CHAPTER TEN. · Part 3

He was sick of those four faces, sick of studying them so attentively, he knew every trick of feature they all possessed, and he was weary of watching them. But of all the four the face of the chaplain annoyed him most, perhaps because he had watched him so often in chapel. But to-day it might be a shade better to look at him than to gaze at the hard dead wood in front of his cell-like pew--so sullenly he raised his eyes to the spot where he expected to find him. He did so, then gave a start, and the sullenness passed away like a cloud; his lucky star was in the ascendant to-day--a stranger was in the chaplain's place, he had a fresh face to study. He had a fresh face to study, and one that even in a London crowd must have occupied his attention. A man bordering on fifty, with grey hair, a massive chin, very dark, very deeply-set eyes, and an iron frame, stood before him.

Jenks hated effeminate men, so he looked with admiration at this one, and presently, the instincts of his trade being ever uppermost, began to calculate how best he could pick his pockets, and what a dreadful grip the stranger could give his--Jenks'--throat with those great muscular hands.

Suddenly he felt a grip somewhere else, a pang of remorse going right through his hardened heart. The strange chaplain, for half an instant, had fixed his deep-set eyes on him, and immediately it began to occur to Jenks what a shameful fellow he must be to allow such a man as that to speak without listening to him.

The new face was so pleasing, that for a moment or two he made an effort to rouse himself, and even repeated "Our Father" beneath his breath, just to feel what the sensation was like. Then old habits overcame him--he fell asleep.

He was in a sound, sweet sleep, undetected by the warder, when suddenly a movement, a breath of wind, or perhaps the profound silence which reigned for a moment through the little chapel, awoke him--awoke him thoroughly. He started upright, to find that the stranger was about to deliver his text.

This was the text:

"And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus, whom thou persecutest."

The stranger's voice was low and fervent; he looked round at his congregation, taking them all in, those old sinners, and young and middle-aged sinners, who, in the common acceptation of the term, were sinners more than other men.

He looked round at them, and then he gave it to them.

In that low fervent voice of his, his body bent a little forward, he opened out to them a revelation, he poured out on them the vials of God's wrath. Not an idea had he of sparing them, he called things by their right names, and spoke of sin, such sin as theirs--drunkenness, uncleanness, thieving--as the Bible speaks of these things; and he showed them that every one of them were filthy and gone astray utterly.

When he said this--without ever raising his voice, but in such a manner, with such emphasis, that every word told home--he sketched rapidly two or three portraits for them to recognise if they would.

They were fancy portraits, but they were sketched from a thousand realities. The murderer's last night in his cell--the drunkard with the legions of devils, conjured up by delirium tremens, clustering round him--the lost woman dying out in the snow. Then, when many heads were drooping with shame and terror, he suddenly and completely changed his tone.

With infinite pity in his voice he told them that he was sorry for them, that if tears of blood could help them, he would shed them for them.

Their present lives were miserable, degraded, but no words could tell what awaited them when God arose to execute vengeance.

On every man, woman, and child, that vengeance was coming, and was fully due. It was on its road, and when it overtook them, the dark cell, the whipping-post, solitary confinement for ever, would seem as heaven in comparison.

Then he explained to them why the vengeance was so sure, the future woe so inevitable.

"_I am Jesus, whom thou persecutest_."

Did they know that? Then let them hear it now. Every time the thief stole, every time the drunkard degraded his reason, and sank below the level of the beasts; every time the boy and girl did the thousand and one little acts of deceit which ended so shamefully; then they crucified the Son of God afresh, and put him to an open shame.

_It was Jesus of Nazareth whom they persecuted_.

Would God allow such love as His Son's love to be trampled on and used slightingly? No, surely. He had borne too long with them; vengeance was His, and He would repay.

When the minister had gone so far, he again changed his voice, but this time it changed to one of brightness.

He had not brought them to look at so dark a sight as their own sin and ruin without also showing them a remedy. For every one of them there was a remedy, a hiding-place from the wrath of God. Jesus, whom they persecuted, still loved them. _Still loved them_! Why, His heart was yearning over them, His pity, infinite, unfathomable, encompassing them. They were not too bad for Jesus--not a bit of it.

For such as them He died, for such as them He pleaded with His Father. If they came to Him--and nothing was easier, for He was always looking out for them--He would forgive them freely, and wash their souls in His blood, and make them ready for heaven. And while on earth He would help them to lead new lives, and walk by their sides Himself up the steep paths of virtue.

Such as they too wicked for Heaven? No, thank God. Jesus Himself led in the first thief into that holy place; and doubtless thousands such as he would yet be found around the throne of God!

There was dead silence when the preacher had finished; no eager shuffling and trooping out of chapel. The prisoners drew down their masks, and walked away in an orderly and subdued manner. No human eye could detect whether these men and women were moved by what they had heard or not. They were quieter than usual, that was all.

As for Jenks, he walked in his place with the others, and when he got to his cell, sat down soberly. His face was no longer dead and sullen, it had plenty of feeling, and excited feeling too. But the look of satisfaction he had worn when gazing at his letter was gone.

_That parson_ had gone down straight, with his burning words, to the place where his heart used to be--had gone down, and found that same heart still there--nearly dead, it is true, but still there--and probed it to the quick.

