OUR FATHER.
FROM this time Elfie began to pay some attention to her personal
appearance. She washed her face and hands, and combed her hair every
morning, before she went out, and, of course, looked less wild; but
her rags, poor child, were past mending, and there seemed no hope of
ever being able to replace these with better clothes now. New ones—new
frocks, new shoes, that gave other little girls so much pleasure—Elfie
had never had. Sometimes she wore a pair of old shoes or boots picked
up in the street, and sometimes she went barefoot. And it was much the
same with frocks and bonnets: sometimes she picked up a rag that would
cover her, or had one given her, and she wore it until it dropped to
pieces. She had never been quite naked; but many times she had been
almost so, until some one had given her something to put on.
She began to wish now that some one would do so again; and formed all
sorts of plans for saving enough money to buy herself a frock at a
second-hand clothes' stall—plans that always failed, for winter was
drawing near, and the two girls found it harder work than ever to pay
the rent and buy bread to eat.
"The rent must be paid," Elfie said over and over again, as if to
convince herself of a fact she half doubted.
Susie said nothing, but stitched away as fast as she could, and always
contrived to have the shilling for the landlord when he called; for she
knew if it were not paid, they would be turned into the street, and
for Elfie's sake, as well as her own, she did not wish this to happen.
Elfie said she did not care, she had always been used to a street life,
but that it would never do for Susie; and so for her sake—to keep
Susie's home for her—she grew more careful and steady, that she might
be trusted by people to do odd jobs for them, and thus bring in a few
pence to add to the weekly store.
But with all Elfie's care and steadiness, and Susie's close stitching,
they had a hard time of it to make ends meet; and Susie grew pale and
weak, and often suffered from pain in her side. She went regularly to
church on Sunday, but she could never persuade Elfie to do so. Church
was for decent folk, not for her, she said; but she looked forward to
sitting down with her arms round Susie's neck, to listen to her reading
from the Bible, on Sunday afternoon.
Sometimes they contrived to have a fire on Sunday, but it was not
often they could have one all the week, except to boil the kettle
occasionally; for Susie still kept up the habit of having regular
meals, and was gradually winning Elfie to like this plan too.
People began to notice the pale, pinched little face under the shabby
black bonnet, that was seen so regularly every Sunday in a quiet corner
of the church; and at length, a lady spoke to her as she was coming out
one day.
"Where do you live, little girl?" asked the lady kindly.
It was very cold, and the lady could not help shivering in her warm
furs, and she noticed that Susie had only a thin cape on.
"In Fisher's Lane, please, ma'am," answered Susie, dropping a courtesy
and blushing.
But the lady did not know Fisher's Lane. "Do you go to the Ragged
School?" she asked.
Susie shook her head. "I don't know where it is," she said.
"That is a pity," said the lady, "for there is a Sunday school there
afternoon and evening, in a nice, warm room, and the teachers would be
glad to see you, I am sure."
"Would they?" said Susie. "I used to go to Sunday school before we came
to live here. Perhaps Elfie knows where it is, and maybe she'll come
with me."
"Ask her," said the lady; "we shall be very glad to see you both."
She did not stay to ask who Elfie was; but she looked after Susie
as she ran down the street, and was surprised to see her join poor,
ragged, neglected-looking Elfie—for Susie still contrived to keep a
decent appearance, although her clothes were so thin and old.
The lady's invitation was repeated to Elfie; but to Susie's surprise
she did not look at all pleased.
"Do you know where the school is?" asked Susie.
Elfie nodded. "Yes, I know where it is, but I shan't go."
"O Elfie, do," said Susie coaxingly.
"No, I shan't. You may, if you want to leave me all alone on Sunday
afternoons," said Elfie sulkily.
"But I don't want to leave you, Elfie; want you to come with me," said
Susie.
"I don't want to come," said Elfie doggedly.
"Why not?" persistently asked Susie.
"I don't like schools, nor them that go to 'em." And to end all further
discussion on the subject, Elfie ran home, leaving Susie to follow more
leisurely.
There was nothing for her to hurry home for. The room looked cold,
bare, and desolate, for they could not indulge in a fire to-day; they
had not been able to make up the rent money, and the thought of this
had troubled Susie until she went to church. There, however, she had
heard the message bidding her to cast her care upon God; and she came
home to the cheerless room, and her dinner of dry bread, feeling as
blithe as a bird.
