THE SUCCESS.
And the day came, after years of patient labour.
The morning sun shone in brightly upon a room, in one of those pleasant
villas which abound in the suburbs of London. A party were assembled at
breakfast--an old, infirm man, and his son and daughter. The old man was
Mr. Leicester, and the other two were Raymond and Madge. Their father
had come back to them, broken down in health and spirits. Raymond met
him accidentally in the streets of London, and brought him to the little
home where he and Madge lived, and they had cared for him tenderly ever
since.
We last saw Raymond and Madge almost as children; we find them now grown
up. Raymond's character has deepened. He is a great artist, and a great
man also--for, added to the depth and strength of mind which the mastery
of one subject gives, there were many noble traits in him--and many men
now feel themselves privileged if they call Raymond Leicester their
friend.
Madge has the same character, and nearly the same face, as she had when
a child. She is still Raymond's fireside genius, and a dutiful, tender
daughter to her father.
But we were speaking of that sunshiny morning when they were at
breakfast. A newspaper lay by Raymond's side, and when he had sipped his
coffee he unfolded it. "The Academy is open, Madge," he said quickly;
then ran his eye down the long columns.
Madge looked up eagerly, and saw the deepening colour in his cheek as he
read. She took up the paper as he laid it down, quickly found the place,
and her heart bounded as she read:--
[Illustration: THE NOTICE IN THE NEWSPAPER.]
"But, without doubt, the picture which attracts
most notice is the one which Mr. Raymond Leicester
exhibits. We feel, as we study it, that we are
gazing on the work of a great man, and a
deservedly famous artist. He has not belied the
early promise of his youth; and that man must have
but little taste and good feeling who can move
away, after the contemplation of this masterpiece,
without feeling that he is the better for having
seen it," &c.
The tears blinded Madge, so that she could read no more. But what more
was there for her to read? The wish of her life was fulfilled. Raymond
was a great artist--the world proclaimed him so--and he was her brother,
her pride, and her glory.
"Little Madge," and Raymond's hand rested with its caressing touch upon
her head, "I feel that I owe it all to you."
"No, no," she answered, laying her hand upon his. "No, not to me--to Mr.
Smith."
"Noble-hearted man!" said Raymond warmly; and then his voice sunk so low
that only Madge could hear it. "I will go and ask for Lilian to-day."
"God speed you!" said Madge, smiling through her tears; "and papa and I
will go and look at your picture in the Academy."
Anybody who had been in the Royal Academy that morning would have seen a
feeble old man leaning on the arm of his daughter, lingering near the
picture round which every one thronged. Madge was feasting on their
praise of it, and repeating chosen bits to her father, who was very
proud of his son now. It was a happy day to Madge, as she looked at the
picture, and felt that Raymond was worthy of the praise that was
bestowed upon it. She thanked God in her heart that he had spared
Raymond's life, and allowed her to see this day.
[Illustration: IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY.]
Raymond gained Lilian for his wife, but he is "Madge's glory" still.
[Illustration]
TOWN DAISIES.
CHAPTER I.
A LONELY LIFE.
Mr. Valentine Shipton was one of the wealthiest farmers in Dilbury; and
yet every one pitied him. He did not ask them to do so, but they could
not help it, he seemed so lonely and forlorn in the world. Nobody loved
him, unless it might be the big cat which slept by his fireside; and
even she did not care very much about him, so that she was left
undisturbed in the possession of her own corner. Every day Mr. Shipton
walked out and took a survey of his premises, gave directions to his
men, and then returned to his large, old-fashioned, dreary-looking
parlour, and smoked his pipe over the fire in the winter, or in his
front porch in summer. Every Sunday he took down his best hat from its
peg, and his large red Prayer Book from the shelf, and walked to the
village church; but he never spoke to any one either going or returning,
and even the little children shrunk away from him as he passed them.