He sat with his head buried in his hands, and began to think.

Old scenes and old memories rose up before the boy--pure scenes and holy memories. Once he had lisped texts, once he had bent his baby knees in prayer. How far off then seemed a prison cell and a criminal's life!

Hitherto, ever since he had taken to his present career, he had avoided thought, he had banished old times. He had, even in the dark cell, kept off from his mental vision certain facts and certain events.

They were coming now, and he could not keep them off. O God! how his mother used to look at him, how his father used to speak to him!

Though he was a great rough boy, a hardened young criminal, tears rolled down his cheeks at the memory of his mother's kiss. He wished that parson had not preached, he was thoroughly uncomfortable, he was afraid.

For the last year and more Jenks had made up his mind to be a thief in earnest. He called it his profession, and resolved to give up his life to it. The daring, the excitement, the false courage, the uncertainty, the hairbreadth escapes, all suited his disposition.

His prison episode had not shaken his resolve in the least. He quite determined, when the weary months of confinement were over, and he was once more free, to return to his old haunts and his old companions. He would seek them out, and expound to them the daring schemes he had concocted while in prison. Between them they would plan and execute great robberies, and never be taken--oh no. He, for one, had had his lesson, and did not need a second; happen what might, he would never again be taken. Not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men, should again lay hands on him, or come between him and his freedom.

It was nonsense to say that every thief knew what prison was, and spent the greater part of his time in prison! _He_ would not be down on his luck like that! He would prosper and grow rich, and then, when rich, he might turn honest and enjoy his money.

This was his plan--all for the present life. He had never given the other life a thought. But now he did; now, for the first time, he reflected on that terrible thing for any unforgiven soul to contemplate--the wrath of God.

Some day, however successful he might be in this life, he must die, and his naked soul appear before God; and God would ask him so many things, such a piled-up account of sins he would have to lay to his charge. And his father and mother would look on and reproach him, and God would pass sentence on him--he could not escape. He had crucified the Son of God afresh, and put Him to an open shame!

Jenks was not ignorant, like Flo and Dick, he knew of these things. The thought in his mind became intolerable. He paced up and down his cell, and hailed with pleasure the welcome interruption of his Sunday dinner.

When it was finished, he again drew out his letter, hoping and wishing that the old feeling of satisfaction would return at sight of it. But it did not. Try as he might, it did not. He endeavoured to guess who sent it, but no fresh ideas would occur to him. He thought of Flo, and he thought of his mother--he fought against the thought of his mother, and endeavoured to push it away from him. But, struggle as he might, it would come back; and at last, in desperation, he opened the letter.

It was not a long letter when opened, but had appeared thick by reason of a little parcel it contained, a little parcel, wrapped in two or three folds of silver paper. Jenks looked at the parcel as it lay on his knee, then took it up and began to unfold it. His fingers trembled, he did not know why. He threw the parcel from him and spread out the letter to read. Not very much writing in it, and what there was, was printed in large round type. Motes began to dance before his eyes, he put down the letter, and again took up the parcel. This time he opened it, unwrapping slowly fold after fold of the soft paper. Two locks of hair fell out, a grey and a brown, tied together with a thread of blue silk. They dropped from Jenks' fingers; he did not touch them. He gazed at them as they lay on the floor of his cell, the brown lock nearly hidden by the silver. A soft breeze came in and stirred them; he turned from them, gave them even a little kick away, and then, with a burning face, began to read his letter.

"Jenks,--

"I thot 'as yo'd like fur to no--yor mother 'ave furgiven yo, she nos as yo is a thif, and tho she may 'av freted a good bit at fust, she's werry cherful now--she 'av the litel jackit, and trouses, and westkit, hal redy, as yo used to war wen a litel chap. She 'av them let hout hal rond, and they'l fit yo fine. She livs in the old place--wery butiful it his, and she 'av me, flo, livin' wid 'er, and scamp to, we 'av livd yer hever sins yo and Dick was in prisin, and we both furgivs yo Jenks, wid hal our 'arts, and yor mother ses as yo is a comin' bak wen the singin' burds com, and the floers, and we'll 'av a diner fur yo, and a welcom, and lov. yer mother don't no as i is sendin' this and i 'av kut orf a bit of 'er 'air, unknonst to 'er, and a bit of mi 'air to, widch shos as we thincs of yo, and furgivs yo; and Jenks, I wrot this mi own self, miss mary shoed me 'ow, and i 'av a lot mor in mi 'art, but no words, on'y god lovs yo, yor fond litel--

"flo.

"miss mary, she put in the stops."

"_I am Jesus of Nazareth, whom thou persecutest--it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks_."

This latter part of the text came back also to the boy's memory; he bent his head over the odd little letter and saturated it with tears. He snatched up the two locks of hair and covered them with kisses.

His mother had forgiven him--his mother loved him.

She knew he was a thief, and she loved him.

How he had tried to keep this knowledge from her, how he had hoped that during these past three years she had supposed him dead! Her only son, and she a widow, dead! Far better--far, far better, than that she should believe him to be a thief!

