiful the contrast must be to
Pat as he came from his mother's den of infamy, where rags and dirt
prevailed, to the neat and cleanly dwelling, and the pure, bright, happy
faces of Mrs. Bates and her two children.
It wasn't his fault that the woman who had dared to take upon herself
the sacred name of mother, had spurned the terrible responsibility
consequent upon that assumption, and cast her children from her bosom
out into the wicked world, with never a care, nor a blessing, nor a
prayer; it wasn't his fault that his infant soul had been even more
pitiably neglected than the uncared-for body; it wasn't his fault that
the little hands were taught to fight and steal rather than lift
themselves up toward a gracious father to invoke His love and blessing,
or that the words of blasphemy were frequent on the lips that were made
for prayer and praise. He could think of a time when his childish knees
had bent before the good God, of whom a kind friend had told him, and
his own mother--who should have been prostrate beside him in penitence
for her sins both against him and her Maker--shouted her ribald songs
even in his unwilling ears. No wonder Mr. Bond thought it strange that
Pat had any yearning left for the good and the exalted. But his heart
did heave mightily beneath the mass of corruption that his own parents
had heaped above it, and he felt it gradually loosening, so that the Sun
of righteousness gleamed upon it, though dimly. It was something to have
even that faint light to show him the loathsomeness of his condition,
and it helped him wonderfully in his efforts to cast the burden wholly
from him. It was no mystery to him that "Christian" felt such a relief
when it was quite gone, and that he hastened onward toward the end of
his journey with a light and free step. It was not for nothing that the
poor boy helped Nannie Bates in the hour of her need, the blessing was
coming, life was just beginning for him.