No one ever came across the threshold of Dilbury Farm, except the
tenants to pay their rent to him, or his men to receive their wages; and
Mr. Shipton never went away except to the neighbouring fairs, and then
he always returned in the evening, looking more moody than ever.
Picture then the astonishment of the old woman called Betty, who cooked
his dinner, when her master, one evening in December, suddenly came into
the kitchen, and taking his pipe from his mouth, said,--"Betty, I'm
going to London to-morrow, and most likely I shall be away for a
fortnight!"
"To London, master! why, that be many miles off!"
"I know it is, Betty; and mind you lock up the house every evening at
six o'clock, and never allow any one across the door-step."
Betty was too much astonished to make any answer, she only smoothed down
her apron very vigorously, and gazed at her master as if he were
slightly demented. Then a sudden idea occurred to her, and she gasped
out, "Then, master, you'll want your best shirts put up; and I must see
to it, and get the ruffles done up quick."
Farmer Shipton gave her no answer, but turned round and left the room.
"Sure it's some mistake," said old Betty musingly, as she put her irons
in the fire; "he'll change again before to-morrow."
But Mr. Shipton did not change; and the next morning early his gig was
at the door, his old-fashioned portmanteau was put into it, and
presently the old man himself got in and drove off as fast as the old
mare was disposed to go. This part of the journey was all very well, and
the farmer felt in better spirits than usual; the sky was bright and
clear above him, and the gig went on smoothly enough over the well-made
road to the station. But the train was an invention which Mr. Shipton
utterly despised, and when he found himself seated in the railway
carriage, and in quicker motion than he had ever experienced before, he
felt inclined to stop at the first station and go back to Dilbury at a
more reasonable pace. However, he had a motive for going to London, and
so he resisted his inclination, and was whirled on until he arrived at
the great metropolis. After a most confusing search for his portmanteau,
he discovered it being whisked off by another man; but having succeeded
at last in obtaining possession of it, and taking his place in an
omnibus, he was soon rattling away over the paved streets in the
direction of Islington. The omnibus deposited him at the corner of a
street, and there he found a boy who was willing to carry his luggage to
a small and retired row of houses which was his destination.
"Which house?" said the lad when they had reached Crown Row. Farmer
Shipton stopped, drew his spectacles from out of their hiding-place
under his waistcoat, placed them on his nose, and then felt in his
pocket for a leather pocket-book, which generally lived there. When he
had opened it, he turned over the papers one by one--receipts for money,
farm accounts, bills, &c.--until he came to two letters tied together.
These he drew out. One of them was written in a trembling, almost
illegible hand, and the other had a deep black edge to it--it was to
this one he referred, and then folding it up again and replacing them
both in the pocket-book, he turned to the boy and said,--
"No. Five, boy--but stay, I want a lodging first; I must leave my box
somewhere before I go out visiting."
"No. Five--and here be lodgings to let," said the boy with a grin.
"The very thing," said the old farmer, rubbing his hands; and then he
added to himself, "Now I can watch the state of things quietly, without
saying anything to anybody; I'll see what these folks are made of."
He knocked at the door and it was opened by a tidy little girl, whose
face would have been pretty if the fresh air of the country had brought
the roses into it; at least so Farmer Shipton thought, as she dropped a
courtesy to him.
"Lodgings to let here?" he inquired in his own gruff, surly tone.
"Yes, sir."
"Got a room that would do me?"
"Yes, sir; I think so."
"Mother at home, girl, or your missus?"
"Mother is, sir; will you please to walk inside?"
"Put down the box, lad, and here's your sixpence;--shameful charge to
make; why, in the part I come from, a bigger lad than you would have got
no more for a whole day's work; but it's my belief this London is made
up of thieves and fools! Here's a staircase dark as midnight! Why, they
say country folks come to town to be _enlightened_--but it doesn't seem
much like it! Thieves and fools--thieves and fools. Thieves to do the
fools, and fools to be done by the thieves!" Thus grumbling, he got up
the first flight of stairs, and paused at a door which the little girl
who guided him opened. And here _we_ must pause for a moment, just to
say that Farmer Shipton, for reasons best known to himself, dropped his
name outside the door, and entered that room as Mr. Smith.