He recalled now the last time he had seen her--he recalled, as he had never dared to do hitherto, the history of that parting. He had been wild for some time, irregular at school, and in many ways grieving his parents' hearts; and his father, before he started on that last voyage, had spoken to him, and begged him to keep steady, and had entreated him, as he loved his mother, as he loved him, his father, as he loved his God, to keep away from those bad companions who were exercising so hateful an influence on his hitherto happy, blameless life. And with tears in his eyes, the boy had promised, and then his brave sailor father had kissed him, and blessed him, and gone away never to return again. And for a time Jenks was steady and kept his word, and his mother was proud of him, and wrote accounts, brilliant, happy accounts, of him to his father at sea. But then the old temptations came back with greater force than before, and the promise to his father was broken and forgotten, and he took really to bad ways.

His mother spoke to him of idleness, of evil companions, but she never knew, he felt sure, how low he had sunk, nor at last, long before he left her house, that he was a confirmed thief. He was a confirmed thief, and a successful thief, and he grew rich on his spoils.

One evening, however, as he expressed it, his luck went against him. He had been at a penny gaff, where, as usual, he had enriched himself at the expense of his neighbours. On his way home he saw a policeman dodging him--he followed him down one street and up another. The boy's heart beat faster and faster--he had never been before a magistrate in his life, and dreaded the disgrace and exposure that would ensue. He managed to evade the policeman, and trembling, entered his home, and stole up the stairs, intending to hide in his own little bed-room. He reached it, and lay down on his bed. There was only a thin canvas partition between his tiny room and his mother's. In that room he now heard sobs, and listening more intensely, heard also a letter being read aloud. This letter brought the account of his father's death--he had died of fever on board ship, and been buried in the sea. His last message, the last thing he said before he died, was repeated in the letter.

"Tell wife, that Willie will be a comfort to her; he promised me before I went away to keep a faithful and good lad."

The boy heard so far, then, stung with a maddening sense of remorse and shame, stole out of the house as softly as he had entered it--met the policeman at the door, and delivered himself into his hands; by him he was taken to the police-station, then to prison for a day or two.

But when he was free he did not return home, he never went home again. His mother might suppose him dead, drowned, but never, never as long as she lived should she know that he was a thief. For this reason he had given himself up to the policeman; to prevent his entering that house he had met him on the threshold and delivered himself up. And his only pure pleasure during the past guilty years was the hope that his mother knew nothing of his evil ways.

But now she did know, the letter said she did know. What suffering she must have gone through I what agony and shame! He writhed at the thought.

Then a second thought came to him--she knew, and yet she forgave him-- she knew, and yet she loved him.

She was preparing for his return, getting ready for him.

Now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing out his months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day that captivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, and take his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show him the clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on, and perhaps she would kiss him--kiss the face that had been covered with the prisoner's mask--and tell him she loved him and forgave him! Would she do this, and would he go with her?

"_I am Jesus whom thou persecutest_."

Back again came the sermon and its text to his memory.

"Every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, you persecute Jesus," said the preacher.

Jenks had known about Jesus, but hitherto he had thought of Him simply as an historical character, as a very good man--now he thought of Him as a man good for him, a man who had laid down His life for him, and yet whom he persecuted.

If he went on being a thief he would persecute Jesus--_that_ was plain. And little Flo had said in her letter that God loved him, God and Jesus loved him. Why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and God loved him, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word of reproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, would it be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that dark wilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief, _perhaps_ be unlucky, and end his days in a felon's cell? And when it all was over--the short life--and no life was very long--to feel his guilty soul dragged before God to receive the full vials of the wrath of Him whom he had persecuted.

He was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself full length on the floor of his cell--he could think no longer--but he pressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

GOD CALLS HIS LITTLE SERVANT.

At last, carefully as they were all worked, and tedious as the job was, the jacket, vest, and trousers were finished. They were brushed, and rubbed with spirits of turpentine to remove every trace of grease, and then wrapped up carefully in a white sheet, with two pen'orth of camphor to keep off the moths, and finally they were locked up in Mrs Jenks' box along with her Sunday gown, shawl, and bonnet.

Flo watched these careful preparations with unfeigned delight. She was quite as sure now as Mrs Jenks that the lad for whom such nice things were ready would come back in the spring. Every word of the letter her patient little fingers had toiled over had gone forth with a prayer, and there was no doubt whatever in her mind that the God who had given her her bed, and taken care of her, would do great things for Jenks also.

About this time, too, there actually came to her a little letter, a funnily-printed, funnily-worded little letter from Dick himself, in which he told her that he was learning to read and write, that his first letter was to her, that he was happy and doing well, and that never, no never, never, _never_ would he be a thief any more; and he ended by hoping that when the spring came, Flo would pay him a little visit!

When this letter was shown to Miss Mary and to the widow, they agreed that when the spring came this should be managed, and not only Flo, but Miss Mary herself, and the widow, and Scamp, and perhaps the widow's lad, should pay Dick a visit. And Flo pictured it all often in her mind, and was happy.

Her life was very bright just then, and in the peaceful influence of her pleasant home she was growing and improving in body and mind. She could read and write a little, she could work quite neatly, and was very tidy and clever about the various little household works that Mrs Jenks taught her; and Miss Mary smiled at her, and was pleased with her; and thought what a nice little servant she would make when Annie was married; and Flo looked forward to this time with a grave, half-wistful pleasure which was characteristic of her, never in her heart forgetting that to be a good earthly servant she must be God's servant first.

