the plate, andpulled the bell. In a moment a little maid opened it. But alas! thedoctor was not at home, he was out at church, and so was the missis; hewould be back in about an hour; would the woman call again in an hour?Hannah's heart sank within her; the night had turned very chilly, andlittle Roy, sleeping heavily in her arms, seemed to grow colder andcolder; dare she keep him in the winter streets for a whole hour?
"Look yere, my lass," she said suddenly, "ef I may come in and restanywhere in the house wid this little sickly young 'un, I don't mind howlong it be. He's werry sick I'm feared, and I'm main terrified to havehim out in this east wind. May we wait inside, my little maid?"
The little servant-girl had to refuse, however, though she did so withtears in her eyes. She was left in sole charge of the house. It wasmore than her place was worth to let any one in while master and missiswere at church!
Hannah did not abuse her, but she turned away, with a feeling as thoughher feet were weighted with lead. What should she do with little Roy?she dare not keep him for a whole hour in the cold, cold street. Ah!there was one refuge, and it was close--a public-house shed its cheerfullight upon the scene. There, in a place so warm and snug both she andthe child might wait in shelter, in warmth and safety, and she hadsixpence in her pocket, and she might spend twopence in gin. If littleRoy were spared to her she meant never to drink again, but to-night shemust have one little dram, for her heart was very low.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
Meg, after her interview with Warden, went straight bade to what homeshe possessed. Her violent anger, her passion of tears, had left behindthem a kind of calm--nay more, a very deep calm; it was as though athundercloud had rolled across a very blue sky, leaving it when pastbluer and brighter than before. Meg, though tired in body and a littlefaint, for she had eaten no food that day, felt as though she was beingcarried home in the arms of Jesus. She looked up at the sky and behindall its London gloom and fog she seemed to see the smile of Jesusshining through directly upon her. She ran down the ladder to hercellar with almost gay steps, and she found Faith there, still verydepressed and miserable. She told her of her interview with her father,by no means relating the whole scene, but simply that part whichconcerned little Roy. Faith listened and shook her head more dismallythan ever.
"I seen mother in a dream last night," she said; "she come close to meand axed me what I had done wid Roy. I ought never to have left mylittle Roy wot mother give me to mind when she was dying; it's all myfault as little Roy is lost."
"Why that's som'ut like wot yer father said," answered Meg. "He said ashe wor a hard man, and it wor his fault. It seems to me that wot youought both to do is to get down on yer bended knees and pray most bitterhard to Jesus to furgive yer; when He ha' furgiven yer He'll let youhave little Roy back again."
Faith stared very hard at Meg but made no reply, and Meg having devoureda small piece of dry crust, which remained over from the little whichshe had put carefully by for Faith to eat while she was out, lay down onthe bed and dropped asleep. She awoke in the dusk of the evening tofind Faith kneeling by her bed. Faith had lit a little bit of fire, andits cheerful rays revealed a change in her thin face, her eyes had losttheir hardness and were full of tears.
"Meg, Meg!" she said, "near h'all the time you ha' bin asleep I ha' binpraying, and I think, I do think as Jesus has quite forgiven me."
"Ah! 'tis jest wonderful how willin' He is to forgive," said Meg, "andwot cuts me h'up so is when folks know that, why they're allus afretting of Him."
"Well, I'll try not to fret Him no more," said Faith.
"Faith," said Meg lying still, and gazing hard at Faith out of her bigblack eyes, "how long 'ud you say as gals like me, under-fed,under-clothed gals, 'ud be like to live?"
"I dunno," answered Faith in some surprise; "I suppose same as otherfolks."
"No they don't though," replied Meg; "it comforts me a deal to think onit, fur they most sartin don't. Ef they're wot's called lucky and don'tcatch no 'fection, and don't meet no h'accident, why then they may pullthrough; they lives then to be werry, werry skinny and ugly. Ugh! Ishivers when I sees 'em; I says to myself, that's me when I'm old. But,Faith, the chances ere h'all agen gals like me living to be old; let theleast bit o' 'fection come to a gal like me, or the werry smallesth'accident, so as I'd have ter be tuk to 'orspital, and then where am I?why, no where. You never, never seen a gal like me come h'out of'orspital, Faithy."
