X library OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS “ Mrs Hilton then led the way to the kitchen where the old people sat by the fire .”— Page 148. A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. AUTHOR OF “ EDITII VERNON’S LIFE-WORK,” “ HARRY'S BATTLES,” “ WINIFRED LEIGH,” &C., &C. “And there be none of all the poorest poor That walk the world, worn heart-bare, none so poor But they may bring a little human love To mend the world. And God himself is love.” NEW YORK : POTT AND A MERY, COOPER UNION, FOURTH AVENUE, F, ■Gerald Massey. Hi mi fi * K <1 * j s> >> CONTENTS. i 3?art I. — Tost. CHAPTER I. bo fO 4 «x FORSAKEN, CHAPTER II. nan’s first glimpse of workhouse life, CHAPTER III. NAN S FIRST PLACE, CHAPTER IV. PETER BURKE’S VALENTINE, CHAPTER V. WHAT NAN DID ON HER FIRST “ SUNDAY OUT,’ PAGE 1 15 25 34 1 04E 42 IV CONTENTS. CHAPTER VI. PAGE THE WREATH OF ROSES, . . . . . 52 CHAPTER VII. TURNED OUT OF DOORS, . ... 63 CHAPTER VIII. THIS HOUSE TO LET, . . . ■ 72 CHAPTER IX. THE WORKHOUSE AGAIN, .... 84 Fart II. — FxmaxL CHAPTER X. MARY HILTON, THE NEW WARDER, ... 97 CHAPTER XI. THE STORY OF THE WRECK, . . . .106 CHAPTER XII. amelia’s offer, . . . . . .115 CHAPTER XIII. JOY FOR MARY HILTON, . . . . .124 CONTENTS. v CHAPTER XIV. PAGE nan’s second place, . . . . .136 CHAPTER XV. TOO CLEAN A HOME, . . . . .152 CHAPTER XVI. BY NIGHT ON THE BRIDGE, . . . .162 CHAPTER XVII. FIRST STEPS IN TRUTH AND HONESTY, . . .173 CHAPTER XVIII. bessie’s friend, . . . . . .184 CHAPTER XIX. FOUND AT LAST, 195 Yf;/ fit! 1 1 ; i ; •, (i YWdfli'.tr PART I. A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. — m*— CHAPTER I. JfargaJmT. The winds are bitter ; the skies are wild ; From the rcof comes plunging the drowning rain. Without, in tatters, the world’s poor child Sobbeth aloud her grief, her pain ! No one heareth her ; no one heedeth her ! But Hunger, her friend, with his cold, gaunt hand, Grasps her throat, whispering huskily, ‘ What dost thou in a Christian land ?’ ” —Barry Cornwall. NDER an archway which covered the en- trance to a small court that turned out of one of the great London thoroughfares, two or three people had taken shelter, one evening, from a shower that was “ too heavy to last.” A workman was reading a letter by the light of a gas-lamp, and two women were groping on the ground for something they had dropped. o “It's rolled away into some dark corner, and f you ’ll never see it again,” said one. “ I think I shall ; it ’s a good bit of silver, and I can’t A 2 A LOST PIECE OF SIL VER . afford to lose it,” replied the other, and went on with the search. “ It ’s lost in the mud by this time,” said the first speaker; but the woman who had lost the money only bent closer to the ground, and searched in the darkness more intently. A moment or two afterwards, she held up the coin with a glad cry, “I said so, here it is. I just caught a sparkle of it there by the gutter. See,” she added, rubbing it in her shawl, “ it ’s all bright now, and it ’s good money.” The man had folded up his letter, and now turned to the women. “ Can you tell me if this is Grove Buildings f l ” he asked, pointing to the court. “ You ’re quite right ; them ’s the Buildings straight before you. Come, ’Liza, now I ’ve found the money, I can’t waste no more time,” and they hurried away. The man looked out from the shelter of the archway and saw that the heavy rain was over; then he but- toned up his coat, pulled his hat down more firmly over his eyes, and entered the court. “No. 4,” he said to himself; “the numbers go this way. Ah ! here it is,” and he stepped across a large pool of rain-water, mud, potato-parings, and dirt, and knocked at the door. The first knock was not answered, but at the second he heard a child’s voice saying, “ Come in,” and then the door was half opened, and by the light from the FORSAKEN. solitary gas-lamp which lit the Buildings, he saw a little girl peering out at him. Her face was very dirty, very ugly, and very pale, and she held the door open cautiously and peeped at the new-comer. “ What do you want ? ” she said. u Is your name Downing V’ “ Yes.” “ Is your father in h ” “ Father ’s dead.” “ Dead I ” The man’s face became almost as white as the child’s. “ Yes ; the parish