Yes, her cup of happiness was full, but it was an earthly cup, and doubtless her Heavenly Father felt He could do better for her--anyhow the end came.

It came in this way. Since Flo arrived and Mrs Jenks had quite finished making preparations for her lad's return, she had set her sharp wits to work, and discovered quite a famous receipt for getting up fine linen.

The secret of this receipt all lay in a particular kind of starch, which was so fine, pure, and excellent, so far beyond Glenfield's Starch, or anybody else's starch, that even old lace could be stiffened with it, instead of with sugar. Mrs Jenks made this starch herself, and through Miss Mary's aid she was putting by quite a nice little supply of money for Willie when he came home--money honestly earned, that could help to apprentice him to an honest trade by and by.

But there was one ingredient in the starch which was both rare and expensive, and of all places in the world, could only be got good in a certain shop in Whitechapel Road. Mrs Jenks used to buy it of a little old Jew who lived there, and as the starch was worthless without it, she generally kept a good supply in the house.

No Londoner can forget the severe cold of last winter, no poor Londoner can forget the sufferings of last winter. Snow, and frost, and hail, bitter winds, foggy days, slippery streets, every discomfort born of weather, seemed to surround the great metropolis.

On one of these days in February, Mrs Jenks came home quite early, and as she had no more charing to get through, she built up a good fire, and set to work to make a fresh supply of starch. Flo sat at one side of her and Scamp at the other, both child and dog watching her preparations with considerable interest. She had set on a large brass pan, which she always used on these occasions, and had put in the first ingredients, when, going to her cupboard, she found that very little more than a table-spoonful of the most valuable material of all was left to her.

Here was a state of affairs! She wrung her hands in dismay; all the compound, beginning to boil in the brass pan, would be lost, and several shillings' worth thrown away.

Then Flo came to the rescue. If Mrs Jenks stayed to watch what was boiling, she--Flo--would start off at once to Whitechapel Road, and be back with the necessary powder before Mrs Jenks was ready for it.

The widow looked out of the window, where silent flakes of snow were falling, and shook her head--the child was delicate, and the day--why, even the 'buses were hardly going--it could not be!

But here Flo overruled her. She reminded her of how all her life she had roughed it, in every conceivable form, and how little, with her thick boots on, she should mind a walk in the snow. As to the 'buses, she did not like them, and would a thousand times rather walk with Scamp. Accordingly, leading Scamp by his collar and chain, which Miss Mary had given him, she set off.

Mrs Jenks has often since related how she watched her walk across the court, such a trim little figure, in her brown wincey dress and scarlet flannel cloak--another gift of Miss Mary's--and how, when she came to the corner, she turned round, and, with her beautiful brown eyes full of love and brightness, kissed her hand to the widow--and how Scamp danced about, and shook the snow off his thick coat, and seemed beside himself with fun and gaiety of heart.

She did not know--God help her--she could not guess, that the child and dog were never to come back.

The snow fell thickly, the wind blew in great gusts, the day was a worse one than Flo had imagined, but she held on bravely, and Scamp trotted by her side, his fine spirits considerably sobered down, and a thick coating of snow on his back. Once or twice, it is true, he did look behind him piteously, as much as to say, "What fools we both are to leave our comfortable fireside," but he flinched no more than his little mistress, and the two made slow but sure progress to Whitechapel Road.

They had gone a good way, when suddenly Flo remembered a famous short cut, which, if taken, would save them nearly a mile of road, and bring them out exactly opposite the Jew's shop. It led through one of the most villainous streets in London, and the child forgot that in her respectable clothes she was no longer as safe as in the old rags.

She had gone through this street before--she would try it again to-day!

She plunged in boldly. How familiar the place looked! not perhaps this place,--she had only been here but once, and that was with her mother,-- but the style of this place.

The bird-fanciers' shops, the rags-and-bones' shops, the gutter children, and gutter dogs, all painfully brought back her old wretched life. Her little heart swelled with gratitude at the thought of her present home and present mercies. She looked round with pity in her eyes at the wretched creatures who shuffled, some of them drunken, some starving, some in rags, past her.

She resolved that when she was a woman she would work hard, and earn money, and help them with money, and if not with money, with tender sympathy from herself, and loving messages from her Father in heaven.

She resolved that she, too, as well as Miss Mary, would be a sister of the poor.

She was walking along as fast as she could, thinking these thoughts, when a little girl came directly in her path, and addressed her in a piteous, drawling voice.

"I'm starving, pretty missy; give me a copper, in God's name."

Flo stopped, and looked at her; the child was pale and thin, and her teeth chattered in her head. A few months ago Flo had looked like this child, and none knew better than she what starvation meant. Besides the five shillings Mrs Jenks had given her to buy the necessary powder, she had sixpence of her own in her little purse; out of this sixpence she had meant to buy a bunch of early spring flowers for her dear Miss Mary's birthday, but doubtless God meant her to give it to the starving child.

She pulled her purse out of her pocket, and drawing the sixpence from it, put it into the hands of the surprised and delighted little girl.