A middle-aged woman, dressed in rather rusty black, and wearing a
widow's cap, stood up as he appeared, and laid down some very fine
needlework, which she was engaged upon. A girl about a year younger than
the little maiden who had opened the door, was sitting on a low stool by
her mother's side, cutting out a paper-pattern; and a boy of about nine
years old was stretched on the rag-mat fast asleep. The room was
scrupulously neat, but very poorly furnished; and the old farmer looked
round keenly as he stood on the threshold. "Hum!" he said to himself,
"no extravagance here, most certainly!" but aloud he said, "I want a
lodging; are there any to be had?"
"I have got a nice bedroom, sir; I'll show you," said the widow; "and
you can have a small sitting-room down-stairs; but I only own the upper
flight of this house."
"Hum! one room would do!--can I board with you?"
"Well, sir, our lodgers don't generally do that, but--"
"Can't take the room unless I do," he interrupted; "I've not come to
London to squander _my_ cash, I can tell you."
There was a struggle in the widow's mind; she sorely wanted money, and
she might not have another chance of letting the room. This grumpy old
man might prove pleasanter on further acquaintance; at any rate he might
not be so disagreeable as many another; and with one glance at her
little sick boy upon the rug, the mother made up her mind and decided to
take her lodger as a boarder.
Mr. Smith was quite satisfied with his room, and though he pretended to
grumble at the price asked for it, he really thought it moderate; so he
unpacked his portmanteau, laid the shirts which Betty had done up so
speedily and well in a drawer, and then sat down once more to read the
letters which he had consulted before knocking at the door of No. 5.
Shall we read them, too? it may, perhaps, give us some clue to the old
man's secret.
The first, as we said before, was written in a trembling hand, and
hardly legible:--
"MY DEAR FATHER,--If I had strength and health to
do it, I would come to you, and never leave off
asking your pardon until you had given it. Father,
I am dying, and these few words are the prayer of
a dying man. It was wrong to leave you, even
though I didn't like the country, and longed for
the great city--it was wrong to leave you all
alone in your sorrow. If Val had lived he would
have been a better son to you than me--may God
forgive me. You will get this, father, when
perhaps it is too late; but if you have any pity,
any love left for your boy, come to me once
more--_once more_, father! I am leaving my wife
and four children quite unprovided for; will you
be a father to them? I do not ask it for _my_
sake, but for their helplessness--the fatherless
and the widow--"
Here the trembling hand had failed, and a blot of ink showed that the
pen had fallen from the writer's hand; it was taken up to add,--
"Come to me, dear father, and forgive your dying
son.
"ALAN SHIPTON."
The father had _not_ gone, and the next letter was from the widow:--
"DEAR SIR,--My husband is dead--almost his last
words were, 'Will father come in time?'--he longed
to see you once more. He suffered very much at
the last, but he was very happy, and I look
forward to meeting him again in the land where
there is no more parting. I have moved to smaller
rooms with my children, at No. 5 Crown Row,
Islington, where I have taken the top flight in
the house, and hope to find a lodger to take the
one room which we shall not occupy. I shall be
able to earn sufficient money, I hope, by
dressmaking to support myself and my three
youngest children--my eldest boy Alan has gone to
sea. I wish I could think that my dear husband had
your entire forgiveness.--I remain, sir, yours
dutifully,
"ELLEN SHIPTON."
The date of this letter was a year old, and the farmer had written
underneath it, "Hypocrites! I know town folks better than they think!"
