How Little Bessie Kept the Wolf from the Door, by Mrs. Coates

How Little Bessie Kept the Wolf

from the Door.

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NOT many years ago, in the vicinity of Lincoln's Inn Fields, stood an old house, which has only recently been swept away, together with several others, in order to make room for a block of modern buildings which have since been erected on its site. It was said, and there appears to be little doubt of the fact, that it had once been a noble and princely mansion; but at the time of which we write, it was let out in separate tenements to the poor of the surrounding district. And thus it came to pass that up and down that wide staircase, where silken robes were wont to sweep and rustle, pale scantily-clad men and women might be seen passing to and fro to their various rooms, or homes, as they called them, gathered together under that spacious roof. It is of one of these homes that we are about to write.

Matthew Reardon had been at one time engaged on a daily newspaper, but at the period to which we refer, he was endeavouring to earn a precarious livelihood by copying law papers, or any other writing he could manage to procure.

He was a tall, pale, gaunt-looking man, with thin cheeks, and long thin hands, and large hollow eyes, and hair that seemed to have grown grey less from age than trouble; a man who had evidently seen better days, but so long ago that he had well-nigh forgotten them.

It was hard work, writing as he did from morning till evening, and often far into the night; but it would have been harder still if he had not had the writing to do, in which case, he and his family must have starved. As it was, the weary "bread winner," with all his toil, could often earn barely sufficient for their maintenance. It seems strange that knowing this, and with the cares of life pressing so heavily upon him, the old familiar Christ-taught prayer, "Give us this day our daily bread," should have remained unuttered by him. From generation to generation, for eighteen hundred years, this has been the cry of God's children in all ages to their Heavenly Father: but he knew it not.

Mrs. Reardon was several years younger than her husband. Like him, she was always employed. She was a clever needle-woman, and worked for a baby-linen warehouse in the City. The delicate children's garments which she made formed a striking contrast with the coarse although neatly-mended clothes of her own little girls, who used to regard them with profound admiration, sometimes longing to be old enough to help her, and pricking their tiny fingers in the vain attempt; and, at others, wondering what the children were like who were destined to wear these beautiful things, and where they lived, and what they did all day long. Little Bessie, the youngest, used to dream about them as clothed in fine linen, with crowns on their heads, and each carrying in her hand a small golden harp.

If Mrs. Reardon was less silent than her husband, it was not because she had any more heart for conversation, but in the hope of cheering him; and because she remembered what a dull life it must be for those two neglected little children, with no one to talk to or play with them, and nowhere to play but that one room: for she never permitted them to associate with the other children in the house, and had no time to take them out for a walk.

Once or twice during the summer months they had gone with her to the Gray's Inn Gardens, she taking her needlework, and sewing while they wandered about beneath the green trees to their great delight. The children called it "going into the country." But somehow the delicate work got soiled and their mother did not venture again.

It was at Mrs. Reardon's suggestion that Polly and little Bessie regularly attended a Sunday school which had been established in the neighbourhood. It would be a change for the poor children, she said, and might help to amuse and give them something to think and talk of. She liked hearing them repeat their hymns and texts, just as she used to do at their age, although she had forgotten them all long since. But oftentimes of late, they seemed to come echoing back like a pleasant tune learned years ago. More particularly upon one occasion, when she heard little Bessie singing softly to herself:

She remembered how sweet it had seemed to her in the happy days gone by, before sin and sorrow, and neglect of that blessed Saviour, had dimmed the brightness of her first love. While her thoughts still wandered in the past, Bessie had finished her hymn and begun another, the words of which sounded strangely appropriate:

"What peaceful hours I once enjoyed,
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void
The world can never fill."

The neighbours mistook her reserve for pride. She was, as we have said, a quiet woman, keeping herself to herself, and neither associating or suffering her children to associate with the people of the house. Even the district visitor, as she went to and fro on her labour of love, failed to gain admission.

Upon one occasion, Mrs. Reardon came to the door herself in answer to her gentle knock, and, holding it half-closed in her hand, respectfully declined to receive the offered tract.

"Thank you," said she, "but neither my husband nor myself have got any time for reading."

"On Sunday we are too tired. You had better take the book away, ma'am, if you please. It will save you the trouble of calling again."

"But it is a trouble to me to open the door," replied Mrs. Reardon. "To poor people like us, time is money."

"Forgive me," said her visitor, gently; "I will not detain you any longer. You will allow me to leave the book; I shall not want it."

"Neither do we, thank you all the same," replied Mrs. Reardon. And wishing the lady "Good morning," she quietly shut the door, thereby shutting out one who would have been a kind friend in the hour of trial.

"Mother," said little Bessie, "I wish you had taken the lady's book; I wanted to look at the pictures."

CHAPTER II.

IT was a happy day for Polly and Bessie when God put it into their mother's heart to send them to a Sunday school, in order, as she said, to amuse and give them something to think and talk of. From that time, the poor neglected children were no longer dull and lonely, for Jesus was with them, and they thought and spoke of little else.

"Have you ever noticed," inquires a Christian writer, "that little children sometimes seem to understand something about Jesus before they can be made to understand anything else. I suppose God teaches them. There is no other way of accounting for it."

Doubtless He does. And thus it was that God the Holy Spirit taught the little children of whom we write, even before they were able to read for themselves; opening their hearts to understand and love those heavenly truths "hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes."

The Bible was their one book. Polly was just beginning to read, while little Bessie did not even know her letters. But the latter had a wonderful memory, and could repeat chapters by heart after hearing them read over a few times, stumbling over a hard word now and then, as was only to be expected, but seldom missing the sense. The little Bible was the gift of their kind teacher, and although even Polly could not yet manage to read it well, they prized it very highly, always speaking of it as God's Book. It was the only book they read, and, except the "Pilgrim's Progress," which their teacher read to them sometimes, it was the only book, they knew. Its wonderful narratives with their deep meaning and pathos, yet so simple and childlike, filled their memories and hearth. Their minds were stored with scriptural facts to an extent far beyond their years.

Being, as we have said, the children's only book, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Bessie should often express herself in the beautiful language of Scripture. On a windy day, for instance, she would direct her mother's attention to the trees in Lincoln's Inn Fields "clapping their hands;" or point out in winter the little sparrow "sitting alone on the house-top;" or speak of "the bow in the clouds," after a summer shower. She never spoke of the church, always calling it "the Lord's house," and wondering how it was that her father and mother never "went up to worship in its courts."

Even as the Bible was their only book, so, save their parents, the Lord Jesus Christ was the only friend the poor neglected little ones had ever known. But what a friend! All-powerful, and yet so kind and loving; dying a cruel death upon the cross for them, and living evermore to make intercession for them in heaven; not only graciously permitting, but tenderly inviting, them to come to Him; rebuking even His disciples for their sakes, and for that of every timid and believing child in all ages. "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

It seemed to the little children of whom we write just as if they had heard the blessed Saviour calling to them, and saying, "Polly—little Bessie—follow Me." And so they did in their hearts by faith, and so may every little child who reads this book, if he or she will only believe and come to Jesus.

It was but natural that the sisters, as they passed to and fro through the crowded thoroughfares in which they dwelt, should talk together about those heavenly things with which their young hearts were filled, while He of whom they spoke drew near and went with them, although their eyes were holden and they saw Him not.

Upon one occasion, a child residing in the same house as the Reardons was run over while crossing Holborn and taken to the hospital, where she died shortly afterwards, in consequence of the injuries which she had received. Mrs. Reardon was very sorry for the poor mother, and felt afraid to trust her own little ones out again, even to attend their Sunday school.

"So that poor little girl thought who was buried yesterday," replied Mrs. Reardon.

"Poor Susan!" exclaimed Polly, with tears in her eyes. "But indeed, mother, you need not be afraid because—you tell her, Bessie."

"Because," said little Bessie, "Polly and me always pray when we come to a crossing, and ask the good Lord Jesus to take care of us, and not to let us be run over. I used to be very frightened sometimes, but I don't care a bit now."

"Maybe she forgot to pray," suggested Bessie, thoughtfully. "Or, perhaps, it was God's will."

"Then even those who do pray are run over sometimes, if it is God's will?" asked Matthew Reardon, looking up from his writing with a curious smile.

"I suppose they are," was the hesitating reply. "But God knows best about everything," added the child, decidedly.

"Oh yes; it's safe enough, if they only look sharp. There is seldom much traffic on a Sunday. If the little ones like going, let them go. Nought never comes to harm."

But Matthew Reardon had resumed his writing, and the question remained unanswered.

CHAPTER III.

THE home of Matthew Reardon and his family consisted of one large room, with a kind of closet opening out of it, in which the children slept. The walls were of dark oak and panelled, with a carved chimney-piece, and deep recesses, and, best of all, a lofty ceiling, such as one seldom meets with in those close and confined dwelling-places in which the London poor are obliged to live.

It was a gloomy room, nevertheless, especially when evening came, and the dim light of the one candle by which Matthew and his wife worked cast all beyond into deep shadow. Then the little handful of fire gleamed and flickered in the large old-fashioned grate, and the shadows began to dance in a strange grotesque manner on the dark oak panels.

A little apart, in one of those deep recesses, sat, on the evening of which we write—and, indeed, on most evenings—the two little children, close together, and speaking in whispers for fear of disturbing their father. One would almost wonder what they could find to talk about—their mother often did—but somehow, they always seemed to have a thousand things to say to one another, especially after they began to attend the Sunday school.

It was a dull life for those lonely children sitting thus hour after hour in the dusk, and neither playing nor speaking aloud, or having any one to speak to or amuse them, and with no sound to be heard save the scratch, scratch, scratch, of Matthew's pen as it flew rapidly over the paper; or the occasional click of their mother's scissors, although she was very careful in this respect, well knowing how every little noise jarred upon the sensitive nerves of her husband, rendered painfully irritable by over-work.

Sometimes an organ-grinder would come into the street and begin playing a melancholy tune. Somehow street organs generally do play melancholy tunes—which the children loved to hear, although it made them feel sad without knowing why. Matthew the while used to fling down his pen, and running his thin fingers through his hair, walk up and down the room with an angry frown, incapable of doing anything until the last note had died away, and often obliged to work late in consequence of the interruption thus occasioned.