took him away this morning.” “ Poor Joe ! poor Joe ! Let me in, child, I ’m your uncle ; ” and the man pushed his way into the house. The room with no fire, and lit only with a small piece of candle given by the charity of the neighbours, was not inviting. There was the empty space where the coffin had stood the night before ; there was the heap of clothes on the floor, — the clothes which the dead man had worn such a little time ago, and which had grown shabbier and shabbier in the wear and tear of life, till there was scarcely a rag of them left together ; there was the one chair, the wretched bed, the broken- down table, and the empty grate, which told their own story of want and sorrow ; and there, in the midst of it all, was the child, with the story of want and sorrow told over again in her face. She stood by the table on one leg, with her finger in her mouth, looking 4 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. at her uncle, who had sat down on the chair and put his hands over his face. “ Father died three days ago ; he had been ill an awful long time,” she said at last. Her uncle looked up. “ How many are there of you ? ” “ There ’s Joey and me, that ’s all.” “ And a good thing too ! Where ’s your mother? ” “ Mother !” The child almost laughed at a man who said he was a near relation, knowing so little about them. “ Mother ! why mother’s been dead these five years.” “ How old is Joey, and where is he ? ” “ He ’s down at Mrs Blake’s ; she said she d give him a bit of summat down there.” “ How old is he ? ” “ He ’s seven.” “ And how old are you, and what ’s your name ? ” “ My name is Han. I think I ’m thirteen, but I don’t know.” “Your father was in the costermonger line, wasn’t he?” “ Ay, he sold oranges and nuts in winter, and fruit and cabbages in summer, and Joey used to run along with the barrow.” “ And what did he die of ? ” “I don’t know; he was too ill to go on living, I s’pose.” “ Did you have the doctor to him ? ” FORSAKEN. 5 “ Ay, the parish-doctor came ever so many times, but he said ‘he was galloping/ I don’t know what he meant, I ’m sure, for father lay there as quiet as could be.” “I’m your uncle, Nan ; your poor father and me were brothers.” The man’s voice shook a little as he said the words, for his thoughts had gone back to the old home and the days when he and poor Joe had run to school together, and though, in the great race of life, the brothers had parted long ago, and had known little or nothing of each other lately, the old ties, after all, are the strongest, and “ brothers are brothers ever- more.” “ I got a letter from some one down here, the other day, telling me he was bad, and so I came the first bit of time I had to spare. The letter was two or three days following me about before it reached me, for I ’d moved to a place or two since your father saw me. Have you any money, child ? ” “No!” “Well, here ; take this, and run and get some fire, a loaf of bread, and some tea, for I can tell you I want it.” Nan looked in astonishment at the silver which was held out to her, but the thought of something to eat quickened her footsteps, and almost before her uncle could look round, she had run out at the door, and he could hear the patter of her slip-shod feet down the sloppy flags of the court. 6 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. “ She don’t look much of it,” he said to himself. “I wonder what the boy is like.” He was not left long to wonder, for, in a minute or two, the door was opened, and a woman, with a baby in her arms, pushed a little curly-haired boy into the room before her. She half drew back, as she caught sight of a stranger; but on second thoughts came on into the room. Nan’s uncle rose, and held out his hand to the little boy. “ Are you Joey V 9 he asked. “ Yes ! ” said the boy, wonderingly. “Well, I'm your uncle, Paul Downing; and . . . . and .... this is very shocking about my poor brother/’ he said, looking up at the woman. “ Indeed, it is. He suffered frightful,” said the woman, who was one of those kind, neighbourly people, so often to be found in times of need, doing their work of love very quietly, looking for no reward from any one; simply giving as a reason for their kindness, that they did a good turn for people because they could not help it. God knows them, these quiet helpful women, though we may not ; and in the day when He takes account of His servants, we may find that they have really been doing His work, while we have been dreaming how it might be done. “ I was with him at the last,” she went on, “ and he kept always hoping you ’d come ; I ’m sure he wanted to FORSAKEN. 