Why then was he reading it over? Why was he in this house under the name
of Mr. Smith? Why had he after so many months come to seek out these
unknown relations? It was because the old man's heart was
lonely--because underneath his gruff exterior he had a kindly
heart--because he longed to have some one who would care for him and
comfort his old age. This was why he had left his country home to come
up to the great city. He had determined to find out his son's family,
with the purpose of adopting one of the children, if he found that the
faults which he believed to be inherent in all children of the town were
such as he could get rid of without much trouble to himself; but he
thought it would be easier to watch them if they did not know who he
was; for, as he said to himself, "they are quite cunning enough to
deceive me--town children always are." And now having given you this
little insight into the old man's mind, let us return to the widow's
room and make acquaintance with her and her children.
"Mother," whispered Ellen, the little girl who had opened the door to
the stranger, "is he really to be with us all day? How horrid it will
be!"
"Hush, my dear; don't let us think of that, let us think of the money we
shall get, and all the good it will do our little Maurice. Poor child!
how pale he looks there on the rug!"
"He looks like father did," said Janet, the second daughter, who was
cutting out the pattern by her mother's side. A shudder passed through
Mrs. Shipton's frame, and for one moment she raised her hand to her
face with an expression of pain.
"Janet, don't say that," whispered Ellen. "It hurts mother."
Janet looked up. "Mother, dear, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean so bad.
Maurice is better than he was, isn't he? He had quite a colour this
morning, and was not so tired as he was yesterday; and by the time Alan
comes home, I expect he will be quite well."
Her mother put her work down for a minute, and laid her hand upon
Janet's fair hair--
"My good little girl, I didn't think you meant to pain me, and I know
how you love your little brother. You both help me beautifully in taking
care of him, and if it's God's will I think he will get quite well--but
he sadly wants care. If your dear grandmother was alive, I'd send him
into the country to her for a little bit, to my old home. I know _that_
fresh air would soon make him well again."
"Mother, I'd like to see your home. The house with the roses growing
over it, and the school where grandmother taught, and the church, and
the green fields, and the hills, and the--"
"Hush, Janet; here's the old gentleman."
Mr. Smith came in and sat down. First he cleared his throat, then
settled his stiff cravat, crossed his legs, and looked round on the
little party.
"Girls go to school, Mrs.--what's your name?"
"Shipton, sir, Mrs. Shipton. No, sir, my little girls stop at home and
help me."
"Help, hum! not much help in them, never is in town girls--think of
nothing but lark and fine dresses. Do they earn anything?"
"No, sir, not yet; they will by-and-by, but I think they do quite enough
now in helping me."
"Hum! got any more children, Mrs. Shipton?"
"One boy at sea, sir."
"At sea!--ran away?"
"No!" burst indignantly from Janet and Ellen; "he went because he got a
good chance; and he didn't like going, but he said he wouldn't stop and
burden mother."
"He's a good son, sir--my boy Alan!" said the mother proudly.
"Alan!" said the old man, lingering on the name; "why do you call him
that?"
"It was his father's name, sir," said the widow, as she bent her head
lower over her work.
Ellen noticed that the old gentleman bit his lip and looked down on the
ground, and she thought he must be rather kind, because he did not ask
any more questions, and did not look at her mother's sad face.
At this moment Maurice roused himself from his heavy sleep, and looked
round in stupid, slumbering wonder upon the stranger who seemed to have
made himself so much at home.
Janet ran to his side, and eagerly whispered the news, while Maurice
rubbed his eyes and took a good look at the new-comer.
"Hum! not much stuff in that little chap," said Mr. Smith.
"He has been very ill," replied the mother, looking anxiously at her
youngest child.
"Doctor's bill to pay, I suppose?"
"Yes," she answered hastily.
"Make haste, boy, and get well--sick boys are expensive things."
"What a queer man," said little Maurice.
"Come, Maury, come to mother's room, and I'll put you neat," said Ellen
kindly, as she took his little thin hand and led him away.
Then Mr. Smith put on his spectacles and drew the paper from his pocket,
and spoke no more until tea-time.
After that meal was over, the mother went out to deliver her parcel of
work, and the two little girls sat down with their sewing.
Suddenly their lodger spoke: "Do you like stories, children?"
