JOHNNY'S SUNDAY SUIT.
IT was strange how the thought of little Gip took possession of John
Shafto's mind. The winter days, dark and cold, had fairly set in,
and he could not creep along the streets with his crutches, looking
wistfully at the ragged children whom he found in numbers about them.
Yet if the summer warmth had filled the air, he could no longer have
gone in search of her, for the little strength remaining to him was
slowly ebbing away; and he was surely going down to the grave, the dark
passage through which he was to reach his Father's house beyond.
But he scarcely seemed to feel the painful steps of the journey he was
making, so full was his mind of little Gip. Perhaps it was because he
and Sandy talked of little else; or because there was always a faint
vague hope in his heart that when Sandy came in from his work in an
evening, he would bring the joyful news that Gip was found. With this
hope stirring in him, he never missed watching for Sandy's return;
and when the usual hour would come, he turned the gas in the shop
window higher, so that Sandy might see his face looking out beside the
hatchment as soon as he turned into the grave-yard.
A whistle would bring him to the door in time to open it as Sandy
reached it; and he always looked to see if there were not a little
tattered figure standing beside him in the darkness. But Gip was never
found; and the hearts of both boys grew hopeless and very sorrowful
about her.
Mrs. Shafto thought but little of Gip in comparison with her boy, who
was so soon to be lost to her. She kept her kitchen cheery and cosy,
and wore blue ribbons in her cap, and tried to wear a smile upon her
face for Johnny's sake; but no one knew how heavy and sad her heart
was at times. She must keep up, she said to herself, lest she should
make her boy miserable and low-spirited on her account; but it was very
hard work. Mr. Shafto could not master himself as she did, having had
no long practice in self-denial; and often he would sink down in his
easy-chair, hide his face in his hands, and groan aloud when he thought
how soon John would be gone away, and he should never more hear the tap
of his crutches about the house.
Sandy was the greatest comfort they had, coming in fresh from his
work, with all sorts of bits of news picked up in the street or at the
wood-yard, and with curious questions to ask, which diverted them all
from their own sorrow. The evenings, when he was sitting with them by
their fire, were far less sad than the dark days.
At last the time came when John Shafto had not strength to rise from
his bed and come downstairs to the cheery little kitchen, which had
been kept so bright for him. He could only lie still now in the low
room, with its shelving roof and the dormer window, from which he could
see the gravestones. The change frightened Sandy, though he could not
bring himself to believe that Johnny was going to die, while his face
was so happy and cheerful, and his weak voice so pleasant. When the
warm weather came again, he said, Johnny would be sure to feel better,
and get about once more. He could not bear to think of losing him as
well as little Gip.
"Mother," said John Shafto one Sunday morning, after he had lain in bed
some days, and knew that he would never more get up and walk about upon
his crutches, "mother, you'll take to Sandy, instead of me? I'm always
saying to myself, Sandy 'ill be like a son to her, and she'll be his
mother when I'm gone."
"You're not gone yet, dear heart!" she said, stroking the soft hair
from his forehead, and speaking as calmly as she could.
"No, but I'm going, mother," he answered; "and I like to think of you
having Sandy to take my place."
"He'll never take your place, Johnny," sobbed his mother.
"Not just at first, but by-and-by he'll be like your own son,"
continued John Shafto; "he'll be a good boy, I know, for he loves to
hear me tell him of Jesus Christ, and he's beginning to understand it
all better now. Mother," and John put his arm fondly round her neck,
"I want you to let Sandy have my Sunday clothes, and let me see him
go to chapel with father. I could watch them go across the grave-yard
together, if you'd only raise me up in your arms for a minute."
"Oh, Johnny, Johnny! I cannot!" she cried, falling on her knees, and
hiding her face on her boy's pillow.
He stroked her cheek tenderly with his wasted fingers, whispering,
"Poor mother, poor mother!"
It was a long while before she could recover herself, or finish a
sentence when she began to speak it, but at last she conquered her
tears and sobs.
"Do you wish it very much, dear heart?" she asked. "It would be hard to
see Sandy in your Sunday suit, but if you really wish it—"
"Oh, mother, I do," he said: "it's as if Sandy was my own brother, and
little Gip my sister. I think of them so when I lie awake of nights. I
feel as if I almost knew how Jesus longs to find those who are lost,
and have them with Him in heaven. I found Sandy, and now it seems as
if he belonged to me, and must share all I have. If we could only find
little Gip before I die!"
It was a very sore trial for Mrs. Shafto, but she went through it
bravely for Johnny's sake. She brought out his Sunday suit from the
drawer in her own room, where she kept it neatly brushed and folded up;
and she looked for a clean collar and a necktie, such as John Shafto
had been used to wear. It seemed almost as bad as stitching Johnny's
shroud—a sorrowful task that would fall upon her before the spring was
over. She laid them on his bed; and then went downstairs to find Sandy,
and bid him go and dress himself in her boy's best suit.