The whispering of the children never seemed to disturb him. So good and quiet were they, indeed, that he frequently even forgot that they were in the room. But their mother never did.

Poor loving mother! God only knows the sorrowful thoughts that filled her mind at those times, and that not because she told Him—it would have comforted her if she had—but because He knoweth the secret of all hearts.

Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, it was the same thing over and over again. The same weary toil, the same writing, page after page, and sheet after sheet. The same hemming, and sewing, and frilling little dainty garments for other people's children to wear. The same long silent evenings in that large shadow-haunted room. The same melancholy organ coming and going. The same stir of human life in the street below, and on the stairs without, surging on but never coming near them. The same grand theme of conversation, of which the whispering children never seemed to tire. The same ceaseless, prayerless struggle constantly going on in the parents' hearts and lives.

The evening of which we are about to write was nevertheless an eventful one to Polly and Bessie. The fire had burned low in the wide grate, and the room looked gloomy enough as Mrs. Reardon rose to mend it, using her fingers for that purpose, in order not to make more noise than she could possibly help, for fear of disturbing her husband.

It was a pleasant sight to the children to watch the bright flames leaping and dancing up the chimney, as their mother stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze; after which she washed her hands, and having carefully snuffed the candle, pushing it a little nearer to her husband, and a little farther from herself as she did so, quietly resumed her needlework.

A long silence ensued, so long that the flames had finished their dance and vanished, and the fire was nearly gone, too, before Mrs. Reardon moved again.

"There are so few left," was the reply, "and I do not see how we shall be able to get any more before Saturday."

"One begins to feel the cold towards evening in this large room," said his wife, shivering as she spoke.

"I had forgotten them. Won't the man let us have more if we promise to pay for them on Saturday?"

"It was not our fault," said her husband, gloomily. "If we had been paid, we should have paid him. It is a shame to keep a man out of his hardly-earned wages."

"Never mind," said his wife, soothingly, "there will be all the more to receive when Mr. Heighington returns. He never disappointed you before, you know. We must try and make the coals last out. May I put away your papers? I am sure you must be tired." She never remembered her own aching eyes and weary fingers.

"Very well," said Matthew, leaning back in his chair, "only take care what you are about, or I shall have no end of trouble with them in the morning."

And resting thus, he watched her as she gathered them together, and laid them carefully aside, together with her own neatly-folded work.

"You, too, have been busy to-day," continued he, touching the delicate fabric as he spoke.

"Yes, indeed. But then mine is not hard work like yours. I can sit and think of a hundred things all the time I am sewing—not that thinking makes me any happier. It was only to-day that I was wondering to myself whether the children will have to work as hard when they grow up as you and I are obliged to do."

"Well, let us hope not. At any rate, it is of no use meeting trouble half-way. It won't be while I am alive. I do not mind how hard I work, if we can only keep the wolf from the door."

Just then a large cinder fell out of the dying fire; and the children, huddled together in their dark corner, woke up in time to catch the last words which their father had uttered.

"Polly," whispered little Bessie, "did you hear what father said about the wolf?"

"Hulloa, children!" exclaimed Matthew. "How is this? You ought to have been in bed long ago."

"Poor things!" said their mother. "It is not much later than usual. How white you both look, and how cold your hands are—and no fire to warm them," added she, with a sigh.

"They will be warm enough in bed," said Matthew. "Come, off with you, little ones. What is it, Bess?" added he, touched with the earnest and wistful expression of the child's face.

"Oh, father," exclaimed she, nestling closer to him, "do you think that you shall be able to keep it out?"

Matthew thought for a moment, and then a strange rare smile passed over his face.

"We could not help it, father. The cinders fell out of the fire and woke us up; and then we heard you telling mother that there was a wolf at the door, and that you meant to try hard to keep him out. Was he really at our door, father?"

Matthew and his wife exchanged a sad smile as he said it. They little thought, as they spoke of their poverty, of the impression which his words had made upon those poor frightened children, or how they would go to bed that night and dream of the terrible wolf, and start and tremble at every sound.

CHAPTER IV.

A FEW evenings after this conversation, Matthew having finished his task somewhat earlier than usual, little Bessie, who generally acted as spokeswoman, ventured to approach him, and ask timidly whether he had ever seen a wolf.

"Don't tease her any more, Matthew," pleaded Mrs. Reardon. "Tell her what you meant."

"I'm not teasing her; am I, Bess? Why, I thought that you would have forgotten all about the wolf long ago."

"Don't you trouble your head about that, little one," replied Matthew; "you'll know soon enough."

Accordingly, when Sunday came, the children, having waited till the lessons were over and Miss Maberley was at leisure to attend to them, Bessie asked her if she would have the kindness to tell them what a wolf was like.

Miss Maberley smiled as she looked down upon their little eager faces. It was a strange question, she thought; but then Bessie was one of those children who are continually asking those strange child's questions to which it is frequently so very difficult to reply. Not, that there was any difficulty about this one. It was a pity Miss Maberley did not ask them why they wanted to know. It might have saved those poor children much after-suffering. But she never thought of doing so.

"The wolf," she said, "is something like the dog, only the head is more square. They have, indeed, been called by some writers wild dogs. Their hair is generally of a grey colour, except in very cold countries, where it is white. It has large teeth, and a harsh loud bark, while the expression of the face, besides being fierce and cruel, is very cunning and crafty. Some day, if you remind me, I will bring a picture of one to show you."

"I am afraid they do when they are hungry. They are said to come forth, for the most part, on dark and cloudy days, in order to escape the more easily."

"Please, teacher, is there anything about the wolves in the Bible?" asked Polly, in a whisper.

"Yes," answered Miss Maberley. "Jeremiah and other speak of them as the evening wolves, probably from their being more hungry, and therefore more dangerous, then. There is also mention made of the blessed time when the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and Messiah shall reign over the whole earth. But you are too young to understand that at present. St. John mentions the wolf in connection with the hireling and the good shepherd. But you had better go home now. It is growing late, and your mother will wonder what has become of you."

With a timid glance at the fast-gathering twilight, the children thanked their kind teacher, and taking each other by the hand, ran quickly through the gloomy streets and up the wide staircase, without pausing to take breath, until they found themselves in their own room, where Matthew and his wife sat dozing over the little bit of fire, which looked as if it had gone to sleep also.

"Hulloa!" exclaimed the former, starting awake as the children burst into the room. "Who's that?"

"Oh, Matthew," interposed his wife, as she stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze.

"How the evenings draw in," observed Mrs. Reardon. "You are later, too, than usual."

"Come, Bess, out with it," exclaimed Matthew. "Let us hear this wonderful secret."

"It is no secret, father," replied the child. "Polly and me only wanted to ask her about the wolf."

"The wolf again," exclaimed Matthew, much amused. "It was Bess who began it this time, mother. Well, and what did she say?"

"I can't remember all, father," answered the child, gravely, "and I don't think I want to—only that it was something like a dog, with grey hair, and large teeth, and a terrible voice."

"Grey hair," repeated her father. "I suppose by that it must have been an old wolf she was describing."

"I don't know that," said Polly reflectively, "for she told us afterwards that in cold countries the hair was white."

"Quite venerable, I declare," continued Matthew; "the cold in all probability causing them to live to a good old age."

"You would not have laughed, father, if you had heard all that Miss Mahoney said," observed Polly, earnestly.

"About the wolves being so cruel and cunning, and coming out on dark days, or in the evening, as hungry as could be, and eating up every one who came in their way. You tell, Bessie; you always remember the best."

"I don't want to remember," repeated the child, shuddering. "But do you really think it is true, father?"

"Quite true. When the dark days come, yes, that's the time for them to be prowling about. And let the wolf once get his feet over a poor man's threshold, and there is little chance of escape. What, tears!" added he, as the child laid her head against his knees, and began to cry. "He shan't get in here to hurt my little Bessie while her father's alive. Well keep him out, never fear."

Mrs. Reardon was not one of those wives who are always saying to their husbands, "I told you how it would be." All she did was to make haste and get the tea ready, together with the unwonted addition of a plate of buttered toast, over which the children soon grew cheerful, forgetting for the time all their fears and troubles as children only can.

Neither did she refer to the subject afterwards when they had gone to bed in the little closet before mentioned, leaving Matthew and his wife sitting out the dim fire, apparently occupied by their own thoughts, or occasionally exchanging a few words—but never reading, or praying, or once remembering that it was the Lord's day, and not theirs, which was now quietly drawing to a close.

His wife flung a shawl over her shoulders, and shivered with the cold. After a time she spoke again.

"What's the use of going to bed?" demanded her husband. "I'm all right here, but the moment I lie down, I begin to cough."

"I think your cough seems worse than usual of late," said Mrs. Reardon, anxiously.

"I don't know about its being worse, but it's bad enough. The end of it will be that I shall have to sit up all night."

"Not very much; but it hinders me from sleeping, and unfits me for my work next day. Not that I should mind the pain in my head and side if it did not make my hand shake so. I have been expecting them to find fault with my writing every time I take it back."

"Plenty, I dare say, if I had only the money to pay for it. Or I might go to some hospital or dispensary, and make it worse, perhaps, waiting about hour after hour in the cold, besides losing a day's work."

"Long enough to get used to it," was the reply; "anyhow, grumbling won't mend it. It will have to go as it came."

Several times that night, the frightened children in their little bed awoke with a start at the sound of that deep hollow cough, and fancied that they heard the wolf at the door.

CHAPTER V.

WHAT Matthew had feared, actually came to pass one morning not very long afterwards, when he had gone as usual to take back his papers.

"I am afraid you are getting careless. Your writing is not nearly so good as it used to be."

"But you must help it," interrupted Mr. Heighington, "or I must find some one else to do the work. You can write well enough when you please."

"Oh! Your hand shakes, does it?" repeated his young employer, with a light laugh. "That's a bad sign, is it not, Mr. Reardon?"

"Did I! Well, anyhow, I have heard that it is a bad sign when a man like you in the prime of life complains of his hand shaking."

"It would be a hard matter," said Matthew, bitterly, "to get too much to drink out of the wages I receive, if I were ever so inclined."

"If you are not satisfied," replied Mr. Heighington, "all you have to do is to say so. There are dozens to be found any day who would gladly do the work for less."