"Yes, oh yes!" they answered eagerly, while a look of pleasure came over
Maurice's pale, shy face.
"What shall it be about?"
"Do you know much about the country, sir?" said Janet.
"Yes, my girl, more than most folks."
"Please, then, tell us about that," said Ellen.
The old man looked satisfied, and began a long description of the
country delights of his boyhood. The children listened attentively to
them; it was like some fairy tale, or a story of enchanted ground.
"Father used to tell us things like that," said little Janet.
"Did he?" said the old man quickly. "Did your father love the country?"
"Yes; but he ran away and left it, because he thought he would like the
town better," replied Ellen.
"And did he?" asked the stranger, while he looked keenly into the little
girl's face.
"No," she answered thoughtfully. "He said it wasn't right of him, and
that he had often wished himself back again there;--but I don't believe
father ever did what was wrong."
"Hum!" Mr. Smith suddenly looked away towards the fire and cleared his
throat violently; as he did so, his eyes rested on little Maurice, who
was sitting on his little stool in the chimney-corner, with the
firelight falling on his face. The old man started and muttered low,
"Alan, my little lad!" Then gave an impatient pshaw! and turned again
to Ellen.
"The river ran right through the fields, and my brother used to bathe in
it, and fish--ay, many's the hour we've spent on its banks with a rod
and basket--many's the dish we've brought back in pride to our mother."
Suddenly Maurice got up and came to his side. "Did you ever see a boy
drowned?"
Mr. Smith looked at the child in silent amazement for a moment, but
Maurice repeated his question.
"Did you?"
"Yes," answered the old man in a tremulous voice, while his hands shook
as he clasped them together.
"Uncle Val was drowned," Maurice went on, "quite drowned in the
water--father said so--he was drowned deep down under the willow-trees."
"Hush, Maury dear; it was very dreadful: father used to sigh when he
spoke of Uncle Val, and Maurice is always thinking about him; please,
forgive him, sir."
Mr. Smith did not answer, and at this moment the mother came in.
The children received her with delight, telling her, immediately upon
her entrance, that Mr. Smith came from the country, and could tell
beautiful stories. Mrs. Shipton thanked him gratefully for being so kind
to her little ones, and began to feel more comfortable about the
expediency of having admitted him into their family circle.
It was soon time for the children to go to bed; but before he left the
room, little Maurice knelt down beside his mother and said his evening
prayer. Mr. Smith watched the child with curious attention as he prayed,
and once or twice with a sudden abruptness he cleared his throat and
crossed and uncrossed his legs.
Maurice never raised his head, but went on with the simple words, "Bless
dear mother, and Nellie, and Janet; and take care of Alan out on the sea
this night, and bring him safe home; and bless grandfather, and take
care of him now that he is an old man. For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
Why did the lodger start? Why did he so hastily dash his hand across his
eyes, then stand up and go to his own room? When there, why did the old
man let the bitter scalding tears run down his cheeks? why did those
broken, mournful words come from his lips,--
"Alan! Alan! my son; would God I had died for thee, Alan, my son!" He
paused, then went on more sorrowfully:--"Why, why did you leave me, if
you loved me? Oh, my boy! why did you break my heart, Alan?--Dead! dead!
and I am alone now; yet you taught your children to pray for the lonely old
man. Bless you, my boy--too late--too late--my blessing would have made
you happy in life, but now it can do nothing for you."
Then the old man put his head outside the door, and called to Ellen, who
was passing, to say that he was going to bed.
But it was long before sleep came to him, for he lay thinking of the old
days, long ago, when children had loved him, when life had been sunny
and warm,--why had it grown so chill and cold of late? Ah, Farmer
Shipton, there is but one thing which can make life full of warmth and
sunshine, and that is the love of God.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
TRANSPLANTED DAISIES.
A month soon passed away, and old Mr. Smith had become quite one of the
household. He was very kind in his manner to the children, though
sometimes blunt and abrupt, but he seemed constantly to be watching
their mother, with a suspicion which she could not understand. However,
he was out a great deal, and she did not find him at all in the way, and
she was glad the children had made friends with him.