This was a very important and difficult business to Sandy, and John
Shafto lay watching him with quiet but very great delight. His old rags
had disappeared one by one, and he had learned to keep himself clean
and tidy; but he had never put on any clothes at all to be compared
with these, though they were rubbed a little at the elbows and knees,
and all the seams were somewhat frayed. He brushed his hair before the
small looking glass, and tried anxiously to part his rough, strong
curls as smoothly as John Shafto's fine and thin hair. Very carefully
and slowly he put on the clean white collar, and did his best to fasten
the blue necktie under his chin as neatly as John would have done. But,
after all his efforts, he felt sure he did not look like him, and he
was almost ready to cry with vexation and disappointment. His brown
healthy face and rough hands were very different from John's delicate
appearance.
"Come here, Sandy," said John Shafto, in his low, feeble voice: "come
here, and kiss me."
He had never asked him to kiss him before, and Sandy felt frightened.
But he bent over the pale, sunken face, and touched it as softly with
his lips as he had been used to kiss little Gip when she was asleep.
"Why, nobody 'ud know you now," said John, looking at him with critical
and admiring eyes. "I don't believe your mother 'ud think who it was if
she met you in the streets dressed like this."
"But little Gip 'ud never know me!" cried Sandy, dejectedly. He was
proud of his new clothes; but if they were to stand in the way of his
finding Gip, he would rather return to his old rags. He began to think
that perhaps he was out of the way of finding her, now that he had been
lifted out of their old life. What good would it be to him if he lived
well, and had a comfortable bed to sleep on, and wore fine clothes, if
his little Gip were starved, and cold, and almost naked? He would give
up all, even Mrs. Shafto and his friend Johnny, and go back and down to
the former degradation and misery, if he could only save Gip by doing
so.
"But you'll know little Gip," answered John Shafto: "you couldn't pass
by her, and not know her."
"Ay!" said Sandy: "I'd know her if there were thousands and thousands
of little gels; I'd pick her out among 'em all."
"That's how it is," murmured John Shafto; "we don't know Jesus Christ,
but He knows us. I see plainer how it is. He is seeking us just as you
are seeking Gip. All the world is like little Gip to Him, lost, and
miserable, and starving; and He couldn't be happy, even in heaven, till
He has found us. I think He must be troubled, like you are, about Gip;
but he will find us all some day, though we do not wish Him to find us."
"But can He find us when He likes?" asked Sandy, lifting up his
sorrowful face to look at John.
"Not when He likes," answered John, "or all the world would be safe and
happy now. It's like as if little Gip kept running away from you, and
hiding herself anywhere she could out of your sight. That would be very
hard for you, wouldn't it?"
"Ay!" said Sandy, with a heavy sigh. "But little Gip 'ud never do that
with Sandy."
"But that's what we do with the Lord Jesus Christ," continued John
Shafto, solemnly; "we run away from Him, and hide anywhere, anywhere so
that He should not find us. Oh! Sandy, if all the world would only be
found by Him!"
"I'll be found!" cried Sandy. "See, Lord Jesus! I'm lost from You like
little Gip from me. Find me, wherever You are: find me, and let me
never be lost again. And when You've found me, please let me find my
little Gip."
"Amen!" whispered John Shafto, his face smiling brightly. "He'll find
you, Sandy, never fear; and little Gip as well. Now go down, and I'll
watch you and father walk together across the yard to chapel."
Sandy stole slowly downstairs, half ashamed of his new costume; but
when he stepped into the kitchen, and saw Mrs. Shafto at the sight of
him fall into a chair, and cover her face with her apron, he forgot all
about it, and ran to her side.
"Has anythink hurt you?" he asked earnestly. "Isn't there nothink as I
can do for you? I'm very strong, and I'd do anythink in the world for
you and Johnny. Only you say the word. What are I to do?"
"Nothing!" she answered, still sobbing, and laying her head upon his
shoulder, upon Johnny's jacket.
Whilst Sandy, in utter amazement, ventured to touch her blue ribbons
gently with his finger.
"Nothing, my boy. Only I saw you come down in these clothes, and you
looked partly like Johnny, and yet so very, very different! It's not
all trouble, dear heart! that I'm crying for. I know where he's going
to, and I'm sure you'll be a good boy; but I can't help crying a
little. There, you must go now; Mr. Shafto's quite ready, and it's high
time you were off; and I'll run upstairs, and hold Johnny so as he can
see you."
So John Shafto, held up in his mother's arms, watched Sandy and his
father walk together side by side across the grave-yard. When they
reached the tablet on the chapel wall, Mr. Shafto paused a moment, and
Sandy, turning round, waved his cap for John to see him, though it was
impossible for him to catch a glimpse of John in the dark, low room.
"He'll be a good boy, I know," murmured John Shafto; "and now, if he
could only find little Gip!"
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