"Hundreds! Sir," added Matthew, gloomily; "the more's the pity. But I did not mean to complain; a man cannot afford to complain who has a wife and two little children depending upon him—any more than he can afford to drink!"

"Very well," answered Mr. Heighington, with a keen glance. "Give him the papers, Marshall," added he, turning to the head clerk. "And—I say, Reardon—take care and not let your hand shake next time."

Matthew turned away in silence, and they heard him coughing as he went out into the cold air.

"I wouldn't, Master Frank, if I were you," replied the old clerk. "He has been here a good many years now, on and off."

"I can't say that poor Reardon has looked very well lately, sir," replied Marshall. "It's my belief that he's half-starved, and ill besides."

"Not he, sir. I think that perhaps he would be all the better for a glass Of beer occasionally."

"After all," said the good old clerk, "the wages, as he says, sir, ain't much to keep four of them. Suppose you were to raise them a little, Mr. Frank?"

"And yet Reardon himself confessed that hundreds would be glad to do the work for less money."

"God help them, poor things! But Mr. Reardon is a man who has seen better days. It's hard to come down in the world, harder even than it is to get up. I don't think he is long for this life, poor fellow, and can only hope that he may be ready for the life to come—that's the great thing, Mr. Frank."

"Do as you please," said Mr. Heighington, carelessly. "I have no objection to raising his wages, if you think that he is worth it."

"I can't say anything about his being worth it, Mr. Frank," replied the conscientious old man. "He does not write nearly so well nor so quickly as he used to do. But I am sure that he needs it, and that you will never regret having done him this kindness."

"You would have made a capital beggar, Marshall," said Mr. Heighington, laughing. "Only you never ask anything for yourself."

"I want nothing, sir," was the reply, "the Lord be praised. He has given me all that I need."

The greater part of Peter Marshall's life had been spent in the small dark office where he then sat. Coming and going at all hours, and in all weathers; ever the first to come and the last to go, and devoting his best energies to the cause of his employer—"not with eye-service, as men-pleasers, but in singleness of heart, fearing God." And even in this world the Lord rewarded him by putting it into the mind of old Mr. Heighington to leave him at his decease, which took place about a twelvemonth before our story commences, a small annuity in appreciation of his long and faithful services.

Peter Marshall was an old man himself now, and might have retired and lived comfortably enough in his humble way; but somehow he had grown used to the place, and had, besides, an old man's fancy, that "Master Frank," whom he had known from a child, would never be able to get on without him—a fancy which his young master was only too glad to encourage, and thus continue to avail himself of his advice and assistance, treating him rather as a friend than a servant.

It was believed by his fellow-clerks that Marshall had saved up a good round sum during his many years of service; the more especially as he was known to be a man of frugal habits, and without either kith or kin. And so he had, but it was in a savings bank with which they had, for the most part, very few dealings. The following inscription was written in shining characters over the door:

"He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again."

Every time Marshall went to put in a deposit, a heavenly voice might be heard by the ear of faith saying—

"Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

Many would have thought it a weary life, plodding through the streets early and late, winter and summer, and sitting at his desk from morning till evening, bounded and hemmed in, as it were, by the gloomy walls of the surrounding buildings, which shut out alike both air and sunshine. But it never seemed weary to Peter Marshall. He was always happy—always busy in the service of his earthly employer, but never forgetting that he had also a Master in heaven.

Many an earnest and believing prayer went up from that dark narrow office, to the celestial city, and many a loving answer came quickly down. Many a warning word was uttered there which it pleased the Lord to bless. And many a good seed sown which, although apparently lost for a season, bore fruit in after years to the glory of God.

There it was that a young clerk—he was only a youth then—with no mother, and no friend, save Marshall, to lead him in the right way, first found Christ. And there it was that the same boy, grown up to be a Christian man, came years afterwards from a distant land to tell him, with tears of thankfulness, all that the Lord had done for his soul since then. It was no wonder that the dull city office seemed so bright to Peter Marshall.

Let us listen to him for a moment as he sits with clasped hands and bowed head where Mr. Heighington had left him when he went out just now, after having given him the desired permission to increase Matthew Reardon's wages. He is sending up one of his telegrams to the heavenly city:

"Dear Lord Jesus, Thou knowest how I love him. Oh, do Thou love him also, and draw him to Thyself, in Thine own good time, as Thou alone canst be merciful; also to that poor man, Matthew Reardon, and put it into my heart what I shall say when I go and see him to-night, as I am minded to do. I am getting an old man now, Lord, as Thou well knowest, and the words don't come as readily as they ought, and as they did once."

CHAPTER VI.

TIRED as he was, the old clerk determined to carry the good news to Matthew Reardon as he went home.

Having never been there before, it took him some time to find the home, together with that particular portion of it in which the Reardons lived.

"If it's Matthew Reardon you want," exclaimed a young girl, who was standing at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in a thin coloured shawl, which scarcely concealed her ragged dress, "he's just gone out, and his wife with him. I wonder you didn't hear him cough. A regular churchyard cough it is, and no mistake."

"I am sorry that he should have been obliged to go out in the cold," said Marshall.

"For the matter of that," replied the girl, "poor people can't afford to be particular. It's kill or cure with them!"

"The Bible tells us," continued Marshall, "that he who believeth on the Son hath everlasting life, and that he who believeth not the Son, shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him."

"The wrath of God!" repeated his companion, shivering as she spoke. "It is a hard saying!"

"But then the remedy is so easy. You will find them both together in the Bible—

"No," said he, smiling as he spoke, "I am only a poor man. But I have a kind and loving Master and, somehow, I can't help talking of Him wherever I go."

"Does he live near here? If I may make so bold as to ask?" demanded his companion.

"The Lord Jesus Christ," replied the old clerk, reverently uncovering his grey head as he spoke.

"I do believe it was, now that you remind me of it, my poor child, unbeknown as it were, and I thinking all the time that I was going on my own errands. It is a way the dear Lord often has of answering prayer. Truly His ways are not our ways nor His thoughts our thoughts."

"No man can serve two masters!" said she. "It's in the book you told me of just now. I used to read it years ago when I was a child;—but I have forgotten it, for the most part, since then,—and I don't want to remember!"

She passed the corner of her thin shawl over her eyes as she spoke, and ran hastily up the wide staircase before Marshall could utter a word in reply, pausing a moment at the first landing to point out the room in which the Reardons lived.

"You may hear the children singing," said she, "if you like to listen. I often do as I go past at night. They are locked in now. They are a proud set—those Reardons—but it's my belief that they want a friend, bad enough, poor things!"

She passed on quickly as she spoke, and disappeared in the darkness beyond, while the old clerk, after lingering a moment to listen to the children singing their little hymns, retraced his steps somewhat wearily, and prepared to return home.

No one who saw Peter Marshall that night with his hat bent down over his eyes, and his coat collar turned up to keep out the cold, walking with slow and feeble steps, hesitating when he came to a crossing, and praying, doubtless, like Polly and Bessie, before he attempted to go over, and pushed, and jostled by the busy crowd, would have taken him to be the messenger of a great King.

The old clerk never thought to notice as he stood outside, on the cold landing, listening to Polly and Bessie, singing their simple hymns, that their young voices were low and tremulous. The poor children, although they knew that the door was safely locked, so that nothing could get in to hurt them, did not like to be left alone. They were afraid, and then, as children have a habit of doing at such times, they began to sing, somewhat faintly at first, until the sound of their own voices, or, it may be, the sweet words of the hymn, gave them courage, and they never left off until they had sung all they knew.

Bessie was the first to break the silence that followed. "Isn't it time father and mother came home?" asked she.

"I should think it was," replied Polly. "They are sure not to be longer than they can help, on account of father's cough. You are not tired, are you, Bessie?"

"No," answered the child; "but I wish they'd come. I don't like being left alone—I don't mind it so much since teacher told us about the Good Shepherd and the hired shepherd."

"Don't you recollect what she said about the hireling shepherd who saw the wolf coming, and ran away? And about Jesus, the Good Shepherd, who laid down His life for the sheep—and about you and me, Polly, being His little lambs? I don't believe that He will let the wolf get in and hurt us."

"No; I heard it last night when the wind was blowing so hard. Teacher said that it always came out at night, or on dark cloudy days. I should not wonder," added she, in a whisper, "but what it is prowling about on the stairs at this moment."

"Somehow," said Polly, after a pause, during which the frightened children had drawn closer to each other, "I often think that it can't be a real wolf."

"Mother did not want us to get frightened," said Bessie. "That was why she asked father not to say anything more about it."

Polly looked puzzled, and proposed that they should go on singing, but Bessie declared she could not sing any more that night, and suggested that they should kneel down instead, and ask the Good Shepherd to be pleased to take care of them and their parents, and to keep the wolf from the door.

CHAPTER VII.

THE following day, when Matthew Reardon went us usual to the office to take back his papers, he found Marshall alone.

"To confess the truth," replied Matthew, bluntly, "we have not much time for company."

"And you won't accept me for a friend?" asked the old man, with a kindly smile. "We have known one another a good many years now, Reardon."

Matthew Reardon, who had been standing until then, sat down hastily. Not only his hands, but his whole frame began to tremble, while the perspiration stood in drops on his pale brow.

But Matthew forgot to thank God. "After all," added he, after a pause, "Mr. Heighington must have thought my work not only worth having, but worth paying for Mr. Marshall?"

"Don't mention it," said Marshall; "it was scarcely a step out of my way, although I had some trouble to find the place. I had no idea that you lived in such a fine large house."

"I don't doubt it," said Marshall. "Speaking of mansions reminds one of the many mansions 'whither our Saviour Christ has gone before to prepare a place for us, that where He is there may we be also.'"

"It seems to me," said Matthew, "that there might be the same difficulty of which you complained just now about finding the way."

"It is better than eighteen hundred years ago," answered the old clerk, "since Thomas, one of our Lord's disciples, thought as you do; and our blessed Saviour told him in reply,—

"'I am the way, and the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father but by Me.'

"Jesus is the way. There is no fear of our getting out of the right path so long as we keep near to Christ. Oh, Mr. Reardon, what a glorious thing it must be to live in those heavenly mansions:

And the old clerk paused as with uplifted eyes and quivering lips, he thought of the life of Christ and the unspeakable joy of meeting Him in heaven.