"Mother, I like Mr. Smith; he's very good to us; but isn't he a funny
man?" said Ellen one evening, and she looked up from her work as she
spoke.
"I think he's very kind to you, my dear, and you are quite right to like
him," replied Mrs. Shipton slowly, for there was something about her
lodger which she could not understand; and she was not quite sure
whether she liked him or not.
"He goes out to see London, doesn't he, mother?"
"Yes; he has never been here before, and there is plenty for a stranger
to see."
"But, mother."
"Well, Ellen?"
"I think he's very kind, and all that; but I don't think he's happy:
often and often when I look up, I see him looking at me with his eyes
full of tears. Isn't it odd and queer for a man to cry. Father never
cried."
Mrs. Shipton did not answer; why should the child know of all the bitter
tears which her father had shed?
"Perhaps Mr. Smith has some trouble that we do not know of, dear."
"I think he has, mother; but wasn't it kind of him to get that bottle of
wine for Maurice?"
"Yes; poor little Maurice! Ellen, I sometimes think--," and the mother's
voice trembled.
"What, mother?"
"I think he's going from me too;" and the poor woman put down her work,
and bowed her head in her hands.
Little Ellen came up close to her mother, and slipping her arm round her
neck, laid her face close to hers, and whispered, "Mother, mother, don't
cry--God will take care of Maurice; he won't let him die."
"I think sometimes that he will, he is so like poor father, and he seems
so delicate and weakly, and I have no means of getting him the
strengthening things he needs."
"But, mother, he is better than he was."
"Not much, dear; he has never got over that illness, and sometimes I
think that he will not live much longer; but I cannot let him go--my
boy--my youngest--my little Maurice."
"Mother, we will pray to God to make him well; and you say God always
hears us when we pray."
"Yes, dear, yes, he does; pray to him, dear Nellie; we will all pray to
him to spare little Maurice."
The mother and daughter had not perceived that Mr. Smith had entered the
room, and was standing opposite to them.
"What's the matter, eh? what's the matter?" said the old man, as Ellen
looked up, and he caught sight of the tears on her cheeks. Mrs. Shipton
got up quickly and hurried out of the room; and Ellen dried her eyes,
and busied herself in putting the work away.
Just then Janet came in with Maurice, and they eagerly claimed a story
from Mr. Smith. The old man looked earnestly at them for a minute, and
then said, "I don't know any story to-night, little ones."
"Then tell us something about the country," said Maurice.
"You should see a corn-field, children; that's the sight," said Mr.
Smith. "Oh, how you'd like to see them binding up the sheaves, and how
quickly the sickles cut down the ripe grain!"
"But don't the men cut down beautiful flowers at the same time?" said
Janet. "Father used to tell us about the flowers."
The old man was silent for a moment, and then said quickly,
"Flowers--ah! poor children, you don't know what flowers are here, in
your smoky, dirty town."
"What kind of flowers grow in the country?" said Ellen.
"Why, there's primroses, and violets, and roses, and honeysuckle, and
poppies, and a hundred things."
"Well, we've got flowers in the town too," said Janet.
"Indeed," said Mr. Smith incredulously. "I haven't discovered them yet,
except a few things, stunted and withered, and all boxed up in smoky
gardens."
Janet smiled to herself, and determined that she would show the country
stranger the truth of her words.
The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Smith went to the nearest church with
Ellen and Janet, while Mrs. Shipton stayed at home with Maurice.
Janet did not return with the others, but when they had been in a few
minutes, her bounding footstep was heard on the stairs, and she entered
with a whole handful of daisies, which she held out triumphantly to Mr.
Smith.
"There!" she cried, "there are flowers in the town!"
Mr. Smith laughed. "Where did these come from, little one?"
"Out of the churchyard, from off father's grave," said Janet, dropping
her voice.