"Why, what's come to you, Susie?" asked Elfie. "You was crying and
fretting about the rent money before you went out, and now you look as
though you'd got it all safe in the tin box."
The mention of the rent brought a little cloud into Susie's face, but
it was quickly dispelled as she answered, "O Elfie, I wish you could
have heard the minister to-day, and what he said about God taking care
of us."
"It don't seem as though he took much care of you and me," said Elfie
sulkily, as she looked at the empty grate, and tried to draw her rags
over her bare shoulders.
"Are you very cold, Elfie?" asked Susie tenderly.
"I shouldn't think you was very warm," said Elfie crossly. "Your frock
ain't in rags perhaps, but it's as thin as mine."
"Yes, it is thin," said Susie, "and I'm cold; but it seems to me God
does care even for our being cold, for he's sent to tell us we may go
where there is a fire this afternoon."
"Where's that?" asked Elfie sharply.
"At the school the lady told me about," answered Susie. "She said there
was a fire there, and that they would be very glad to see us."
"Well, I shan't go," said Elfie. "I'd rather stop here in the cold."
This seemed unreasonable to Susie. "Do tell me why you won't go?" she
said.
"No, I shan't. And if you go, don't you tell anybody you know me," said
Elfie.
"Why not? Have you been to the school before?" asked Susie.
"I shan't tell you, and I won't go," said Elfie doggedly.
Susie was puzzled. She hardly knew what to do, for she did not like
to leave Elfie, and yet she wanted to go to school. But at length she
decided to stay at home and read to her companion, and go to the school
in the evening, if Elfie would show her the way; for they had no fire
and no candle to burn to-night, and it would be very dull to sit there
in the dark listening to the noises in the other lodgers' rooms, for
there was rarely a Sunday evening passed without a quarrel in the
house. Elfie would go out to play with some of her companions as soon
as it grew dusk; but Susie had given up going out to play on Sunday.
After a little persuasion, Elfie agreed to take Susie to the corner of
the street where the school was; but she would not go any further, and
she promised to meet her at the same corner when she came out after
school.
"But I don't know what time the school will be over," said Susie.
"I do," said Elfie with a short laugh; "but mind you ain't to tell any
of 'em who showed you the way," she added in a more serious tone.
Susie promised not to mention her name, and she hoped the lady who had
invited her would forget that she had said she would bring Elfie with
her; but she could not help thinking it very strange that Elfie should
dislike the idea of coming so much.
The children had begun to assemble when she reached the school; and
hardly knowing where she was going, Susie went into the large, light,
warm room, and looked round for the lady whom she had seen in the
morning. She was not there, but another teacher came forward and asked
her name, and where she lived; and on hearing she could read put her
into the Bible class at once.
Susie looked shyly at her companions, who were, of course, looking
at her, but not very shyly, for many of them looked as though they
were used to a street life, and most of them were older than herself.
What a treat it was to these poor girls to sit down in a warm, light
room, Susie could only guess. To her it was very delightful—the mere
sensation of light and warmth; and the only drawback to her enjoyment
was the thought that poor Elfie was not sharing it.
She could join in singing the opening hymn; and then, when the books
were given out, she found her place more quickly than the rest, and
ventured to lift her eyes to the teacher's face for a minute, and then
saw that the lady was looking at her.
"You have not been to the school before, have you, my dear?" she said
in a gentle voice.
"No, ma'am," answered Susie.
"I hope we shall see you very often now. Can you come every Sunday?"
said the lady.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Susie.
And then, the others having found their places, the reading commenced.
The lady explained the meaning of each verse as they went on, but spoke
more particularly of God's care for his children.
When school was over, and Susie met Elfie, she told her of the evening
lesson, and how like it was to what she had heard in the morning; but
Elfie answered, "I'm going to take care of myself now, and then perhaps
God will do it for me by-and-by."
"I think we need God's care now," sighed Susie, thinking of the
deficient store of halfpence in the tin box at home.
"Well, we don't get it," said Elfie defiantly; "and going to that
school won't bring it neither. Don't go again, Susie," she added.