"It must be their own fault," was the reply, "if they are even so much as kept waiting at the door, or because they don't know what name to ask for, or have forgotten to put on the wedding garment. Nothing can be plainer than the directions laid down in the Scriptures:

"'Ask, and it shall be given; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.—'

"Only to risk for Jesus' sake, only to knock in Jesus' name, and straightway the golden gates are opened for our admission."

The old clerk spoke with that strange eloquence which proceeds out of a full heart. His companion made no reply, and, after a few minutes' pause, arose slowly, and began buttoning up his coat preparatory to returning home.

"Did you? Poor things! They have a dull time of it. Their mother sends them to Sunday school, where they teach them to sing. She thought that it might serve to amuse them."

"They are good children enough," observed their father, "and so quiet that you would hardly know they were in the room sometimes."

"I should like to come and see them," said the old man, "if it would not be intruding."

"By-the-bye," said he, "I suppose you could not tell me who the young girl was I saw at your place last night?"

"I did not notice her dress," was the reply. "But, now I remember, I think that she had golden hair and rather a gay shawl."

"I'm sorry for that," said the old man. "She appeared to be very young, poor thing! Has she a mother living?"

"She calls herself Kate Donaldson. But don't you trouble your head about her. She's no good, I tell you, and will never be any better."

It was a harsh speech, and the time came when Matthew Reardon was very sorry that he had ever made it. These hard speeches are almost sure to come home to us at some time or another.

"Poor thing!" repeated the old clerk, compassionately. "What a comfort it is to know that nothing is impossible to God. Good day, Reardon; I'll come in and see your children some day soon."

Mrs. Reardon looked up anxiously as her husband entered. She always felt uneasy now if he remained away longer than was absolutely necessary, which indeed seldom happened, time being, to use her own words, as good as money to the poor.

"It was that old Marshall," said he, in answer to her glance. "What a fellow he is for talking—not but what I think that he means what he says. He's coming here one of these evenings."

"So I told him," replied her husband. "But he wished to see the children. He called last night while we were out and heard them singing."

"Poor old gentleman!" said the mother. "They do sing very nicely sometimes. He's very welcome to come when he likes."

Mrs. Reardon looked up quickly, and a tear fell upon her delicate work when Matthew told her the good news.

"It is almost a pity that Mr. Heighington did not think of it before," said he, with a sigh.

"The first thing we do with the money," continued she, "must be to see some one about that cough of yours, Matthew."

"It will be soon enough to think of spending when I have earned it," observed Reardon, with a weary smile, as he sat down and began to write rapidly, in order to make up, as he said, for lost time.

Mrs. Reardon quietly resumed her work, while the little children, in their shadowy corner, spoke together in whispers for fear of disturbing him, and the flying pen went scratch—scratch—scratch far into the night.

CHAPTER VIII.

OWING to various causes, some time elapsed before Peter Marshall was able to avail himself of Matthew Reardon's permission to call and see the children. It was not that he resented, or even remembered its ungraciousness, but because he really had had no time.

The old man was a busy worker in the crowded wilderness of human life, where the harvest is so great and the labourers—alas! that it should be so—but few; and where he had worked all the harder of late, from a presentiment he had that the night, or rather the dawn, was at hand.

Matthew had not been to the office for several days, and the kind-hearted old man remembered how ill he had thought him looking the last time he was there, and determined to go and see what had become of him.

"That poor girl, too," thought he, "I should like to meet her again. Who knows but what the Lord may be pleased to give me a word for her."

It was a strange fact—and yet not strange either, for the same thing is constantly happening, if the children of God would only observe and ponder it in their hearts more frequently than they do—that no sooner had Marshall turned into the street in which the Reardons lived, than he saw Kate Donaldson standing at the door. He knew her at once by her shawl—the same thin gay-coloured shawl. But he could not have distinguished it if she had not been standing immediately under a gas-lamp, the night being foggy, while a cold drizzling rain fell fast and drearily.

"Are you going to see your friend?" asked Kate. "You'll find him at home to-night safe enough. He won't be out again in a hurry."

"I don't know anything about it. It's nothing to me—only I found her crying to-day on the stairs—not liking, maybe, to let him see her fret."

"She would not have cared for my pity, however much I had felt," replied Kate. "But I won't keep you, sir. You can help them a bit, perhaps."

"Nothing; thank you kindly," added the girl, after a pause, and moving away as she spoke.

"One moment," said Marshall, stepping inside the door, which was generally left open until late for the convenience of the numerous dwellers in that large gloomy house. "You will be wet through if you stand there."

But she followed him, nevertheless, into the spacious and dimly-lighted vestibule.

"It was only this evening," said the old clerk, "that I was thinking of you, and wondering whether the tender and loving Saviour, who is not willing that any should perish, but rather that they should come unto Him and be saved, might not have a word for his poor wandering sheep, and if so, whether He would be pleased to send it by me."

"You brought me a message once before," said the girl. "A hard message about the wrath of God. I have been trying to forget it ever since, but I can't. I don't want to hear any more."

"Poor child!" murmured the old clerk. "It was a pity that you did not also remember the way of escape of which I told you."

And the speedy answer, "I will," to ascend and descend between heaven and earth. And then the old clerk spoke again, using his Master's words in preference to his own.

"'If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness!' * 'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners'—even the chief! ‡ And lest any poor trembling sinner, notwithstanding these gracious promises, should be afraid to come to Christ, our blessed Lord Himself adds, 'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'" †

The young girl sat down upon the stairs and buried her face in her hands, while Marshall stood silently and reverently by her side praying for her in his heart. Every now and then he could hear Matthew Reardon coughing in the room above; and then the little children began to sing a hymn, while the ceaseless hum and tread of human life went on in the busy street without.

Presently a footstep approached, descending the stairs from one of the upper rooms, and Kate arose quickly, pushing back the bright hair which had fallen over her face, and glancing round with a startled look.

"You won't go out any more to-night?" said Marshall, laying his hand on her thin, damp shawl.

"No," answered Kate, dreamily. "I don't think I'll go out any more. Thank you for bringing the message."

Marshall took a card from his pocket and gave it to her. "This is my address," said he. "If you should want a friend at any time—you won't lose it?"

"No fear of that, sir; I haven't so many friends that I can afford to lose one."

At that moment, an elderly woman appeared in sight. She walked slowly in consequence of being somewhat lame, and glanced curiously from one to the other.

Kate nodded to her, and ran upstairs without even wishing the old clerk good night.

"A friend of the Reardons," murmured she, as Marshall knocked at the door. "I didn't know they had a friend."

CHAPTER IX.

WHEN Marshall went in, he found Matthew Reardon sitting crouching over the dim fire, with his wife's shawl thrown over his knees to help to keep him warm, and looking greatly changed even in the short time since he had last seen him at the office.

"I am glad you are come," said he, holding out his thin wasted hand. "I was afraid you wouldn't after the very pressing invitation I gave you."

"If I remember rightly, I invited myself," returned Marshall, cheerfully. "At any rate, here I am. But I'm sorry to find you so unwell. Wouldn't he be better in bed, Mrs. Reardon?"

"What's the use of going to bed?" interrupted her husband, impatiently. "It only makes the cough worse. And so you came to look after me?"

"What did Mr. Heighington say?" asked Matthew. "Did he think that I had been drinking again?"

"Oh! He did not say anything—did not even miss me, I suppose?" continued Matthew, with flushed cheeks, and eyes that glittered strangely. "Mr. Marshall, you know that old copying machine at the office?"

"The copying machine?—Yes, of course I know it. There have been several new ones invented, but it answers our purpose."

"What do they do when it gets wrong and won't work, as I have known it to do several times of late?" asked Matthew.

"Send it away and get one of the new ones, I suppose," said Marshall, with a puzzled air.

"I thought so!" exclaimed Matthew. "As long as the copying machine suits your purpose—as long as it can be repaired and made to work, it is all very well. But the moment it becomes worn-out, and past mending, you send it away and get a new one. Don't you understand, old friend?" continued he, observing his companion's bewildered look. "Why, you're a copying machine, and I'm a copying machine, and we are both of us pretty near worn-out, I take it?"

"Sometimes, towards evening. I think it must be from want of sleep," answered Mrs. Reardon. "It is best not to take any notice of what he says."

"What is it?" asked Matthew, quickly. "I don't want a doctor; I don't believe in them; I shall be better soon—quite well, I hope—well enough to come down to the office, at any rate. Or if—if I shouldn't be for a day or two longer, you won't let Mr. Heighington turn me off to get some one else in my place; you'll wait a bit for me, won't you?"

"Yes, yes," answered Marshall, soothingly; "to be sure we'll wait. But it will be of no use if you won't let any one mend you up a bit and set you all right again."

"I hope not, my friend, for their sakes," replied Marshall, glancing at his wife and children. "Otherwise, 'to depart and be with Christ is far better.'"

"It's very well for you to talk like that," said the sick man, with a weary sigh; "but I can't feel as you do."

"It is not to be expected," replied Marshall. "An old man like me, alone in the world. But I am sorry for you, Matthew; indeed I am."

"I believe it," said his companion. "You always spoke kindly to me; but he never did. Do you think he knew that I was going to be ill when he raised my wages?"

"He might have guessed that there was little chance of his being called upon to pay it very long—not even the first quarter, perhaps."

"He won't be hard upon you, I'll answer for that," replied Marshall; "and don't you be hard upon him."

"I don't want to be hard upon any one," said Matthew, wearily. "All I want is to get well and go to work again."

"Never trouble yourself about that," said Marshall, kindly; "he's an old friend of mine, and won't mind waiting."

"Who knows," exclaimed the sick man, "but what this friend of yours may mend me up again, and make me last for years, in spite of Mr. Heighington?"

"No, he never mentioned your name; I don't think he even missed you. Mr. Heighington is a young man, Reardon, and has never known what trouble is; but he has a kind heart, and I verily believe that he'll be one of the Lord's people yet."

"Because the Lord Jesus is a prayer-hearing and a prayer-answering God, and I have been praying for young Master Frank ever since he was a child."

"It seems to me," said Matthew, "that you have been kept waiting a long while for the answer."

"His ways are not our ways," replied the old clerk, meekly, "nor His time our time. 'Though it tarry, wait for it, for it will surely come.' The Lord's way is ever the best way, and His time the best time."

