MABEL'S FIRST LESSON IN ORGAN-GRINDING.
The next day Christie had to go out as usual. Old Treffy seemed no worse
than before,--he was able to sit up, and Christie opened the small
window before he went out to let a breath of fresh air into the close
attic. But there was very little fresh air anywhere that day. The
atmosphere was heavy and stifling, and poor Christie's heart felt
depressed and weary. He turned, he hardly knew why, to the suburban
road, and stopped before the house with the pretty garden. He wanted to
see those merry little faces again,--perhaps they would cheer him; he
felt so very dull to-day.
Christie was not disappointed this time. He had hardly turned the handle
of the organ twice before Mabel and Charlie appeared at the nursery
window; and, after satisfying themselves that it really _was_ Christie,
their own organ-boy, they ran into the garden, and stood beside him as
he played.
"Doesn't he turn it nicely?" whispered Charlie to his sister.
"Yes," said little Mabel; "I wish I had an organ, don't you, Charlie?"
"Shall I ask papa to buy us one?" asked her brother.
"I don't know, Charlie, if mamma would like it always," said Mabel. "She
has such bad headaches, you know."
"Well; but up in the nursery she would hardly hear it, I'm sure," said
Charlie, regretfully.
"I _should_ so like to turn it," said Mabel, shyly looking up into
Christie's face.
"All right, missie; come here," said Christie.
And standing on tip-toe at his side, little Mabel took hold of the
handle of the organ with her tiny white hand. Very slowly and carefully
she turned it, so slowly that her mamma came to the window to see if the
organ-boy had been taken ill.
It was a pretty sight which that young mother looked upon. The little
fair, delicate child, in her light summer dress, turning the handle of
the old, faded barrel-organ, and the organ-boy standing by, watching her
with admiring eyes. Then little Mabel looked up, and saw her mother's
face at the window, and smiled and nodded to her, delighted to find that
she was watching. And then Mabel went on playing with a happy
consciousness that mother was listening. For there was no one in the
world that little Mabel loved so much as her mother.
But Mabel turned so slowly that she grew tired of the melancholy wails
of "Poor Mary Ann."
"Change it, please, organ-boy," she said; "make it play 'Home, sweet
Home;' mother _does_ like that so."
But Christie knew that "Rule Britannia" lay between them and "Home,
sweet Home;" he took the handle from Mabel, and saying, brightly, "All
right, missie, I'll make it come as quick as I can," he turned it round
so fast, that if old Treffy had been within hearing, he would certainly
have died from fright about his dear old organ long before the month was
over. Several people in the opposite houses came to their windows to
look out; they thought the organ must be possessed with some evil
spirit, so slowly did it go one minute, so quickly the next.
But they understood how it was a minute afterwards when little Mabel
again began to turn, and very slowly and deliberately the first notes of
"Home, sweet Home," was sounded forth. She turned the handle of the
organ until "Home, sweet Home," was quite finished, and then, with a
sigh of satisfaction, she gave it up to Christie.
"I like 'Home, sweet Home,'" she said; "it's such a pretty tune."
"Yes," said Christie, "it's my favorite, missie. Where is 'Home, sweet
Home'?" he asked suddenly, as he remembered his promise to old Treffy.
"That's _my_ home," said little Mabel, nodding her head in the direction
of the pretty house. "I don't know where yours is, Christie."
"I haven't much of a place to call home, missie," said Christie; "me and
old Treffy, we live together in an old attic, and that won't be for
long,--only another month, Miss Mabel, and I shall have no home then."
"Poor organ-boy,--poor Christie!" said little Mabel, in a pitying voice.
Charlie had taken the handle of the organ now, and was rejoicing in
"Poor Mary Ann;" but Mabel hardly listened to him; she was thinking of
the poor boy who had no home but an attic, and who soon would have no
home at all.
"There's another home somewhere," said Christie, "isn't there, missie?
Isn't heaven some sort of a home?"
"Oh, yes, there's heaven," said little Mabel, brightly; "you'll have a
home _there_, won't you, organ-boy?"
"Where is heaven?" said Christie.