7 say something to you about the children. He wouldn’t have gone so fast, as Bill says, but that he ’d lived on drink lately. He never seemed the same after his poor wife died, and she was a real good one ; but he wasn’t so much of it ; and many a hard time those children have had,” she added, in a lower tone. “Come here, Joey,” said Paul Downing. The little curly-haired boy came across to him, and lifted a pair of bright clear eyes to look at his uncle. His face was very different from Nan’s, though there was the same sharpening of trouble and hunger in it. “ What ’s to become of them ] ” said Mrs Blake, who felt that the children were somewhat in her charge. “ Bill said, they ’d have to go to the workhouse to- morrow, if no one came to look after them.” “ Ay, very true,” said the man ; “ and so they must, I s’pose.” “ I asked Bill if he wouldn’t let me take this one,” went on the good-natured woman : “I wouldn’t ha’ minded this little one; but I wouldn’t have Nan ! ” “ I don’t like the looks of her specially,” said Paul Downing. “ I don’t think she ’s a bad girl, though she ’s a bit wild maybe ; but Joey ’s as good and as quiet a little lad as could be : he ’s minded the baby many a time for me.” “ I wonder what my missus would say if I took the 8 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER, boy home,” said the uncle, thinking. “ It seems only right by poor Joe, though he never did right by him- self. ’’ At this moment Nan came in again, with the coal in her pinafore, and a loaf of bread under her arm. Her dress had become even dirtier than it was before, from being splashed by the pools of muddy water, her damp hair clung about her white face, and the rain-drops had made channels down her dirty cheeks. “ I say, Joey, get out of the way there,” she said, knocking the little boy fiercely to one side, as she bustled up to the grate and emptied her burden into it, never noticing that she had pushed Joey against the table, and made him cry. “ There, gently girl, gently,” said Mrs Blake, stooping down to pick up the loaf which had fallen into the coal ; “ you ? ve hurt Joey.” Then Nan turned, and the first gleam of softening came into her face, as she comforted the little boy. “ There, don’t ’ee cry,” she said, “ and I ’ll give ? ee a bit o’ sugar presently;” and she turned round to the fire again. It soon blazed cheerfully, and Paul Downing cut up the loaf, made the tea, and gave it to the children ; while good Mrs Blake, well content that they were being taken care of for the night, went away to get ready her husband’s supper. It was a silent meal which the uncle took with the two children, for he was thinking, and they were too FORSAKEN. much frightened by the presence of a stranger to talk ; but when it was over, he said, abruptly — “ Now, look here, children ; you listen to what I ’ve got to say. I must be getting away home, for the last ’bus my way will soon be starting, and I ’ve got to be at my work in the morning betimes. By rights, you ought both of you to go to the workhouse ; but I ’m going to do you a good turn. I ’ll take Joey with me, and he shall be one of my own.” Nan looked up at him curiously. “ Do you understand me?” he said, catching sight of her anxious face. “ And what ’s going to come of me t ” she asked, in a strange, unchildlike voice. “ Why, you see, my dear, I don’t know. You see, I can’t take both ; and I ’ve a boy and two girls of my own. I can’t afford to have no more ; and you must — why you must go to the workhouse. They ’ll soon get you a good place from there, if you ’re a good girl; and you are older than Joey.” There was a silence in the room. Nan was thought- fully emptying the last drops of tea out of her cracked mug upon the table, but the great tears were gathering slowly in her eyes, and at last the mug dropped from her hand, and fell with a clattering smash