"But I like it; and I must go now, because I've promised," said Susie.
"I do wish you would go with me, it is so nice, Elfie. We sing, and
read, and pray to God; and the room is so beautiful with the fire and
the gas."
"I know all about it," said Elfie sulkily; "and I know just what you'll
do too: you'll go to that school, and then you won't like me. Some of
'em 'll tell you I'm a bad girl, and then you won't speak to me." And
the thought of this so overcame poor Elfie that she burst into tears.
Susie put her arm round her neck, and drew her own thin cape over her
shoulders. "Nobody shall make me say that about you, Elfie," she said.
"Don't cry. I'll love you always; and you shall come to school with me,
and learn to read."
But Elfie still shook her head about going to school. "I can't go
there," she said.
"Yes, you shall, Elfie. I know why you don't like to go; it's because
your frock is so old. But we'll try and make another this week. I think
mother would like you to have her frock to go to school in," she added.
"And there's her shawl; perhaps we could make two of it; and I don't
think she'd mind, as we are so cold."
Susie was determined that nothing should damp her happiness to-night,
and she would not listen to Elfie's refusal to go to school. She felt
brave, too, or she could not have spoken about cutting up her mother's
dress and wearing her shawl as she did. Yes, the little girl was brave
and hopeful. What she had heard of God's care and tender love to-day
had brought back all the lessons of her childhood; and she could
believe that God was her Father, and cared—really cared for and loved
her.
When they reached home she said, "I wish you'd kneel down and say 'Our
Father' of a night, like I do, Elfie."
"But I don't know it," said Elfie.
"Well, I'll teach you, shall I? You can say it after me in bed until
you know it by yourself; only, I'd like you to kneel down and say it
first, like I did to mother."
Elfie was generally willing to do anything to please her companion,
and she very readily consented to this. And so, after shutting the
door, the two girls knelt down in the pale moonlight beside a chair,
and Elfie repeated the words slowly and reverently as Susie uttered
them—the divine words that make all men brothers and all women sisters.
There must have been some such thought as this in Susie's mind, for as
she crept into bed after Elfie she said, "I did not think of it before,
but you are my sister, Elfie, so I shall never forget to love you;" and
she kissed her as she spoke.
Elfie threw her arms round her. "Say you'll love me always," she
whispered; "for there's nobody else in all the world if you don't."
"I do love you," said Susie. "But oh, Elfie, I wish you'd believe God
loves you too—that he is our Father."
"I don't know nothing about fathers; I never had a father," said
Elfie. "But if you'll love me, perhaps I shall believe that God does,
by-and-by—especially as the Lord Jesus was a poor man. I like to hear
about that, because, you see, it makes it seem somehow that he knows
all about poor people—even street rubbish like I am, if he had no bed
and no home."
Before they went to sleep that night, Elfie had learned to repeat the
Lord's Prayer almost perfectly (she could learn quickly if she liked);
and at last dropped to sleep murmuring the words, "Our Father—our
Father." And Susie thought over all she had heard that day of the
heavenly Father's love; and at last fell asleep, to dream that her
mother had come back to lift all the care off her shoulders, and
shelter her from every rough wind that blew.
But Monday morning brought the every-day anxiety with it; and Susie's
first thought was of the landlord, and what he would say when he came
in the afternoon and found she had only tenpence of the rent saved up
in the tin box. She tried to recall something of what she had heard the
previous day—tried to cast her care upon God; but it was very hard;
and it was not until she had knelt down and prayed, ay, and sobbed out
her trouble before him, that she could believe any of it this morning,
although she had felt so sure of it the day before.
Elfie had woke up first and gone out. She often did this if there was
only a small piece of bread in the house, because then she could leave
the bread for Susie, and pick up her breakfast at the market, or about
the streets.
So, after eating her bread, Susie took out her work, sitting upon
the low stool, with the blanket of the bed wrapped round her, for it
was bitterly cold this morning, and they had no fire. They had been
afraid to buy coals or wood, as they could not make up the rent. This
was Susie's great anxiety this morning. What the landlord would say,
she did not know. He was a gruff, cross man; and Susie dreaded his
visit—sat trembling with fear at the thought of hearing him come up the
stairs; and again and again lifted her heart in asking that they might
not be turned out of their home.