"It's up there," said little Mabel, pointing up to the sky; "up so high,
Christie. The little stars live in heaven; I used to think they were the
angels' eyes, but nurse says it's silly to think that."
"I like the stars," said Christie.
"Yes," said Mabel, "so do I; and you'll see them all when you go to
heaven, Christie, I'm sure you will."
"What is heaven like, Miss Mabel?" asked Christie.
"Oh, it's so nice," said little Mabel; "they have white dresses on, and
the streets are all gold, Christie, all gold and shining. And Jesus is
there, Christie; wouldn't you like to see Jesus?" she added, in a
whisper.
"I don't know," said Christie, in a bewildered tone; "I don't know much
about Him."
"Don't you love Jesus, Christie?" said Mabel, with a very grave,
sorrowful face, and with tears in her large brown eyes, "Oh, organ-boy,
don't you love Jesus?"
"No," said Christie; "I know so little about Him, Miss Mabel."
"But you can't go to heaven if you don't love Jesus, Christie. Oh! I'm
so sorry,--you won't have a home at all; what _will_ you do?" and the
tears ran down little Mabel's cheeks.
But just then the bell rang for dinner, and nurse's voice called the
children in.
Christie walked on very thoughtfully. He was thinking of little Mabel's
words, and of little Mabel's tears. "You can't go to heaven if you don't
love Jesus," she had said; "and then you won't have a home at all." It
was a new thought for Christie, and a very sad thought. What if he
should never, never know anything of "Home, sweet Home"? And then came
the remembrance of poor old Treffy, his dear old master, who had only
another month to live. Did he love Jesus? He had never heard old Treffy
mention His name; and what if Treffy should die, and never go to heaven
at all, but go to the other place! Christie had heard of hell; he did
not know much about it, and he had always fancied it was for very bad
people. He must tell Treffy about Mabel's words. Perhaps, after all, his
old master did love Jesus. Christie hoped very much that he did. He
longed for evening to come, that he might go home and ask him.
The afternoon was still more close and sultry than the morning had been,
and little Christie was very weary. The organ was heavy for him at all
times, and it seemed heavier than usual to-day. He was obliged to sit
down to rest for a few minutes on a doorstep in one of the back streets
about half a mile from the court where old Treffy lived. As he was
sitting there, with his organ resting against the wall, two women met
each other just in front of the doorstep, and after asking most
affectionately after each other's health they began to talk, and
Christie could not help hearing every word they said.
"What's that place?" said one of them, looking across the road at a
long, low building with a board in front of it.
"Oh; that's our new mission-room, Mrs. West," said the other; "it
belongs to the church at the corner of Melville Street. A young man
comes and preaches there every Sunday night; I like to hear him, I do,"
she went on, "he puts it so plain."
"Puts what plain, Mrs. Smith?" said her friend.
"Oh, all about heaven, and how we're to get there, and about Jesus and
what He's done for us. He's a kind man, is Mr. Wilton; he came to see
our Tommy when he was badly. Do you know him, Mrs. West?"
"No," said Mrs. West; "maybe I'll come to-morrow; what time is it?"
"It begins at seven o'clock every Sunday," said Mrs. Smith; "and you
needn't bother about your clothes, there's no one there but poor folks
like ourselves."
"Well, I'll come, Mrs. Smith. Good day." And the two parted.
And little Christie had heard all they said, and had firmly made up his
mind to be at the mission-room the next evening at seven o'clock. He
must lose no time in making out what Treffy wanted to know. One day of
the month was gone already.
"Master Treffy," said Christie, that night "do you love Jesus?"
"Jesus!" said the old man; "no, Christie, I can't say I do. I suppose I
ought to; good folks do, don't they?"
"Master Treffy," said Christie, solemnly, "if you don't love Jesus, you
can't go to heaven, and you'll never have a home any more,--never any
more."
"Ay, ay, Christie, that's true, I'm afraid. When I was a little chap no
bigger than you, I used to hear tell about these things, but I gave no
heed to them then, and I've forgotten all I ever heard. I've been
thinking a deal lately since I was took so bad, and some of it seems to
come back to me. But I can't rightly mind what I was told. It's a bad
job, Christie, a bad job."