"But, Meg," said little Faith, "why do you say it comforts you to thinkthat?"
"Well, and so it do! Why, Faith, I'm no use down yere; no one wants me,and I h'an't never a chance as far as this world goes, besides,besides," and here Meg pressed her hand upon her beating heart,"besides, I ha' a real hankering to see Him. Oh! to see wid my h'own,h'own eyes the lovely, lovely face o' Jesus! and then perhaps arter atime He'd take a bit o' notice of me and say, `Is that you, Meg? I knowas you love me, Meg.'"
Faith was silent, too puzzled, too unlike Meg in her own frame of mindto make any reply, and after a time the two little girls went out. Asthey went down the street which led from the court to the more openthoroughfares, Meg said something which comforted her little companiongreatly.
"I think, Faith," she said, "as we'll werry, werry soon now see littleRoy; I think may be as we'll find him to-night."
"Oh Meg! oh! where?" asked Faith.
"I dunno, only I feel it. Jest you wait and see."
As Meg said this the little girls turned a corner and came full upon theflaring light of one of the largest gin-palaces in the neighbourhood.
"Let's cross over to it," said Meg. "I allus do hanker fur light.Let's get inter the brightness of it."
She took Faith's hand as she spoke and ran across, hastening her steps,for the sound of wheels approaching rapidly were heard.
At this very instant, just as the little girls set their feet on theopposite pavement, a woman carrying a child in her arms came out of thepublic-house; she walked unsteadily, and unheeding, probably nothearing, the rapidly approaching carriage-wheels, stepped into thestreet. As she did so her ragged shawl was caught by the wind and flungaside, revealing to view a little child's blue frock, and showing for aninstant a golden head pressed heavily on her bosom. Faith saw nothing,but Meg did. The woman was Hannah Searles; the child, little lost Roy--she recognised him by his blue frock and golden head. She uttered ajoyful cry, and was about to touch Faith, when the sound on her lips waschanged to a scream of horror. The carriage and prancing horses were onthe woman, who was too tipsy either to see them or to save herself. Inan instant she and little Roy must have been killed. Quick, quickerthan thought brave Meg rushed to the rescue. She flew in the faces ofthe excited horses and caught their reins. They swerved in theircourse, swerved sufficiently to enable woman and child to pass byunhurt, but they knocked Meg down and the carriage-wheels went over her.
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Many hours later on the same Sunday evening a group of persons weregathered round one of the white and narrow beds in a large Londonhospital. On this bed lay a bruised and dying girl. The girl was Meg;the people who stood so close were Roy's father, holding Roy in hisarms, Faith, and Hannah Searles. Faith and Hannah were sobbing, butWarden, with dry eyes, knelt close, and when Meg at last opened her eyeshe placed the baby hand of his little son in hers.
"Meg--dear, dear, brave Meg," said Warden, "let me thank you. You havesaved the little chap's life. Oh, Meg, if for no other deed of mercy, Imust all the rest of my life believe in the Lord Jesus Christ."
It was a public confession, wrung from a proud and hard man in themoment of his deep humiliation and thankfulness, and doubtless theangels in heaven recording it rejoiced. But the earthly ears for whomit was meant were deaf. Never again would Meg hear human voice ofeither love or kindness; there was no place for Meg down here, she wasgoing to a place prepared for her long ago in heaven. Her eyestravelled past those who surrounded her, and fixed themse
lves joyfullyon a Presence unseen to any but her dying eyes.
"'Tis you, Lord Jesus Christ," she said, "'tis you. You ha' come yourwerry own self. I ain't to live to be old, I ain't to be ragged norhungry no more. _You--ha'--come_."
She tried to stretch out her arms, but they fell to her side, the breathceased, and Meg was in Paradise.
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After all, brave Meg was the only one to die. For long before thedaisies