Mr. Smith took up the flowers and looked at them as if he was trying to
discover how they were made, so intently were his eyes bent upon them.
"Mother says we are like daisies, sometimes," said Janet merrily.
"How?" asked the old man.
The child coloured, and did not answer; but Mrs. Shipton replied for
her,--"Because whenever I am gloomy and unhappy, these children brighten
me and cheer me by looking up to the sun; they always find out a sunny
side to my troubles."
Mr. Smith laid his hand lightly on Janet's head, and said, "I have
learnt many things since I came to London, but I did not know that I
should find country flowers in this large, wicked place."
"We value them more because they are not plenty, and because we have not
many other things," said Mrs. Shipton.
"Ay, ay--well, can town daisies be transplanted, think you?"
Ellen looked wonderingly at the old man, for she saw that his eyes were
fixed on Janet with a meaning smile, but the little girl herself seemed
quite unconscious of it, and answered quickly, "If you have plenty of
flowers in the country, you don't want them."
The strange lodger laughed, but it was a rather sad laugh. "I do want
them," he answered; and then, after pausing for a minute or two, he went
on abruptly, "Mrs. Shipton, I've been a month with you, haven't I?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I must go home to-morrow; now, I've got something to say to you.
You're not rich, and there's no nonsense about you to pretend you are."
The widow's colour was heightened, but she had grown accustomed to her
lodger's abrupt manner of speaking, so she took no notice of his remark,
and he went on,--
"I'm a lonely old man, and have neither chick nor child to care for me.
I didn't believe anything pure and innocent could be found in this
place; but I've discovered some daisies, and I want to dig up one and
take it back to my home."
"I'll dig up one for you to-morrow," said Janet eagerly; but Mrs.
Shipton saw his meaning, and she became very pale, and looked anxiously
at her child.
"Thank you, my dear," said the old man, putting his arm round her. "Now,
I want you to come and be my own little girl, and live with me in the
country."
"And go away from mother?" said Janet, lifting her eyes to his face.
"Yes; come and be mine, and perhaps I'd bring you to see your mother
sometimes."
Janet looked away to her mother, and saw that her eyes were full of
tears; then she sprang into her mother's arms and hid her face on her
shoulder.
"I will promise to take all care of her," said the old man; "and the
country would do her all the good in the world."
"I can't leave mother! no, no, no!" sobbed little Janet.
"I would adopt her for my own, and provide for her liberally," said Mr.
Smith. "Come, Mrs. Shipton, you're a sensible woman, you know how much
better it would be for your child."
"I cannot give her up, sir," said the mother anxiously; "she is too
young to leave me."
"Well, then, may I have Ellen?"
Ellen shrank to her mother's side. "No, no!" she whispered. A
disappointed look crossed the old man's face. "Come, Mrs. Shipton, you
are slaving your life away for these children, will you lose so good a
chance of providing for one of them?"
"I'll go if I ought, mother, if it would be better for you and the
others," said Ellen bravely; but she put her hands over her face, that
her mother might not see how much those words cost her.
"No, sir," said the widow firmly, as she drew her children closely to
her; "God has given me these children, and he will give me the means of
keeping them."
Mr. Smith cleared his throat violently.
"Well, then," he muttered, "I suppose I must live and
die--lonely--lonely."
Mrs. Shipton's eye wandered wistfully to Maurice, who was looking on
with eyes full of wonder.
"Sir, you are very, very kind," she said, and then paused.
"Don't talk of it--I can't get what I want," said the old man.
"I cannot bear giving up one of them," said the widow; "but there's
Maurice,--the child is ill, I believe he will die here in the town, but
he might live in the country; will you take him, sir?" and then, having
said thus much, Mrs. Shipton quite broke down, and hid her face among
Janet's curls.
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a scream from
Maurice, as the door was opened, and a boy in a sailor's dress stood
amongst them.
"Alan!"
"My boy, my boy!" and Mrs. Shipton held out her arms to him.