"Or, rather," said the old clerk, "that whether you live or die you may be the Lord's."

"I would not talk any more if I were you, Matthew," interrupted his wife, "if Mr. Marshall will excuse my saying so."

"Certainly," said the old man; "you are quite right. It's time that I was going, only I must just say a word to the children first. I heard them singing their little hymns as I came upstairs."

Polly and Bessie were very soon quite at home with their new friend, the former sitting close to him, and the latter on his knee, while all three spoke in whispers, for fear of disturbing Matthew Reardon, who had fallen into a troubled sleep, while his wife, as usual, watched and worked by his side.

Bessie was telling him of a wonderful book, which their teacher had been reading to them lately about a certain man called Christian, who left his home and children to go on pilgrimage. She did not understand it very well, she said, or what going on pilgrimage meant, for they were not always able to go to school now that their father was so ill; but the story evidently possessed a strange interest for both the children.

The old clerk told her that he knew it well, and could remember reading it when he was about her age. It was called "The Pilgrim's Progress." He believed he had the book still; if so, he would bring it with him the next time he came, and she might keep it as long as she pleased. And when he added that it was full of pictures, Bessie's joy was complete.

"But Polly must have a present too," said the kind old man. "Tell me, my child, what you would like best for me to bring you."

"I know what I should like better than anything," said she—"a pair of boots for father. Mother thinks he would not have been so bad as he is if he had not got his feet wet through the last time he was out."

The old clerk bent down and kissed the little wistful face which was raised so earnestly to his.

"You shall have the boots," said he, "and something else besides for thinking, of your poor father. You pray for him, too, I hope?"

"Shall I tell you what we say?" whispered Bessie, folding her little hands together: "'Please, dear Lord Jesus Christ, to bless father and mother; and make father better and keep the wolf from the door.' Is that a good prayer?"

"Yes," answered Marshall, "a very good prayer, my child." But he could not help thinking that it was also a very curious one.

Just then Matthew Reardon woke up and began to cough. And the old clerk hastened to wish him good night lest he should be tempted to talk any more.

He nodded kindly to the children as he went out, and they never saw him any more on earth.

The wind came sweeping and moaning up the wide staircase when the old clerk opened the door. Bessie whispered to her sister that it was the wolves. And truly it did sound as if a whole pack of them were howling without.

CHAPTER X.

UPWARDS of a week passed away, during which Matthew Reardon was still confined to his chair, for nothing could persuade him to take to his bed. He was not worse, he said, but then he was no better. A little paler, and thinner, and weaker, perhaps; at least his wife thought so; but he did not perceive it himself, or rather, would not admit that he did. And all that time no doctor had ever called; neither had they seen or heard anything of the old clerk.

"He is like the rest of the world," thought Mrs. Reardon, in the bitterness of her disappointment.

While the trembling children whispered together of their firm belief that the wolves had eaten him up that wild night when he went away.

"He must be ill, I tell you," repeated Matthew, impatiently. "Marshall is not the man to desert a sick friend in the hour of need. He would have come if he could."

"Anyhow," said his wife, "he might have remembered to send the doctor as he promised."

"It does not signify. He would not have done any good, perhaps. It's hard for you, Mary, I know, to sit there working as you do from morning till night for my sake and the children's; but it's a deal harder for me to see it and not be able to help—I often wish I was dead!"

"Oh, Matthew! Don't say that! Please don't!" sobbed his wife. "I can't bear it—it breaks my heart and I have no time to cry!"

She meant that the blinding tears hindered her from working, and made her eyes ache and smart, so that she had great difficulty in seeing to do the fine sewing and stitching which was to win their daily bread. It was a touching lament—the poor have very frequently no time for tears.

"Forgive me," murmured her husband. "I shall be better soon, 'please God,' as old Marshall would say."

Mrs. Reardon tried to return his smile, and then, by way of changing the conversation, asked Bessie what book it was that Mr. Marshall had promised to give her, and of which she was always talking.

"We haven't read it all by a great deal yet, father. It's a wonderful book! It was made by one of those men who go about the streets mending old pots and kettles."

"Teacher said so," replied the child, decidedly, "If he did not make it, he dreamt it, which is all the same."

"Well, it's about a certain man named Christian who was always reading and praying, and crying out,—

"But no one seemed to have read the Bible, so as to be able to tell him about believing in the Lord Jesus Christ. At last, he made up his mind to run away, and when his wife and children cried after him to come back, he only put his fingers in his ears, and ran all the faster."

"It was a good thought to put his fingers in his ears," observed Mrs. Reardon. "He would never have had the heart to leave them behind else."

"I don't think they wanted to go," said Polly; "but his wife came afterwards, teacher told us, and brought the children with her."

"You should see the picture of Christian, with a great bag on his shoulders!" continued Bessie, eagerly.

"Yes, that's the word, Polly. We have all our burdens to bear in this world; and very heavy they are sometimes, enough to break a man's back!"

"Mother has often a heavy burden to carry when she takes home her work," said Bessie, "but I don't think it means that."

"Perhaps it was a bag full of cares," observed Mrs. Reardon, who was pleased to see her husband interested in the conversation.

"No," answered the child, shaking her head gravely, "nor cares either. We know what to do with them. It tells us in the Bible—'Cast all your care upon God, for He careth for you.' It seems as if there was always something about everything in the Bible."

"Bessie is right," interrupted Polly. "I recollect now teacher telling us that Christian's burden was his sins."

"I don't know," answered Polly. "It says in the text we have to learn for next Sunday—

"It appears to me," said Matthew, "that the more one thinks about this burden, the heavier it would be likely to grow; so that at last it would be more than a man could bear."

"No one need bear it if they don't like," replied Bessie. "They have only to go and leave it where Christian left his, at the foot of the cross. But we haven't come to that yet," continued she. "There's something about a 'wicket gate' first, with the words—'Knock, and it shall be opened' written over it, and which a man he met in the way told him of."

"No, father, it wasn't Mr. Marshall," said Polly. "It was Evangelist. I don't wonder that Bessie could not remember the name."

"I think he must have meant farther on," replied Polly, "when Christian comes at last to the Celestial City."

"But there's a great deal before that," interrupted Bessie. "All about his falling into the pit."

"I know it!" exclaimed their father. "I've fallen in myself many a time—I was nearly in to-night—eh, wife!"

"I think your father had better hear the rest of this wonderful story to-morrow," said Mrs. Reardon, as she folded up her work. "He is tired. You can sing to him if you like, and perhaps he will be able to fall asleep. I am going now to take home my burden."

She lifted up the heavy bundle of work as she spoke, and went away with a smile on her lips, but feeling very weak and giddy nevertheless. It might have been from bending so constantly over her sewing, or in consequence of having eaten nothing that day but a little bread and milk.

Matthew leant back in his chair with closed eyes, and listened to the children singing their little hymns. He did not feel inclined to sleep. There was one hymn which particularly arrested his attention, and which he never remembered to have heard them sing before. It may be that he had never noticed it.

"One sweetly solemn thought
   Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I'm nearer home to-day
   Than I ever have been before.

"Nearer my Father's house,
   Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
   Nearer the crystal sea.

"Nearer the bound of life,
   Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
   Nearer gaining the crown!

"But lying darkly between,
   Winding down through the night,
Is the deep and unknown stream
   To be cross'd ere we reach the light.

"Jesus, perfect my trust,
   Strengthen the hand of my faith,
Let me feel Thee near when I stand
   On the edge the shore of death.

"Feel Thee near when my feet
   Are slipping over the brink:
For it may be I'm nearer home,
   Nearer now than I think."

"The many mansions," repeated Matthew, "that was what Marshall was speaking of the other day,—and the Saviour Christ having gone before to prepare a place for him, and having only to knock and give in the Lord's name in order to be let in. But there was something more he said about a wedding garment that I did not rightly understand. I wonder what makes me think so much of the old man to-night."

CHAPTER XI.

WHEN Mrs. Reardon returned home, she told her husband that a doctor was coming to see him on the following day.

"I told her. I was obliged. The work ought to have been taken back before, and she wanted to know why I had not got it done as I promised. When I said you were ill, she asked a great many questions, and would hardly let me have any more to bring home. She was afraid lest it should be a fever, or something of that kind, and is going to send a doctor the first thing to-morrow morning in order to be sure. I don't think that we need be very grateful to her, and yet I am glad he is coming. He will give you something, I hope, to relieve and do you good."

"It can't be helped now," said Matthew, "but I would rather have waited and seen old Marshall's friend—not that I have any faith in doctors."

"It is of no use waiting, Matthew," said his wife, in a low voice, "you'll never see Marshall again, or his friend either."

"I called at the office this evening," answered Mrs. Reardon. "They were all gone. I knew they would be, but I thought that I might ask the old housekeeper whether he had been there lately."

"Oh, Matthew," continued his wife, "I hardly like to tell you. You remember that dark stormy night when he came here? It appears that the poor old gentleman met with an accident going home, and was much injured, especially about the head and back. The housekeeper did not rightly know the particulars, and she did not believe that any one else did, only that he was taken to the hospital, nothing but a Bible being found in his pockets. He remained there until his master, who had become uneasy at his absence, discovered him. Mr. Heighington has scarcely left him since, but he does not know him or any one else. It is beautiful, for all that, she says, to hear him talking and praying, and some of the patients can't help crying. All yesterday he was sinking fast, and she thought it most probable that by this time all was over."

"Poor old gentleman!" continued Mrs. Reardon. "We little thought that night that we were never to see him any more. It was very good of him to come. I wish now that I had been kinder to him. I knew you would be sorry, Matthew," said she, laying her hand gently upon that of her husband. "It seems as if we had found a friend only to lose him again directly."

"It was my own fault that he never came before," replied Matthew. "But somehow, I don't think that we ought to be very sorry for him. You heard what he said about its being so much better to depart and be with Christ—and that's where he is now. He told me long ago of the Lord having gone before to prepare a place, but he did not think of going so soon then. 'To depart and be with Christ'—yes, it's better for him. But how will it be for those who die without Christ? Don't be afraid, wife," added he, "I know what I am saying, and what I have been thinking of—and I wish that I had thought of it before."

"I'm very sorry for him too," observed Mrs. Reardon, soothingly. "But it's no use thinking and grieving about it; we can't do any good, and after all, as you say, the poor gentleman is better off."

repeated Matthew. "How his face shone when he said those words. It's in one of your hymns—isn't it, Bessie?"

