darling?"
"Oh! you knows--`I'm glad--I hever--'"
"`Saw the day'?" finished Miss Mary.
"Yes, that's it. Poor Janey didn't know wot it meant--'tis 'bout God."
"Shall I sing it for you?"
"Yes--please."
Miss Mary did so; but when she came to the words, "I'll sing whilemounting through the air To Glory, Glory, Glory," Flo stopped her.
"That's wot I'll do--sing--wile mountin'--'tis hall glory."
And then again she lay still with closed eyes.
During that night Mrs Jenks and Miss Mary watched her, as she laygently breathing her earthly life away.
Surely there was no pain in her death--neither pain nor sorrow. A quietpassing into a better Land. An anchoring of the little soul, washedwhite in the Blood of the Lamb, on a Rock that could never be moved.
Just before she died she murmured something about the Queen.
"Tell 'er--ef she 'ears o' me--not to fret--I'm well--the best way--and'tis hall glory."
So it was.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.
In the evening after Flo's funeral Mrs Jenks was seated by her brightlittle fire.
Nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing couldever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had losther old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze.This might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on theground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any changeof weather, neither could it be caused by the death of Flo.
Mrs Jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously--perhaps notovermuch. Those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a deathat all. God had come and fetched her--that was what they said.
And the child was so manifestly fit to go--so evidently unfit to passthrough any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tenderregret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at hergain.
No, Mrs Jenks was not mourning for Flo, but all the same she wastroubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easilystartled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to herfeet.
"'Tis only me, Mrs Jenks," said Miss Mary Graham, taking off hersnow-laden cloak, and sitting down on Flo's little stool at one side ofthe fire.
"I thought you'd feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you."
"Thank you, ma'am--yes--I'm missing the child and her dog, maybe.Anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing herback, I'm very low like. If I 'ad Scamp, poor fellow, he'd keep me up.It was 'ard he should come by such a bad end."
"Oh! Mrs Jenks, it was not a bad end. It was quite a glorious closingof life for the fine old fellow--he died defending the one he lovedbest. And, do you know, I could not bear to have him here without her,he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she isnow."
"No, ma'am--that is true. He always lay close to her side, and curledup on the foot of her bed at night--and not a look nor a thought wouldhe give me near her. And they say he hardly suffered a bit, that hisdeath must 'ave come like a flash of lightning to him."
"Yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stoneat Flo's feet."
Miss Mary paused--then, bending forward, she touched the widow's arm.
"You are going to Wandsworth in the morning--may I come with you?"
At the word Wandsworth, Mrs Jenks' face flushed crimson, the tears, soclose to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron overher head.
"Oh! Miss Mary, don't mind me, ma'am--I'm a poor weak creature, butindeed my heart misgives me sore. Suppose the lad should refuse to comeback?"
"Suppose the Lord hath forgotten to be gracious?" replied Miss Mary,softly.
"Oh! no, ma'am, it ain't that. He's gracious any way, anyhow. No, MissMary dear, I feels your kindness, but I'll go alone. It will daunt thepoor boy less if I 'ave no one beside me. Down on my bended knees, ifneed be, I'll beg of him to turn from 'is evil ways, and perhaps theLord will hear me."
"Yes, Mrs Jenks, the Lord _will_ hear you, and give you back your lostson."
Miss Mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by thefire.
"Yes," she said after a pause. "I were a fool to misdoubt God. Don'this heavenly Father and his blessed Saviour care more fur the lad than Ido?
"'Twill be all right for 'im, and if Flo was here to-night, she'd say,sweet lamb,--
"`Mrs Jenks, ma'am, ain't you about ready to get hout that jacket, andtrousers, and vest, to hair 'em, ma'am?'
"Well! I just will get 'em hout, same as if she bid me."
The widow rose, went to her trunk, unlocked it, and taking out a parcelwrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire.
There they were--the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavenderand camphor.
Mrs Jenks contemplated them with pride. How well grown her boy mustbe, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! They would be sureto fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind's eyethat sad day when he was taken to prison!
She examined the beautiful stitching she had put into them with pride;when they were aired she took a clothes' brush, and brushed them overagain--then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips andkissed them.
As she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, inthat fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the windowstartled her considerably. Her room was on the ground floor, and sheremembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression andsadness of spirit, to draw down the blind.
Holding her hand to her beating heart, she approached and looked out.
She had not been mistaken in supposing she heard a sob. A lad was lyingfull length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, andshe heard suppressed moans still coming from his lips.
For the sake of her own son she must be kind to all destitute creatures.
She stepped out on her threshold, and spoke in her old cheery tones.
"Come in, poor fellow, come in. Don't lie there perishing--come in, andI'll give you a cup of tea. I've just brewed some, and a good strongcup will warm you."
As she spoke she went and laid her hand on the boy's arm.
"I'm a thief," he said without stirring; "you won't let in a thief?"
Something in the hoarse, whispered tones went straight to her heart.
"Of all people on earth, those I 'ave most feeling for are poorrepentant thieves," she said. "If you're one of them, you 'ave a surewelcome. Why, there!" she continued, seeing he still lay at her feetand sobbed, "I've a lad of my own, who was a thief, and 'as repented.He's in prison, but I feel he 'ave repented."
"Would you let in your own lad?" asked the figure in the snow, in stillthat strange muffled voice.
"Let him in!" cried the widow; "let in my own lad! What do you take mefor? I'm off to his prison to-morrow, and 'ome he shall come with allthe love in his mother's heart, and the prodigal son never had a betterwelcome than he shall have."
Then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, andstumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixedhis eyes on the widow's face, and before she could speak, threw his armsround the widow's neck. "Mother," he said, "I'm that repentant lad."
Jenks had been let out of prison a day sooner than his mother hadcalculated upon.
He had come back--humbled--sorry--nay more, clothed, and in his rightmind: ready to sit at the feet of that Jesus whom once he persecuted.All the story of how these things had come to pass, all the story ofthat sermon which had touched his heart, all the story of that simple,childish letter, of those two locks of hair, he told to his happy andrejoicing mother.
And of her it might be said, "O woman, great was thy faith; it was doneunto thee even as thou wouldest."
These things happened a few months ago. How do the characters in thisli
ttle story fare now?
Truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing torelate about any of them.
Jenks, partly through Miss Mary's aid, and partly through his mother'ssavings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, hisearnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, havealready made him a favourite with his master. Humanly speaking, few arelikely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dreamis some day wholly to support his beloved little mother.
Pick is still at the Reformatory School, but he promises to do