TWO MOTHERS.
BUT Mr. Shafto found it no easy task to shake off the chains of
idleness and selfishness which he had allowed himself to be bound by
so many years. One effort and one day's labour did not set him free;
the habits of his life were too strong for that. Besides, he had no
real business to turn to. He had taken up with the undertaker's trade
out of sheer idleness; and since the grave-yard had been closed, and
no funerals permitted in it, all his chance of employment in that way
had gone. This he had not cared about, so long as his wife's industry
had supplied him with his own comforts. The little house they lived in
belonged to turn having come to him from his grandfather, the minister,
whose smoky tablet still remained on the chapel wall. It was not much,
he had often said in his heart, for his wife to earn the mere food and
clothing.
So now there was positively no work he could do. He sauntered about
looking for Gip a little; but there was no hope of success to encourage
him. After he had been to a few police-stations and workhouses with
Sandy, it seemed nothing but a waste of time to go on strolling about
the streets enquiring after a child who had been lost so long. Even
Sandy began to feel this, though he could not bring himself to give up
the hope of finding her somewhere and somehow. Whenever he caught sight
of a tiny ragged girl, or heard the voice of a little child, he could
not help looking and listening if it were not his little Gip. But he
had not much more time for the search; for Mr. Shafto found regular
work for Sandy, though he could find none for himself.
This was in a wood-yard, where a number of poor friendless boys were
employed in chopping wood, and tying them into bundles of chips for
lighting fires. It belonged to Mr. Mason, the young gentleman whom
Sandy had heard preaching that Sunday he first met with John Shafto.
Fortunately for him, there was a vacant place which Mr. Mason could
put him into at once. So there he was, in regular work, with small but
regular wages; a night-school which he was expected to attend; and the
prospect of soon gaining enough to live upon in more comfort than he
had ever known.
"If it weren't for little Gip," said Sandy to John Shafto, "I'd be as
happy as a king. I can't b'lieve it's me at times. But there's little
Gip; she's never out of my head. I'm afeard she'll grow out of my
knowledge if I don't come across her soon. It come over me sometimes,
s'pose I never see her again for years and years, till she's growed up,
and then I don't know as it is Gip? That scares me so I'm ready to run
away from the wood-yard, and never leave off going about the streets
till I find her. She can't grow out of His knowledge, though, can she?"
"Whose?" asked John Shafto.
"Him! Lord Jesus, as is lookin' for her as well as we. He'll be sure to
know her, won't He? I only wish I could see Him just for once, to tell
Him all about her. I'd like so to see how He looks, when He hears me
tell of her. It's so drefful hard to shut my eyes, and speak to nothink
like, when I talk of little Gip. If I could only look in His face, and
hear Him say, 'Never you fear, Sandy, I'll find her, and keep her safe
for you,' just for once, you know, I'd be content."
"But He is doing that," answered John Shafto; "wherever little Gip
is, He's taking care of her for you, and will let you have her again
some day. We can never, never see His face here; but I shall see it
by-and-by, and perhaps tell Him about Gip myself."
"You'll have to die to do that," said Sandy, very gravely. To think
that John would tell the Lord Jesus Christ about little Gip was a great
comfort to him; but he could not bear to think he must lose him himself.
"Yes," said John; "but if it wasn't for mother, I shouldn't mind that.
I've always been used to think of it, ever since we used to play about
the graves, and learn our letters on the tombstones, me and the other
children who are dead. At nights when I sit up in bed, I can see the
graves through my window. I'm not afraid at all of those things, Sandy;
and now you're come, you must take my place, and grow up and be a good
son to poor mother."
"And when I find little Gip, she'll be her little gel," answered Sandy,
eagerly. "I don't believe as mother 'ill ever turn up again now, do
you? I couldn't be the son of two mothers."
That was Sandy's secret dread, which haunted him day by day as he went
to and fro about his work. He was always fearing lest his mother's hand
should seize him by the collar, and hold him fast whilst she searched
his pocket for halfpence; or that she would strip him of his decent
working jacket, and pawn it at the nearest shop. He was sure she would
dog him to his new home, and molest his friends there, till they would
be compelled to give him up to her, and he would be driven back into
the old wretchedness and degradation. It was a great terror, constantly
besetting him; and whenever he had to pass the swinging doors of the
gin-palace, which were not far between in the streets he had to walk
along, he would dart by quickly, as if it were the den of some ravenous
beast of prey, lying in wait to devour him.
"Lord," he said often in his prayers, "let mother be lost always, and
never be found again; but please find little Gip for me soon."
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