"God bless yer, Missy," she said in her high, shrill tones, and she held up her prize to the view of two or three men, who stood on the steps of a public-house hard by. They had watched the whole transaction, and now three of them, winking to their boon companions, followed the child and dog with stealthy footsteps.

Flo, perfectly happy, and quite unconscious of any danger, was tripping gaily along, thinking how lucky it was for her that she had remembered this short cut, and how certain she was now to have the powder back in time for Mrs Jenks, when suddenly a hand was passed roughly round her waist, while a dexterous blow in the back of her neck rendered her unconscious, and caused her to fall heavily to the ground.

The place and the hour were suitable for deeds of violence. In that evil spot the child might have been murdered without any one raising a finger in her behalf. The wicked men who had attacked her seemed to know this well, for they proceeded leisurely with their work. One secured the dog, while another divested Flo of her boots, warm cloak, and neat little hat. A third party had his hand in her pocket, had discovered the purse, and was about to draw it out, whereupon the three would have been off with their booty, when there came an interruption.

An unexpected and unlooked-for friend had appeared for Flo's relief.

This friend was the dog, Scamp. We can never speak with certainty as to the positive feelings of the dumb creatures, but it is plain that ever since Flo turned into this bad street Scamp--as the vulgar saying has it--smelt a rat. Perhaps it called up too vividly before his memory his old days with Maxey--be that as it may, from the time they entered the street he was restless and uneasy, looking behind him, and to right and left of him, every moment, and trying by all means in his power to quicken Flo's movements. But when the evil he dreaded really came he was for the first instant stunned, and incapable of action: then his perceptions seemed to quicken, he recognised a fact--a bare and dreadful fact--the child he loved with all the love of his large heart, was in danger.

As he comprehended this, every scrap of the prudent and life-preserving qualities of his cur father and mother forsook the dog, and the blue blood of some unknown ancestor, some brave, self-sacrificing Saint Bernard, flowed through all his veins: his angry spirit leaped into his eyes, and giving vent to a great howl of rage and sorrow, he wrenched his chain out of the man's hand who was trying to hold him, and springing on the first of the kneeling figures, fastened his great fangs into his throat. In an instant all would have been over with this ruffian, for Scamp had that within him then which would have prevented his ever leaving go, had not the man's companion raised an enormous sledge hammer he held in his hand, and beat out the poor animal's brains on the spot. He sank down without even a sigh at Flo's feet, and the three villains, hearing from some one that the police were coming, disappeared with their booty, leaving the unconscious child and dead dog alone.

The little crowd which had surrounded them, at tidings of the approach of the police, dispersed, and the drifting hail and snow covered the dog's wounds and lay on the child's upturned face.

Just then a fire-engine, drawn by horses at full gallop, came round the corner, and the driver, in the fast-failing light, never, until too late, perceived the objects in his path. He tried then to turn aside, but one heavy wheel passed partly over the child's body. The firemen could not stop, their duty was too pressing, but they shouted out to the tardy policemen, who at last appeared in view.

These men, after examining Flo, fetched a cab, and placing her in it, conveyed her to the London Hospital, and one, at parting, gave Scamp a kick.

"Dead! poor brute!" he said, and so they left him.

They left him, and the pure snow, falling thickly now, formed a fit covering for him, and so heavily did it lie over him in the drift into which he had fallen, that the next day he was shovelled away, a frozen mass, in its midst, and no mortal eye again saw him, nor rough mortal hand again touched him.

Thus God Himself made a shroud for His poor faithful creature, and the world, did it but know it, was the poorer by the loss of Scamp.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

QUEEN VICTORIA AND FLO.

Flo was carried into the Buxton Ward for children.

They laid her in one of the pretty white cots, close to a little girl of three, who was not very ill, and who suspended her play with her toys to watch her.

Here for many hours she lay as one dead, and the nurses and doctors shook their heads over her--she had no broken bones, but they feared serious internal injuries.

Late in the evening, however, she opened her eyes, and after about an hour of confused wandering, consciousness and memory came fully back.

Consciousness and memory, but no pain either of mind or body. Even when they told her her dog was dead, she only smiled faintly, and said she knew 'ee'd give 'is life fur 'er! and then she said she was better, and would like to go home.

They asked her her name, and the address of her home, and she gave them both quite correctly, but when they said she had better stay until the morning, and go to sleep now, she seemed contented, and did sleep, as calmly as she had done the night before, in her own little bed, in Mrs Jenks' room.

The next morning she again told them she was better, and had no pain, but she said nothing now about going home: nor when, later in the day, Mrs Jenks, all trembling and crying, and Miss Mary, more composed, but with her eyes full of sorrow, bent over her, did she mention it.

She looked at them with that great calm on her face, which nothing again seemed ever to disturb, and told them about Scamp, and asked them if they thought she should ever see her dog again.

"I don't know wot belief to hold about the future of the dumb creatures," said little Mrs Jenks, "but ef I was you, I'd leave it to God, dearie."

"Yes," answered Flo, "I leaves heverythink to God."

And when Miss Mary heard her say this, and saw the look on her face, she gave up all hope of her little servant.

She was going to the place where _His servants shall serve Him_.