to the ground. Then they burst out, — the words which were almost choking her — “ Take me too, — take me too, — don’t take Joey away from me. Don’t — don’t. I will 10 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. be good. I can fetch, and carry, and run messages, and anything. Don’t take Joey away. Take me too.” Uncle Paul looked at the miserable little face, and felt pity for it ; but the thought of what “ his missus would say at home,” kept him resolute. “ I cannot take you, little one ; I would if I could, but I can’t. Now you be a good girl, and keep up heart, and you ’ll soon get a nice place, and you ’d have to part from Joey then.” “ I ’d be ever so good. I ’d sleep on the door-steps, or I ’d beg for my bread ; only don’t take Joey from me.” And she threw her thin arms round the little boy’s neck, and laid her tearful face close to his. “ Nonsense, child, nonsense. I can’t waste my time this way. How much rent is owing V* “ Twelve shillings,” answered Nan, readily. “ Well, here ’s ten ; you must take it to the landlord in the morning, and the key of the room, and tell him to sell the rest of the furniture ; and then you must go to Mrs Blake, and ask her to take you to the parish overseer. There, I can’t be stopping any longer ; give Joey his cap, and let us go. Some day, when you ’re a good girl, and getting on well, you shall come and see him ; perhaps some Christmas-day, and we ’ll have roast-beef and a pudding.” “ Don’t go — Joey, don’t go,” whispered Nan, passion- ately, as she held him more closely in her arms. forsaken: 11 Paul Downing got up, and searched about the room till he found the little boy’s cap, and a ragged scarlet comforter which he twisted round his neck. “ Come along, Joe,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to leave Nannie — let Nannie come too,” sobbed Joey, who was frightened by his uncle’s deter- mined manner and Nan’s vehement sorrow. “ Nannie can’t come. I can’t have you both,” said Uncle Paul, “ let go of him directly, Nan.” “ I won’t — I won’t,” said Nan, through her teeth. The uncle saw then that he must take stronger measures, and he took hold of the girl’s two hands that were clenched round the little boy’s neck, and with his strong fingers soon separated them ; then lifting Joe in his arms, he strode out of the house. Nan set up a loud cry, and followed him to the door, but her uncle was too strong and too quick for her, and he stayed not for the fierce words which went after him down the court, “ I hate you ! I hate you ! — Joey ! — Joey ! ” they died away in a wail of grief, and after one desperate and fruitless sally to the archway, one bitter cry sent into the dark night, Nan turned back to the lonely room which had been her home. The fire still burned brightly, the remains of the tea were on the table, but the wretched child noticed nothing. She sat down hopelessly by the grate, and looked at the blazing coals* while the tears gathered in her eyes. 12 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. Joey was gone ! Joey ! the one thing she loved — the one thing in the world which she cared to be near, and to see, and to play with : — and she was alone — nothing mattered much now. She looked round the room fearfully, the candle had burnt out, there was nothing but the flickering fire- flame, showing the heap of clothes and the space where the coffin had been the night before ; and then Nan thought of the still white face of her father, and of how Mrs Blake had talked to him about God, who was good and kind, and loved every one. Nan had not listened much, but she had just heard enough to know that there was some one, whom Mrs Blake said “ cared for every one,” and just then she sadly needed some one to care for her. “ But if He ’d cared, He ’d have kept that man away, and not let him take Joey, — He wouldn’t,” she whispered to herself. “ He cares about folk with fine dresses mayhap and plenty of money, the church folk that I see going where the bell rings on Sundays, but He don’t ever look down our way, I s’pect.” Nan’s thoughts were getting too much for her now, she hardly dared to look round the room. She rose at last, as a wilder gust than usual dashed up against the window, shaking its frame and rattling the door, and she crept out into the darkness, and ran down the Buildings, to Mrs Blake’s house. Mrs Blake and her husband were at supper, and the children were asleep when the little girl stole in. LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS But, Mrs Blake, don’t ’ee send me away .” — Page 13. FORSAKEN. 