"Poor child!" said her mother, observing that she looked ready to cry. "I don't think we are any of us in a singing humour to-night."

And then, tired as she was, she took them away to their little closet, and having undressed and tucked them in carefully, bidding them say their prayers in bed for once, she kissed the trembling children, and told them to try and go to sleep as fast as they could,—turning back again to take the shawl from her own shoulders and place it over them.

"I can't think what makes them shiver so to-night," thought she, "unless it is these bitter winds."

"I have been thinking, too," continued Polly, "and I don't believe it was the wolves after all. At any rate, they did not eat him up, or how could he be in the hospital?"

"I never thought of that," said Bessie. "But don't you remember our hearing them outside when he went away?"

"It might have been the wind," answered Polly. "It's very high again to-night. Listen to it—how it shakes the doors and windows."

Bessie said that she did not want to listen. And, feeling somewhat reassured by her sister's suggestions, she buried her little head beneath the clothes, and was soon fast asleep.

Dr. Harding called on the following day. He found Matthew worse, and saw at a glance how it was with him.

"Not much, to be sure," replied the doctor. "What you want most is plenty of nourishing food. 'Kitchen physic,' Mrs. Reardon, and the more you can persuade him to take the better."

He little thought of the bitter pang which these words inflicted upon the heart, of the poor suffering wife—some doctors seldom do, and yet they are a kindly race of men for the most part. Alas! for the poor if it were not so.

"I think I shall be able to send something to relieve the cough," said Dr. Harding. "I do not see that anything more can be done at present."

"You must endeavour to keep up his strength," replied Dr. Harding. "Plenty of good beef-tea—anything, in fact, that he fancies. You won't forget?"

"No," answered Mrs. Reardon, "I won't forget." She looked as if she should have liked to ask one more question, but had not the courage; and, while she was still hesitating, Dr. Harding got into his carriage and was driven away.

Mrs. Reardon held her apron to her eyes as she went upstairs, and never noticed a young girl with a pale wistful face and golden hair, who stood aside to let her pass, and looked as if she had been crying also.

When Dr. Harding saw Mrs. Browne, he told her that there was not the slightest fear of contagion.

"The poor man," said he, "is dying of rapid consumption. I should not be surprised to hear of his death at any moment."

"Do they appear to be very poor?" asked Mrs. Browne. "She always draws money for her work before it's quite finished. But many people do that. The poor are so improvident."

"I should say not, so far as I could judge. The room in which they were is as large again as this, with panelled walls old and a carved chimney-piece, quite in the old-fashioned style, although, to be sure, there was not much furniture in it. But the woman appeared to be neatly dressed, and everything looked very clean."

"He can't last much longer," replied Dr. Harding. "The poor fellow is wasted away to a shadow."

"I have a great mind not to let his wife have any more work until it is all over," said Mrs. Browne. "She will find quite enough to do, poor woman, with a sick husband to look after, and the work might get spoilt. I'll tell her so the next time she comes."

"I would not mention the reason if I were you," said Dr. Harding. "She does not seem to be aware of her husband's danger, and it was of no use telling her. The blow will come soon enough."

CHAPTER XII.

WEEKS passed away, and old Peter Marshall was still alive. The doctors had consented to his being removed from the hospital to his own home, where Mr. Heighington, assisted by a faithful and attached domestic, nursed and watched over him with tender care.

Many of the patients wept when he was taken away. Unconsciously to himself, he had delivered his Master's message; and the memory of it remained long after the pale lips that uttered it were silent for ever.

The old man spoke but little after they brought him home. He did not appear to suffer, but grew weaker and weaker day by day. His labour of love was ended; and he waited only for the Master's summons—"Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."

Mr. Heighington never left him for long together. And thus it name to pass in that hushed and quiet chamber, where the silent watcher sat with clasped hands and bowed head, with the open Bible before him, a gentle wind arose—that same wind of which we are told that "it bloweth where it listeth, and no man heareth the sound thereof, or is able to tell whence it cometh, or whither it goeth." The blessed teaching of the Holy Spirit wrought out a great and marvellous work at which the angels in the presence of God wondered and rejoiced.

The old man's prayer was answered at last. If he could only have known it! One would almost imagine that he did by the smile on his pale face.

One evening, upon returning after a short absence from the sick room. Mr. Heighington saw a young girl, whom our readers will recognise as Kate Donaldson, standing in the passage and weeping bitterly. She held the card which Marshall had given her in her hand. She had only just heard of his accident and subsequent illness.

A few kind and sympathetic words soon elicited her sad and touching history. She should not have ventured to come, she said, although he had asked her to do so; but a friend of his, residing in the same house as she did, was very ill, and in great distress, and she had sought him on his account.

Mr. Heighington inquired the name of the person to whom she referred as being a friend of Mr. Marshall's. But he was too much occupied with his own thoughts to remember Matthew Reardon.

"You can tell Mr. Reardon," said he, "that his friend has met with an accident, and is not expected to live; but that I will endeavour to call round and see him myself the first opportunity."

"No," replied Kate, shaking her head, "I can't tell. I have never spoken to him in my life. He doesn't even know that I have come. But you won't be long, sir, for he's about as bad as he can be."

"Not longer than I can help," answered Mr. Heighington, as he took down the address on the back of poor Marshall's card. "Is there nothing else I can do for you?"

"Nothing, sir, thank you," replied the girl—"only I should like to have seen him, if I might. I should like to have told him it was all true he said to me that night about the love of Christ to poor sinners, even the chief—and about His not casting them away. If I could only have told him, and thanked him—and I think that he would be glad too."

"It would be of no use seeing him," answered Mr. Heighington, sadly. "He would not know you. He does not know any one. But he will know all in that day when 'they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever and ever.'"

"What will you do?" asked he, with a compassionate glance at her thin faded garments. "You will be wet through."

"I dare say I could," replied Kate, "if I was rich enough. Oh, sir! I did not mean that!" added she, hastily, as Mr. Heighington slipped a piece of money into her hand. "I'm sorry I spoke as I did—and yet if you could spare it, it would make me very happy!"

"For his sake," repeated Kate, softly. "Indeed, sir, I would not take it for myself. I'm earning my own living now—an honest living—but nothing over, try and stint as I will, and I want money badly just now. Good night, sir, and thank you kindly."

The old servant shook her head as she stood a moment at the door watching the slight, figure of the young girl as she passed with rapid steps through the cold wet streets, and then shut it hastily to keep out the driving rain.

"She'll never ride," exclaimed the woman. "It was a pity, begging your pardon, sir, that you let her have the money."

"It would have been much better to have given her a decent shawl instead of the trumpery thing she had on—although to be sure she might have pawned it. She looked one of that sort!"

"I suppose not, sir. But I should just like to see what she is going to do with the money in such a hurry."

It was well, perhaps, that the woman could not see Kate Donaldson, after making a few purchases of tea and other groceries, enter a fruiterer's shop, and singling out one of the most tempting bunches of grapes which she could find, pay the price demanded for it without a murmur.

Even the owner of the shop could not help regarding her with some curiosity, after carefully examining the money.

"Poor thing!" exclaimed the woman, as she went out, carrying them carefully in her hand into the pitiless rain. "I hardly liked taking the money. She looks as if a meal's victuals would have done her more good."

"I don't see that it's any concern of ours," replied her husband, dropping the change into the till as he spoke. "If she wanted a meal's victuals, why didn't she get it instead of a bunch of hothouse grapes fit only for her betters?"

Mr. Heighington did not forgot his promise, but somehow it unfortunately happened that he lost the card upon which Matthew Reardon's address was written, and after a long and vain search was obliged to give up all hope of being able to find the place.

It was strange how old Peter Marshall lingered on from day to day. The hospital doctors, who had taken an interest in the case, and continued to visit him, said smilingly to each other—for they could smile, being used to such things—that they thought that "Death must have forgotten the old man." But he came at last, one cold grey morning just before the dawn. A ray of consciousness stole back to the dim shadowy eyes, and stretching out his hand as one feeling in the dark, he asked in a feeble voice for "Master Frank," just as if he had known that he had been watching over him all the time.

No one knew what passed between them in that brief and solemn interview. By-and-bye the household stir, the business of human life, recommenced; but the old clerk had entered into his rest—"the rest that remaineth for the people of God."

CHAPTER XIII.

MRS. REARDON had followed Dr. Harding's advice, and given her husband plenty of "kitchen physic." It was wonderful what nice strengthening broth, together with other nourishing things, she contrived to make out of an old mahogany press which had been in her possession ever since she could remember, having formerly belonged to her mother. It was not much used of late in consequence of there being so little to put in it, and when sold was scarcely missed, save that it made the large room look still more large and dreary—the more especially as it was soon found necessary to turn one or two other articles of their scanty furniture into money for the same purpose. But the worst of it was that it did not appear to have made him any stronger.

Being greatly occupied in this manner, Mrs. Reardon had had no time to finish Mrs. Browne's work, and was consequently unaware of the heavy trial that awaited her when she should discover that their sole means of support was about to be taken from them. Truly has it been said "that it is a righteous as well as a tender hand which keeps the next day's page carefully folded down."

Weary as she was, a ray of hope stole into Mrs. Reardon's heart as she sat at needlework, with the nice savoury broth simmering away on the hob, and the voice of her husband, who sometimes rallied wonderfully towards evening, sounding quite cheerful as he and the little ones conversed together.

"Who knows," thought the poor loving wife, "but what he may be spared to me after all? I don't mind how hard I work, or how poor we are, or what we are obliged to part with, so that we can keep him, and nurse and make him well again."

"You never told me," said Matthew, "how it was that Christian got rid of his burden."

"That's just about the most beautiful part, father," said Bessie. "I can't remember it quite as well as it is in the book, only that it was very heavy for him to carry, and all up-hill till he got to the cross."

"I can readily believe," said Matthew, "that it must have been up-hill work getting to the cross with such a load of sins weighing a man down, especially for any one who did not rightly know the way."

"I don't think that Christian knew it very well," said Polly, "for he lost his way a good many times. But he got there safe at last."