Yes, Flo was going to God.

The doctors knew it--the nurses knew it--she could not recover. What a bright lot for the little tired out London child! No more weary tasks-- no more dark days--no more hunger and cold. Her friends had hoped and planned for a successful earthly life for her--God, knowing the uncertainty of all things human, planned better. He loved this fair little flower, and meant to transplant it into the heavenly garden, to bloom for ever in His presence.

But though Flo was not to recover she got better, so much better, for the time at least, that she herself thought she should get quite well; and as from the first she had suffered very little pain, she often wondered why they made a fuss about her, why Mrs Jenks seemed so upset when she came to see her, why the nurses were so gentle with her, and why even the doctors spoke to her in a lower, kinder tone than they did to the other children. She was not very ill; she had felt much, much worse when she had lain on the little bed that God had lent her--what agony she had gone through then! and now she was only weak, and her heart fluttered a good deal. There was an undefined something she felt between her and health, but soon she must be quite well.

In the pleasant Buxton Ward were at this time a great many little children, and as Flo got better and more conscious, she took an interest in them, and though it hurt her and took away her breath to talk much, yet her greatest pleasure was to whisper to God about them. There was one little baby in particular, who engrossed all her strongest feelings of compassion, and the nurses, seeing she liked to touch it, often brought it, and laid it in her cot.

Such a baby as it was! Such a lesson for all who gazed at it, of the miseries of sin, of the punishment of sin!

The child of a drunken mother, it looked, at nine months old, about the size of a small doll. Had any nourishment been ever poured down that baby's throat? Its little arms were no thicker than an ordinary person's fingers--and its face! Oh! that any of God's human creatures should wear the face of that baby!

It was an old man's face, but no man ever looked so old--it was a monkey's face, but no monkey ever looked so devoid of intelligence. All the pain of all the world seemed concentrated in its expression; all the wrinkles on every brow were furrowed on its yellow skin.

It was always crying, always suffering from some unintelligible agony. [The writer saw exactly such a baby at the Evelina Hospital a short time ago.] The nurses and doctors said it might recover, but Flo hoped otherwise, and her hope she told to God.

"Doesn't you think that it 'ud be better fur the little baby to be up there in the Gold Streets?" she said to God, every time she looked at it. And then she pictured to herself its little face growing fair and beautiful, and its anguish ceasing for ever--and she thought if she was there, what care she would take of the baby.

Perhaps she does take care of the baby, up There!

One day great news came to the London Hospital--great news, and great excitement. It was going to be highly honoured. Her gracious Majesty the Queen was coming in person to open a new wing, called The Grocers Company's Wing.

She was coming in a few days, coming to visit her East-end subjects, and in particular to visit this great Hospital.

Flo, lying on her little bed, weaker than usual, very still, with closed eyes, heard the nurses and sisters talking of the great event, their tones full of interest and excitement--they had only a short time to prepare--should they ever be ready to receive the Queen?--what wards would she visit? with a thousand other questions of considerable importance.

Flo, lying, as she did most of her time, half asleep, hardly ever heard what was going on around her, but now the word Queen--Queen--struck on her half dull ear.

What were they saying about the Queen? Who was the Queen? Had she ever seen the Queen? Then like a flash it all came back to her--that hot afternoon last summer--her ambitious little wish to be the greatest person of all, her longing for pretty sights and pretty things, the hurried walk she, Jenks, and Dick had taken to Buckingham Palace, the crowd, the sea of eager faces, the carriage with its out-riders, the flashing colour of the Life Guards! Then, all these seemed to fade away, and she saw only the principal figure in the picture--the gracious face of a lady was turned to her, kind eyes looked into hers. The remembrance of the glance the Queen had bestowed upon her had never passed from the little girl's memory. She had treasured it up, as she would a morsel of something sacred, as the first of the many bright things God had given her. Long ago, before she knew of God, she had held her small head a trifle higher, when she considered that once Royalty had condescended to look at her, and she had made it a fresh incentive to honesty and virtuous living.

A thrill of joy and anticipation ran now through her heart. How _much_ she should like to see again the greatest woman in the world; if her eyes again beheld her she might get well.

Trembling and eager, she started up in bed.

"Please is the Queen coming?"

The sister who had spoken went over and stood by her side. She was surprised at the look of interest in her generally too quiet little face.

"Yes, dear," she said, "the Queen is coming to see the Hospital."

"And shall I see the Queen?"

"We are not quite sure yet what wards she will visit; if she comes here you shall see her."

"Oh!" said Flo, with a great sigh, and a lustrous light shining out of her eyes, "ef I sees the Queen I shall get well."

The sister smiled, but as she turned away she shook her head. She knew no sight of any earthly king or queen could make the child well, but she hoped much that her innocent wish might be gratified.

The next day, as Mrs Jenks was going away, Flo whispered to her--

"Ef you please, ma'am, I'd like fur you to fetch me that bit of sky blue ribbon, as you 'ave in yer box at 'ome."

"What do you want it for, dearie?"

"Oh! to tie hup my 'air with. I wants fur to look nice fur the Queen. The Queen is comin' to pay me a wisit, and then I'll get well."

"But, my child, the Queen cannot make you well."

