bread away from her, anddon't get enough for us both."
A curious expression passed across Theodore's face as he turned awayand sat down in his chair once more. It looked like a gleam ofsatisfaction. The boy, meanwhile, sat quite still, looking round theroom. He had a grave and somewhat interesting face, but that the darkeyes looked a little too keen and restless to be quite pleasant.Still, when he smiled, and he had smiled brightly when he first sawthe bread, his countenance improved; and there was, besides, somethingabout his open forehead which redeemed the covert expression of hiseye. He was about seven years old, and precocious in quickness of aparticular kind, as is very often the case with vagrant children.
Theodore's reverie was broken at last by the arrival of his good oldhousekeeper, who came in, flurried and indignant, to inform him thatthe woman she had been in search of was no where to be found. She hadbeen, "she was sure," up and down all the carriage roads, and madeenquiries at all the lodges, and finally discovered that a beggarwoman had passed out at one of them upwards of an hour before, veryhurriedly, and indeed almost at a running pace.
Theodore glanced at the child, but his countenance never changed. Onlyhe sat eying the housekeeper as she spoke, apparently indifferent tothe result. The housekeeper now began to ejaculate in brokensentences, "The base creature! To think that you should have taken allthis trouble, Sir! and had the child actually into the house!and--gracious me," added she in a half whisper, "hadn't I better callthe butler, Sir; hadn't he" (nodding significantly towards the child)"better be taken to the workhouse at once, Sir?"
"I think not," answered Theodore slowly--"not yet, I think. The truthis, I find he's not her own child, but has been stolen; and--and--infact, we can send him to the workhouse to-morrow. Perhaps, after all,the woman may come here for him. But, at any rate, there is timeenough. You see this is an odd affair; and, as the boy is not _hers_,we don't know who he may not turn out to be some day." And, asTheodore thus concluded his sentence, he got up and looked at the oldhousekeeper with a smile--a melancholy one it is true, but still itwas a smile--the first that had been seen on his face since histerrible bereavement.
And the faithful servant was so much pleased that she forgot everything else in a desire to keep up the interest that had lured heryoung master so unaccountably from his misery.
"Well, to be sure, Sir, what you say's quite right, and we can makethe poor thing comfortable for to-night, and then you can do as youplease to-morrow. Shall I take him with me, Sir, and make him clean,while you dine? I can borrow some tidy clothes from the bailiff'swife, I dare say; and after he's made respectable, you can see himagain, Sir, if you think proper."
This proposition was more grateful to Theodore's mind than he cared toacknowledge to himself. Indeed he had no clear ideas of his feelingsabout the little accident that had interrupted the dismal course ofhis life; and he studiously avoided questioning himself too closely.Only there came across him, every now and then, a sensation that therewas some special providence about it all, and that there was somemysterious connection between this adventure and the words of theapparitions who had spoken to him in the morning.
But "let be, let us see what will happen," was the ruling feeling, andas he felt less miserable than usual, he did not wish to disturb thepleasing dream by enquiries, why?
After his solitary dinner, as he was seated alone in his arm chair, hewas relapsing fast into his usual unhappy state of mind, for this wasat all times the most trying part of the day to him, when a knock atthe door aroused him.
Ah, it was the good old housekeeper again! She who, with the acuteinstinct of sorrow-soothing which women so eminently possess, hadpurposely come at this the young master's "dark hour," to try if itcould be kept back by the charm she had seen working a short timebefore. "The little fellow is quite fit to come in now, Sir, if you'dwish to see him before he's put to bed." And her efforts were rewardedby seeing a look of interest light up poor Theodore's eye. The boy wasnow ushered in, and his improved appearance and cleanliness were verystriking. Theodore took hold of his hand--"There, you need not beafraid; you may sit down upon that chair. Are you comfortable?" "Yes.""Have you had plenty to eat?" "Yes, plenty." And the child laughed alittle.
"I hope you are a good boy."
He looked stupid. "Can you say your prayers?"
"What's that?"
"Ah! I was afraid not. You never heard about God?" "Yes; but the womanused to keep that to herself." "Keep what?"
"Why," _for God's sake_, when she begged. She didn't let me say it, butshe always said it herself; and then, when people wouldn't give us anything, she used to say--"
"No, no! I will not hear about that;" interrupted Theodore, "but Ihope some day you will learn about God."
"In the begging? must I say it in the begging next time?"
"No, I don't mean that; not in begging bread of people in the road,but in praying."
"What's that?" "Begging." "Then I am to beg?" "No, not on the road,but of a great good Being, who will never refuse what you ask."
"Is that _you_?"
"No, my poor boy; not me, but the great Being, called God, who livesin the sky. You must beg all you want of Him."
"I don't know Him."
"No; but you will learn to know Him when you have listened to me andprayed to Him."
"I don't know praying; I know begging."
"Well, then, when you have begged Him--"
"What am I to say?"
"First, you must say, 'Our Father--'"
"Father's dead," interrupted the boy;
"Ah, but I do not mean _that_ father," answered Theodore; "and how doyou know even that _that_ father is dead?"
"The woman said so. One day she told me Father and Mother were bothdead, and there was nobody left to love me, so I must mind her."
"The woman was wrong," cried Theodore compassionately. "You haveanother Father, who never dies, and who loves you always!--"
A knock at the door interrupted Theodore's _lesson on the Love ofGod_.
"It's about time the poor thing was put to bed," suggested thehousekeeper, looking in. "I dare say he's tired."
"I dare say he is," said Theodore mechanically. "Good night, littleboy. What used they to call you?"
"Reuben."
"Good night, little Reuben." And he was taken away.
_You have another Father who never dies and who loves you always_!founded like an echo through the room. Theodore arose and lookedaround, but there was no one there. He resumed his feat, and wonderedhow he had got involved in teaching the beggar boy religion. Helamented his awkwardness and unfitness for the talk; but still hethought he had done right. As to his last assertion, how else could hemake the child comprehend God at all? Besides, how cruel it would beto infect him with his own miserable convictions. They would come timeenough, perhaps!
Such was the current of his thoughts. The next morning he told the oldhousekeeper of the boy's ignorance and his difficulty with him, andengaged her to help him in his talk, which she readily undertook.
It is not my intention to describe the many endeavours Theodore madeto impress the first great truths of Christianity upon Reuben's mind;but I can assure you he felt all the better for them himself. How itwas that he never sent the little boy to the workhouse you can guess.For the first few days he kept him to see (as he said), if the womanwould come back for him. Then he wished him to stay till he and thehousekeeper had sufficiently impressed him by their lessons. Andthen--why then--by degrees, all mention of the workhouse ceased, andbetter clothes were bought for him; and the housekeeper, who was oneof the by-gone generation of warm-hearted old family servants, became,for her master's sake, a perfect mother to him; and to Theodore heinvoluntarily proved an object of daily increasing interest, andfinally, of strong personal affection.
And thus nearly a year passed over, during which time Theodore'shealth and activity in a measure returned; but the cheerfulness of ahappy mind was still wanting. Reuben often lured him temporarily intoit, but he would again r
elapse, and had never given up his unhappytheory, though now he dwelt upon it much less frequently than of old.At the end of the year, however, Theodore was much distressed byfancying that he detected Reuben in lying; and he was, besides, by nomeans sure that little trifles were not taken from him by the childfor his own use and amusement. He communicated his suspicions to thehousekeeper, and alas! found his worst fears confirmed. The pain andsorrow he felt at this discovery were of a kind totally new to him.But the strongest feeling of all was, that he would not give