"Yes," interrupted Bessie eagerly. "I recollect it all now. No sooner had Christian come up to the cross than the bundle fell off his back and was never seen any more. 'Then was he glad and lightsome, and said, with a merry heart, He has given me rest by his sorrow, and life by his death.' And then he stood awhile to look and wonder until the springs that were in his head sent the water down his cheeks—which means, teacher says, that he began to cry—why, father, you are crying too."

"You are tired, Matthew," said she. "I was afraid that the children would be too much for you."

"No, it is not that; I like to hear them. It does not hurt me. I am better to-night."

"You really feel better, Matthew? I am so glad. I do believe that this nice beef-tea is doing you good."

"Never you mind about that," said Mrs. Reardon, "all you have to do is to try and get well as fast as you can. But you are sure the children do not tire you?"

"So Christian thought," continued Bessie. "And while he stood there crying for joy, behold three shining ones came to him—"

"Angels," interrupted Polly. "There's a picture of them in the book, with wings on their shoulders."

"I wish you would not put me out, Polly. I forget now how it goes on. But I know they begin by saying, 'Peace be unto you.' And then one said, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee.' And another took away his rags and gave him a change of something—I can't recollect the name—to put on."

"Was it a wedding garment?" asked her father, eagerly. "I remember poor Mr. Marshall saying that we could not get in without a wedding garment."

"It says, 'change of raiment,' father, in the book," replied the child. "But I dare say it's all the same; anyhow, Christian was finely pleased; and after giving three leaps for joy, he went away singing."

"It was enough to make a man sing to be quit of such a burden," said Matthew. "Those were sweet words, Bess, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee!'"

"I know," exclaimed Polly, as she ran to fetch her little Bible and began to read, although not without great difficulty and many pauses, the touching history of the poor man who was sick of the palsy, and who not being able to come near unto Jesus on account of the crowd, was let down by his faithful and persevering friends, who uncovered the roof of the house where the Saviour was for that purpose, and so brought him to Christ.

"And when the Lord saw their faith, He said unto the sick of the palsy, Son, thy sins be forgiven thee. But some doubted and murmured, which, when Jesus perceived, He said unto them, Why reason ye these things in your hearts? Whether is it easier to say to the sick of the palsy, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Arise, and take up thy bed, and walk? But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins, (He saith to the sick of the palsy,) I say unto thee, Arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way into thine house. And immediately he arose, took up the bed, and went forth before them all; insomuch that they were all amazed, and glorified God, saying, We never saw it on this fashion." *

Poor Mrs. Reardon bent down her head over her sewing, and wept to think that the age of miracles was past.

"Father," said Bessie, after a pause, "have you got the palsy like that poor man?"

"I suppose He could," replied Matthew, thoughtfully. "But I don't think that I should care so much about being cured if I could only hear Him saying those sweet words, 'Son, thy sins be forgiven thee.'"

"Yes, very well. But I want to hear more about Christian, and what he did when he got quit of his burden."

"I don't know what comes next," said Bessie. "We lost a great deal by staying away so often. I don't recollect any more till he comes to a terrible place called the Valley of the Shadow of Death—"

The child was prevented from saying any more by Mrs. Reardon insisting upon their going to bed at once.

The children shook their heads gravely, although it made their mouths water even to think of it, the more especially upon their attention being thus directed to the savoury smell before alluded to. But they knew, poor things, that it was intended to make their sick father well.

Mrs. Reardon smiled as she filled their little cups, but it might have been noticed that she took none herself.

"We'll have some more to-morrow," said she. "I've nearly finished my work, and hope to get the next lot done quicker."

By-and-bye, when the children had gone to bed, and Matthew and his wife were alone, the husband said:

"I've been thinking a great deal of late, wife; I've had nothing else to do you know. It may be that was what I was laid aside for: and I've been wishing that I could blot out all my past life, and begin it over again quite different."

"But you can't do that, Matthew. And we have had a good bit of trouble in our time; and many a hard struggle that one would not wish to pass through a second time."

"It might have been easier walking," said Matthew, "if we had remembered to lay down our burdens at the foot of the cross. You recollect what the children said about casting all our care upon God, and about his caring for us?"

"Oh, Matthew!" interrupted his wife. "Don't talk in that manner—please don't; it makes me feel as if I was going to lose you. You seemed to be so much better to-night."

"I am better, thank God. But we may as well have it out, wife, and have done with it. I can't help feeling that I have been a great sinner. I know the truth and let it slip away from me in the bustle of life. I forgot God, and it seemed as if God had forgotten me! Nothing that I did prospered. It was not to be expected that it would. It is quick work when once a man begins to go down-hill; but the worst of it was that I could not help dragging you and the children down with me. So things went on from bad to worse, until here I am, a burden instead of a help, and actually eating you out of house and home!"

Be paused a moment to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, and went on in a low voice:

"Well, then; when I get better, please God, I mean to turn over a new leaf, and—"

There was a sudden silence, for he was fainting. Mrs. Reardon, springing forward, caught him in her arms, and dragged, rather than carried, him to that bed which he never left again.

Poor Matthew! There was no new leaf left for him to turn. He had well-nigh come to the last page in life's volume. But the end was not yet. After a little while, he recovered, and tried to smile, in order to cheer his poor trembling wife; but she would not suffer him to speak; and presently he fell into a troubled sleep.

Mrs. Reardon sat by his bedside, hour after hour, that she might watch him and partly that she might finish the work in hand, for which she was already paid, hoping that Mrs. Browne would again advance her something on account of the new work which she should bring home with her.

CHAPTER XIV.

MRS. REARDON was very reluctant to leave her husband on the following day, notwithstanding his cheerful assurance of feeling much better and stronger; but there was no help for it. The work had already been delayed longer than she feared Mrs. Browne would approve of. Besides which she really wanted the money which she expected to receive, in order to procure several little necessaries of which they stood greatly in need.

Before she went, she left strict injunctions with Polly, as to the due administration of the small remaining portion of beef-tea, together with many directions relating to her father, more especially if he should be faint, or be ill during her absence, promising not to be gone a moment longer than she could possibly help.

"Never fear," said Matthew, cheerfully. "The children will take good care of me. I shall do very well. There is no need for you to hurry yourself."

Mrs. Reardon went away with a heavy heart, nevertheless. But it was heavier still when she came back, long before they had begun to expect her, pale, weary, and empty-handed, and sitting down before the fireless hearth, covered her face with her apron, and wept aloud.

For a few moments the children stood and watched her, thinking that she had lost the bundle of work; and then, not knowing what to say to comfort her, began to cry also.

The sound of their grief, together with the remembrance of her sick husband, aroused the poor wife and mother to the necessity for exertion. Well knowing that nothing is so hard to bear as suspense, she told Matthew what had happened, for Mrs. Browne, as the reader already knows, had made up her mind to give her no more work.

"If I understand rightly," said he, "the work is only kept back for a time? Mrs. Browne will be glad to let you have it again when—"

"When you are better," interrupted his wife, quickly. "Yes, that must have been what she meant. But how are you to regain your strength, and get better without food to eat—leave alone nourishing food, such as the doctor spoke of? What will become of us now that this hardhearted woman has taken the bread out of our mouths!"

"It mayn't be for long," said Matthew, in a cheerful voice; "somehow I don't think it will. And meanwhile, as the children were singing just before you came in:

"It needs a strong faith," said Mrs. Reardon, with a sigh, "to see beyond the present darkness."

"It seems to me," replied her husband, "as if God gave us faith according to our need. Try and sing your mother one or two verses of that hymn, children. It will cheer her, maybe, as it did me just now."

The little pathetic voices rose up clear and sweet in obedience to their father's commands, but they were very sad to listen to, notwithstanding, owing to "the lump in their throats," of which Bessie had before complained.

"Though troubles assail
   And dangers affright.
Though friends shall all fail
   And foes all unite:
Yet one thing secures us—
   Whatever betide.
The Scripture assures us
   The Lord will provide.

"The birds without barn
   Or storehouse are fed,
From them let us learn
   To trust for our bread.
His saints what is fitting
   Shall ne'er be denied,
So long as 'tis written,
   The Lord will provide."

"It's all very well," said Mrs. Reardon, shaking her head. "But we're not saints; I wish we were."

"Yes; that knocked the wind out of me at first," answered her husband. "But it's all the same, as Bessie says, whether we're called saints or believers. Let's have the last verse, children:

"No fear or doubting
With Christ on our side,
We hope to die shouting,
'The Lord will provide!'"

Mrs. Reardon marked the flushed cheek and glittering eyes of the sick man, and said no more.

All went on as usual that day, just as if nothing had happened. The scanty meals were prepared and eaten; and then Mrs. Reardon took out her sewing—she could never bear to be idle a moment—and began to look over and mend some of her husband's clothes, wilfully blinding herself to the fact that he would never wear them again.

As night drew on, Matthew became somewhat restless and feverish, but would keep talking nevertheless.

"What should you say," asked he, "if I were to go away for a while on pilgrimage?"

"That it was a good thing, Matthew, so long as you took your wife and children with you, but not else."

"You must bring them afterwards, Mary. Why, even little Bessie knows the way—Jesus, 'the way, the truth, and the life!' Old Marshall was telling me about it a little while before he went. There was no fear of our getting out of the right path, he said, so long as we kept near to Christ. Nothing could be plainer than the directions he gave. I have them all by heart.

"Nothing to do but to ask for Jesus' sake, and knock in Jesus' name, and straightway the golden gates will be opened to let us in. No rent to pay in those heavenly mansions, wife; no more death, neither sorrow nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain. Read what it says about it, Polly, at the end of the book; or, perhaps, mother will read it. I don't seem able to wait while you spell out those words!"

Mrs. Reardon took the Bible, and read as well as she could for tears. It was a long time since she had opened that holy book, but she determined that it should never be so long again; and that, if God would only spare her husband, they would read it together every day, and begin, as he had said, "a new life."

Poor Matthew! The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak; and while she still read to him of the heavenly Jerusalem, he fell into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he was already there.

After a time, Mrs. Reardon closed the book, and went on patching and mending with a sad and touching diligence, while the children whispered together as of old.

Presently there was a low tap at the door; so low that it had to be repeated before Mrs. Reardon, who thought at first that it must be a mistake, arose to open it. But there was no one there, only a parcel directed to her in a large scrawling hand, with a paper bag placed carefully on the top. If she had looked up instead of looking down the wide staircase, which she never thought of doing, she might have seen a pale girlish face leaning over the banisters, with a pitiful expression in her large wistful eyes.