"Oh! no, but she can pray to God. The Queen's werry 'igh up, you knows, and maybe God 'ud 'ear 'er a bit sooner than me."

"No, indeed, Flo, you wrong Him there. Your heavenly Father will hear your little humble words just as readily and just as quickly as any prayer the Queen might offer up to Him."

"Well, then, we'll both pray," said Flo, a smile breaking over her white face. "The Queen and me, we'll both pray, the two of us, to God--He'll 'ave 'er big prayer and my little prayer to look hout fur; so you'll fetch me the ribbon, ma'am dear."

Mrs Jenks did so, and from that day every afternoon Flo put it on and waited in eager expectancy to see the Queen, more and more sure that when they both--the poor little London child and the greatest woman in the world--sent up their joint petitions to Heaven, strength would return to her languid frame, and she could go back, to be a help and comfort to her dear Mrs Jenks.

At last the auspicious day arrived, a day long to be remembered by the poor of the East End. How gay the banners looked as they waved in the air, stretching across from housetop to housetop right over the streets!

At the eastern boundary of the City was a great band of coloured canvas bearing the word "Welcome." And as the Royal procession passed into Whitechapel High-street the whole thoroughfare was one bright line of Venetian masts, with streamers of flags hanging from every house, and of broad bands of red, with simple mottoes on them.

But better to the heart of the Queen of England than any words of welcome were the welcoming crowds of people. These thronged the footways, filled the shop-windows, assembled on the unrailed ledges of the house-fronts, on the pent-houses in front of the butchers' shops, and stood out upon the roofs.

Yes, this day would long be remembered by the people in the East End, and of course most of all by those in the great Hospital which the Queen was to visit.

But here, there was also disappointment. It was discovered that in the list of wards arranged for Her Majesty to see, the Buxton Ward in the Alexandra Wing was not mentioned. More than one nurse and more than one doctor felt sorry, as they recalled the little face of the gentle, dying child, who had been waiting for so many days full of hope and longing for the visit which, it seemed, could not be paid to her.

But the day before, Flo had said to Mr Rowsell, the Deputy Chairman--

"I shall see the Queen, and then I shall get well."

And that gentleman determined that if he could manage it her wish should be granted.

Accordingly, when the Queen had visited the "Grocers Company's Wing," and had named the new wards after herself and the Princess Beatrice, when she had read the address presented to her by the governors of the Hospital, had declared the new wing open, and visited the Gloucester Ward, then Flo's little story was told to her, and she at once said she would gratify the child's desire.

Contrary to the routine of the day, she would pay the Buxton Ward a visit.

Flo, quite sure that it was God's wish that the great Queen of England should come to see her, was prepared, and lay in her pretty white cot, her chestnut hair tied back with blue ribbons, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, her brown eyes very bright.

It was a fair little picture, fair even to the eyes that had doubtless looked on most of the loveliest things of earth--for on the beautiful face of the dying child was printed the seal of God's own peace.

"My darling," said the Queen to the little girl, "I hope you will be a little better now."

But Queen Victoria knew, and the nurses knew, and the doctors knew, and all knew, but little Flo Darrell herself, that on earth the child would never be well again.

They knew that the little pilgrim from earth to heaven, had nearly completed her journey, that already her feet--though she herself knew not of it--were in the waters of Jordan, and soon she would pass from all mortal sight, through the gates into the City.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

SING GLORY.

"I 'ave seen the Queen," said Flo that night to Miss Mary. "I shall get well now."

She was lying on her back, the lustrous light, partly of fever and partly of excitement, still shining in her eyes.

"Do you want to get well very much, Flo?" asked the lady.

"Yes--fur some things."

"What things?"

"I wants fur to help Dick wen 'ee gets hout of that prison school, and I wants fur to tidy up fur Mrs Jenks the day 'er lad comes 'ome, and I wants to do something fur you, Miss Mary."

"To be my little servant?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what I said to you when first I asked you to be my servant?"

"I must be God's servant."

"Just so, dear child, and I believe fully you have tried to be His servant--He knows that, and He has sent you a message; but before I give it to you, I want to ask you a question--why do you suppose that having seen the Queen will make you well?"

"Oh! not _seein'_ 'er--but she looked real kind-'earted, and though I didn't ax 'er, I knows she be prayin' to God fur me."

"Yes, Flo, it is very likely the Queen did send up a little prayer to God for you. There are many praying for you, my child. You pray for yourself, and I pray for you, and so does Mrs Jenks, and better than all, the Lord Christ is ever interceding for you."

"Then I'll soon be well," said Flo.

"Yes, you shall soon be well--but, Flo, there are two ways of getting well."

"Two, Miss Mary?"

"Yes; there is the getting well to be ill again by and by--to suffer pain again, and sickness again--that is the earthly way."

Flo was silent.

"But," continued the lady, "there is a better way. There is a way of getting so well, that pain, and sickness, and trouble, and death, are done away with for ever--that is the heavenly way."

"Yes," whispered Flo.

"Which should you like best?"

"To be well for ever-'n-ever."

"Flo, shall I give you God's message?"

"Please."

"He says that His little servant shall get quite well--quite well in the best way--you are to go up to serve Him in heaven. God is coming to fetch you, Flo."