[Illustration: ALAN'S RETURN.]
Mr. Smith looked at him for a minute, and then putting his hand to his
head, he hastily left the room. It seemed as if he saw his own Alan
again, in all the strength and beauty of his boyhood. Before the lodger
returned to the sitting-room, Alan had been told who he was, and what he
wanted to do; and though he thought for Maurice's sake it was best, the
way in which his arm was twisted round his little brother's neck, told
how sore a trial it would be to part with him. Maurice alone was
unmoved; the thought of the country seemed to have great attractions for
him, and Mr. Smith's stories and general kindness had quite won his
heart. Mr. Smith lifted him on to his knee, but did not speak a word,
for he was looking intently at Alan all the time.
"Do you like being at sea, Alan?" asked Janet.
Alan shook his head, but said quickly, "Janet, it doesn't matter what
one likes; it's what's best;" and a brave courageous smile came upon the
boy's handsome face.
"Isn't he like his father?" whispered Mrs. Shipton to Ellen.
"Yes; he smiles just like him," said Ellen.
"Just like him," said Mr. Smith, in a low, deep voice, that startled
them all. Maurice was frightened, and slipped down off his knee, and
Ellen looked in her mother's face in silent astonishment. "Alan, Alan,
my son!" and the old man rose up and came over to the sailor-boy's side.
Alan stood up, and his grandfather put one hand on his shoulder, passed
his hand over his dark curly hair, and then drawing him closely into his
arms, said, while the tears ran down his cheeks, "Alan, be my son,
instead of him that's gone."
"Who is it, mother?" asked Maurice fearfully.
But Mr. Smith, or, as we may now call him again by his rightful name,
old Farmer Shipton, answered, "I am the grandfather whom you have been
taught to pray for! Ellen, my daughter, my own Alan's wife, forgive me;
I am your father now!"
Then Mrs. Shipton came to him, knelt down beside him, and laying her
hand in his, said, "Alan always said you would come! Father, have you
forgiven him?"
"Ay," said the old man; "may God forgive me as freely. And now, daughter
Ellen, you must never leave me; and your children must be mine, and I
must have you all. Alan will leave the sea and become my eldest son,
and there's room in the old house for you all. Will you come, little
daisy?" and Janet smiled gladly as she answered, "Yes, grandfather."
"God be thanked for all he has taught me in this room," said Farmer
Shipton. "Ellen, my little one, will you love me too?"
"I'll try," said Ellen shyly; "but why did you want us to leave mother?"
"I don't know," said the old man gravely. "I came to London for the
purpose of finding out if there was any good in any of you; and then I
could not make up my mind to telling you who I was, until I had watched
you and tried you to the utmost; but when I saw Alan, I could wait no
longer.--Alan, will you be my son? I'm an old man, and all alone."
The sailor-boy went to his mother's side, and looking into her tearful
face fondly, he said, "Mother, what do _you_ say?"
A smile crossed her lips as she looked at him proudly, and answered, "Be
as good a son to your grandfather as you are to me, Alan, for that
would have pleased your father. Oh, if he could but know this!"
Then Alan shook hands with his grandfather, and said, "Will you teach me
to be a farmer, sir? We'll all like to live with you very much."
A few evenings after, the whole party were comfortably established in
the old farmhouse at Dilbury, to Betty's great delight and astonishment.
The anxious mother soon had the pleasure of seeing the colour brought
back into the cheeks of her little Maurice; and Janet and Ellen made
acquaintance with the delights of country life. They often came home
from woodland rambles laden with wild-flowers, which they exhibited with
pride and delight; but their grandfather always declared that no flowers
would ever appear so beautiful to him as his own little Town Daisies!
[Illustration: .FINIS.]
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 62, repeated word "can" deleted (if I can help it)
Page 66, word "on" inserted into text (on long rambling)
Page 94, "anyrate" changed to "any rate" (at any rate he)
Page 105, "your" inserted into text (taught your children)