When Mrs. Reardon had gone in again and closed the door, the girl came down a few steps and stood a moment, wet and weary as she was, to listen to the joyful exclamations of the children, as their mother, carefully opening the paper bag, took out the bunch of grapes, which our readers may remember to have seen before.

"And see," added Polly, peeping into the parcel, "tea, and sugar, and rice, and I don't know what besides!"

Mrs. Reardon did not reply. She was watching her sick husband eat the grapes, and crying quietly the while for joy. How grateful they were to his poor parched lips, and how he did enjoy them! It seemed as if he could not eat them fast enough. After a time, however, he remembered the children. They had never tasted, scarcely even seen, a grape before, but nevertheless the poor little things would not touch above one or two, and, when he insisted upon their taking more, gave them quietly to their mother, who put them aside for him to eat in the night.

"Who could have brought them?" said Mrs. Reardon, wonderingly, as she turned over the paper in which they had come, and once more examined the direction.

"It would not be Mrs. Browne, I suppose!" suggested Matthew, who, what with the sleep and the grapes, was feeling greatly refreshed.

"The ravens!" answered the child. "Don't you remember God sending them to feed Elijah, and now He has sent them to feed us—only it does not say that they brought Elijah any grapes."

And then in her childish way, Bessie went on to relate that touching episode in the life of the prophet Elijah, when he dwelt by the little brook Cherith that is before Jordan, and God commanded the ravens, and they brought him bread and flesh in the morning, and bread and flesh in the evening, and he drank of the brook.

After which, she went on to tell of the poor widow of Zarephath (only she could not recollect the name), who had nothing save a little meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse, and was gathering two sticks in order that she might go and dress it for herself and her son, that they might eat it and die. And when Elijah bade her make him first a little cake, and fear not, for the Lord would not suffer the meal to waste, neither the cruse of oil to fail, she went and did according to his word, and she, and he, and her house did eat many days, and the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord, which He had spoken by Elijah.

"Bessie is right," said her father, when she had finished. "I do believe that it must have been the ravens. Oh, wife, it seemed hard for you to be able to trust God this morning. It will be easier next time."

"I think it will," replied Mrs. Reardon, softly. "At any rate, I am sure that it ought."

CHAPTER XV.

AN aged minister of Christ told the writer that he always prayed, before leaving home, to be guided in the right way.

"We can never tell," said he, "how much may depend upon whether we turn to the right hand, or to the left."

Thus it was with Mr. Heighington on the day of which we write. Instead of taking the usual road upon leaving his office, he turned aside into a less frequented street in the immediate neighbourhood, and suddenly found himself face to face with Kate Donaldson. Although they had met but once, they recognised one another directly.

"He'll never be any better, sir. I have been hoping every day that you would come and see him as you promised."

"And so I would have done, but, unfortunately, I lost the card, and could not find out his address. You may have heard that Mr. Marshall has gone home at last, Kate."

"I did, sir, but she would not let me know. She would not believe a word that I said. But I don't blame her. I have deserved not to be trusted."

"He trusted you, Kate, and spoke kindly of you at the last. But I must tell you about it another time. By-the-bye, I have a present for you, from him, at the office, which you may as well get at once."

"For me!" exclaimed Kate. "And did he really think of me? I can wait for the present, sir, thank you. But the Reardons were friends of his—if you could help them, sir. They've sold all there is to sell, and the poor little children are pinched for want of food."

Mr. Heighington happened to have a particular engagement that day. But he told Kate that he would go at once, and endeavour to put it off; and that she was to wait for him at the office, and afterwards accompany him to the Reardons, and show him where they lived.

Nor was he; for by the time that Kate had admired and put on the warm woollen shawl which Peter Marshall, with his usual thoughtful kindness, had desired might be given her, together with a neat bonnet, the present of the good housekeeper, Mr. Heighington had returned.

Let us precede them, and glance for a moment into that cheerless and dismantled home. All that there was to sell, as Kate said, had been sold, save the bed on which the sick man lay, for whose death the landlord only waited to turn the poor widow and her helpless little ones adrift in the world.

The ravens brought nothing now, save an occasional loaf of bread, or a little milk for the children. The few sticks had been gathered, and the last meal dressed, so that it only remained to eat it together and die. The barrel of meal had wasted, and the cruse of oil failed, while the faith of the poor weary wife and mother waxed dim and feeble.

The little children had grown pale, and thin, and hollow-eyed, but they never complained.

"The wolf has got in at last, Bess!" said the dying man, as she stood by the bedside.

Among the many troubles which had come to them of late, the poor child had well-nigh forgotten their old enemy. But, now, being weak from want of food, a sudden fear fell upon her, and she trembled as she glanced round the large empty room.

"I don't think he's in yet," said Bessie, in a whisper, "or we should see him. Oh, mother, what can we do to keep him out?"

"I've tried all ways," replied Mrs. Reardon, scarcely knowing what she said; "I don't know what to do!"

"Let us pray, mother," said Bessie, "and ask God to save us as He did David, out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear!"

Mrs. Reardon knelt down, but no words came. She had forgotten how to pray, and felt sick and confused like one in a dream. Polly, too, was silent, wanting courage to say what was in her heart. There was a few moments' pause, and then Bessie folded her little hands and said:

"Dear Lord Jesus, be pleased to take care of us, and keep the wolf from the door. Don't let him come near to hurt or destroy us. And, oh, dear Lord Jesus, make father better—and give us this day our daily bread."

Little Bessie had scarcely finished speaking, when a knock was heard at the door, which, low as it was, made them all start—although they must have known, of course, that a wolf would never think of knocking at the door—end Mr. Heighington entered the room, followed by Kate carrying a large basket of provisions, which she would have left and gone away again had not Mr. Heighington requested her to remain and assist Mrs. Reardon, who was evidently worn-out from fatigue, and want of nourishing food.

Before evening came, the room had assumed quite a different appearance; while Matthew, as he lay still and followed every movement of the young girl with his large hollow eyes, and heard how she had been the means, under God, of bringing help and deliverance in the hour of need, was very sorry for all the hard things that he had ever said of her.

He had been very hard, too, in his judgment of Mr. Heighington. He recollected the old clerk telling him of it at the time. And now, when he might justly have expected that God would be hard with him, he experienced instead nothing but tender mercy and loving-kindness, and a free pardon of all his sins for Jesus Christ's sake.

Mr. Heighington had already thought of a plan by which Mrs. Reardon would be able, with a little assistance, just at first, to provide for herself and the children, so that Matthew, as he said, had not a single earthly care. For the rest, he had cast down his burden at the foot of the cross, and so found peace with God—peace in believing—peace in Christ.

That night, or rather just as the night was waning into the chill time that comes before the early morning, a messenger arrived from the Celestial City, and he and Matthew went away together, leaving his wife and children to follow after.

We are glad to be able to add, that, when her husband was gone over the river, and she could hear of him no more, Mrs. Reardon began to have "thoughts working in her mind," which gave her no rest day or night, so that she cried out even in her sleep, "Lord have mercy upon me, a sinner."

And the little children heard her, and then she and they earnestly began a pilgrim's life.

At Mrs. Reardon's request, Kate remained with them until an answer arrived to a touching appeal written by Mr. Heighington in the poor girl's behalf to a distant relative, a kind-hearted, motherly woman, who came up to town at once, and not only forgave the past, but gladly took Kate back with her to her humble but comfortable home.

Of course Mrs. Reardon mourned long and deeply for her great loss; and the two little girls often talked to one another, when no one else was by, of their father who had always been patient with them, however much he was troubled by his failing health and his dread of "the wolf." But though these quiet talks made them sad for the time, they always cheered up when they thought of the Celestial City, with its golden gates, through which they felt so sure their father had entered. "And there are no wolves at that door," said they to one another. They used to cheer their mother too, with these encouraging words.

After a time, Polly and Bessie learned and understood that what people really meant when they spoke of "the wolf at the door," was poverty and want.

"It was God who kept the wolf from our door," said Bessie one day; "for if He had not put it into the hearts of good Mr. Marshall first of all, and then into poor Kate's, and then into kind Mr. Heighington's, we could not have kept him out, could we, mother? And it was He who put it into my heart to pray for His help. And I will love Him as long as I live; and so will you, Polly, and you, mother dear."

"The wolf" never went to their door again—not at all near it. Mrs. Reardon had to work hard, no doubt, and so did the little girls when they were older. But they did this very cheerfully; and as they had always a kind friend in Mr. Heighington, who took care to find them profitable employment, they got on very nicely indeed.

Polly's work was to be sunshine in her home, and to assist her mother in the delicate needlework to which she had long been accustomed. After a time, she was sunshine in another pleasant home; but this was years afterwards, when her mother ceased to need her help.

Bessie's work was to teach other little girls what she had learned, first from her Sunday school teacher, and afterwards from other teachers to whom both she and her sister were sent by the good friend whom God had sent to them in their need.

Bessie was a very apt scholar, as you may judge from what you have already been told; and afterwards, she was such a kind teacher, that all her little pupils loved her very dearly indeed. And you would have loved her too, if you had known her.

It is at a pleasant home in the country where we shall last see Mrs. Reardon and her two daughters. It is a neat cottage with a porch in front, over which roses and honeysuckles are twining; for it is a June day, and the roses are in full bloom—so are the honeysuckles. Mrs. Reardon is rather infirm now; but she has a pleasant, thoughtful face, which it does one good to see. She is watering her flower-garden in front, when she hears voices at a little distance which gives her quite a start. So she puts down her watering-pot and goes to the gate, which she opens just in time to be caught in the arms of her own Polly, now quite a motherly woman herself, while another person, by Polly's side, says laughing:

"There, mother; I am as good as my word, you see; I have brought Sunshine to you again."

"And Bessie is just behind, mother," says Mrs.—, Polly, I mean. "We were not coming without her."

"And between us all," says the gentleman, who is very much like Mr. Marshall grown young again, and is indeed his nephew, "we shall manage, I hope, for to-day at any rate, to keep the wolf from the door."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of How little Bessie kept the wolf from the door

How Little Bessie Kept the

Wolf from the Door

CHAPTER I.