"To live up in the gold streets wid Himself?" asked Flo in a bright, excited manner.

"Yes, He is coming to fetch you--perhaps He may come for you to-night."

"I shall see God to-night," said Flo, and she closed her eyes and lay very still.

So white and motionless was the little face that Miss Graham thought she had fainted; but this was not so; the child was thinking. Her intellect was quite clear, her perceptions as keen as ever. She was trying to realise this wonderful news.

She should see God to-night.

It was strange that during all her illness the idea of getting well in this way had never hitherto occurred to her--she had suffered so little pain, she had been so much worse before--she had never supposed that this weakness, this breathlessness, could mean death--this sinking of that fluttering little heart, could mean that it was going to stop!

A sudden and great joy stole over her--she was going to God--He was coming Himself to fetch her--she should lie in His arms and look in His face, and be always with Him.

"Are you glad, Flo?" asked Miss Mary, who saw her smile.

"Yes."

"I have another message for you. When Dick comes out of the prison school, I am to take care of him--God wishes that."

"You will tell him about God."

"Certainly, I shall do that--and, Flo, I feel it will be all right about the widow's son."

"Yes, God'll make it right,"--then, after a pause, going back to the older memories, "I'd _like_ to 'ear the Glory Song."

"What is that, 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 while mounting 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 lay gently breathing her earthly life away.

Surely there was no pain in her death--neither pain nor sorrow. A quiet passing into a better Land. An anchoring of the little soul, washed white 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 bright little fire.

Nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost her 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 the ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of Flo.

Mrs Jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously--perhaps not overmuch. Those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death at 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 pass through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her gain.

No, Mrs Jenks was not mourning for Flo, but all the same she was troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her feet.

"'Tis only me, Mrs Jenks," said Miss Mary Graham, taking off her snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on Flo's little stool at one side of the 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 her back, 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 closing of life for the fine old fellow--he died defending the one he loved best. 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 is now."

"No, ma'am--that is true. He always lay close to her side, and curled up on the foot of her bed at night--and not a look nor a thought would he give me near her. And they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his death must 'ave come like a flash of lightning to him."

"Yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone at 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, so close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over her head.

"Oh! Miss Mary, don't mind me, ma'am--I'm a poor weak creature, but indeed my heart misgives me sore. Suppose the lad should refuse to come back?"

"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, Miss Mary dear, I feels your kindness, but I'll go alone. It will daunt the poor boy less if I 'ave no one beside me. Down on my bended knees, if need be, I'll beg of him to turn from 'is evil ways, and perhaps the Lord will hear me."

"Yes, Mrs Jenks, the Lord _will_ hear you, and give you back your lost son."

Miss Mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the fire.

"Yes," she said after a pause. "I were a fool to misdoubt God. Don't his heavenly Father and his blessed Saviour care more fur the lad than I do?

"'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, and trousers, 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 parcel wrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire.

There they were--the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavender and camphor.

Mrs Jenks contemplated them with pride. How well grown her boy must be, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! They would be sure to fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind's eye that 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 over again--then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips and kissed them.

As she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, in that fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the window startled her considerably. Her room was on the ground floor, and she remembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression and sadness 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 lying full length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, and she 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, and I'll give you a cup of tea. I've just brewed some, and a good strong cup 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 poor repentant thieves," she said. "If you're one of them, you 'ave a sure welcome. Why, there!" she continued, seeing he still lay at her feet and 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 still that strange muffled voice.

"Let him in!" cried the widow; "let in my own lad! What do you take me for? I'm off to his prison to-morrow, and 'ome he shall come with all the love in his mother's heart, and the prodigal son never had a better welcome than he shall have."

Then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, and stumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixed his eyes on the widow's face, and before she could speak, threw his arms round 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 had calculated upon.

He had come back--humbled--sorry--nay more, clothed, and in his right mind: 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 of that 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 and rejoicing mother.

And of her it might be said, "O woman, great was thy faith; it was done unto thee even as thou wouldest."

These things happened a few months ago. How do the characters in this little story fare now?

Truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing to relate about any of them.

Jenks, partly through Miss Mary's aid, and partly through his mother's savings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, his earnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, have already made him a favourite with his master. Humanly speaking, few are likely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dream is some day wholly to support his beloved little mother.

Pick is still at the Reformatory School, but he promises to do well, and Miss Mary promises never to cease to look after him.

Even little Janey, through this brave woman's influence, has been rescued, and picked out of the mire of sin and ignorance, and has learned something more of the true meaning of the Glory Song.

As for Miss Mary herself, she is still a sister--a true sister of the poor, going wherever sins need reproving, and misery comforting. Not joining any particular denomination, wearing no special badge, she yet goes about, as her Master left her an example, doing good--and in the last day, doubtless, many shall rise up and call her blessed.

And the widow--when her boy came home, when her boy became a Christian, she seemed to have no other earthly good thing to ask for. She is very happy, very bright, and very dear to all who know her.

Thus all are doing well.

But surely--the one in his unbroken sleep, the other in the sunshine of her Father's House--there are none we can leave so contentedly, so certain that no future evil can befall them, as the two, whom the child always spoke of as

SCAMP and I.

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The End.