13 44 Why, Nan, child, what brings you here, and what do you want ? ” said Mrs Blake. “ What ’s the matter with the child ? ” But Nan ran across the room to her, and suddenly kneeling down, buried her faoe in her lap, and sobbed as Mrs Blake had never seen her sob before. “ What is it, child ? come, speak up,” said Mr Blake, kindly ; and then the words came in short jerked sen- tences, 44 He ’s taken Joey, he ’s taken J oey, and I hate him, I hate him.” 44 Poor child, poor child ; hush thee, dear,” said Mrs Blake, soothingly, 44 and what are you to do ? ” 44 I ’m to go to the workhouse, I am, and be a good girl,” said Nan, suddenly, with a touch of bitterness which was beyond her years. 4 4 But, Mrs Blake, don’t ’ee send me away to-night, don’t — don’t, I can’t sleep in that room, and I keep thinking father ’s there, and don’t send me back.” 44 No, child, — no, you shall sleep here, I’ll put you into Polly’s bed along with her, and to-morrow we ’ll see about the rest ; come along ; ” and the motherly woman took the little girl up-stairs, tenderly undressed and washed her, and put her into her own children’s bed, where she soon fell asleep. 44 Mightn’t we keep her, father ? ” said Mrs Blake when she came down again. 44 She ’s a poor miserable little thing, but perhaps if some one was kind to her she ’d do better.” 14 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. “No, no,” said William Blake, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t have that girl along with our children for any money. I can’t tell why, but I’m sure she’s a bad ’un.” Mrs Blake gave a deep sigh as she put away the remains of the supper in the cupboard, but Nan’s fate was decided. CHAPTER II. gait’s f — Gerald Massey . HE next day, Nan was sent down by train with two or three other children — sad. looking, half-starved, joyless children like herself — to the large workhouse school. It was a huge, square building, which looked over a wide stretch of treeless country, till the view was j ^ bounded by the houses and smoke of the great city. There was pure air, there was good food ; there was everything here that was necessary to the healthy support of children — it was all better than Nan had ever known before— yet she was not happy. Her face remained sullen as ever ; her heart grew colder and harder. Her lawless spirit rebelled against the routine and order of the school-life, and she was still the lonely, un- loved, and unloving child, who had lived in 26 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. Grove Buildings. There was no one to come to her and say, “ I care that you should do right, because I love you. I know you, little lonely Nan Downing, I think about your life, and I want to make it glad and bright, instead of the cold dark life it is.” No ! she was one of a crowd, she must do as the rest did. There were rules for all, and she must obey them : if she did not, she must be punished, and the punishment, which was not unfrequent, was all that broke the sameness of the days as they went by. She took no pleasure in learning, for she was naturally dull, and utterly ignorant. We will not describe this part of her life more closely; it was not an individual life at all. She was one of a number — living, moving, and growing up by rule. All that was hard, and cold, and unloving in her, growing stronger ; and the nobler, better self, which was there, and which is in every one that God has ever made, lying hidden away, with no one to wake it, and no one to look for it. Would it ever be found out h Would it ever rise up to be what God meant it to be h or would it sleep on through all this life-time, smothered and kept under by what was bad, and false, and miserable ? Time would tell — only one thing was certain, that though she had no thought of Him, though she was living her life as if He never thought of her, God loved Nan through it all. She had learned the Creed. She could say, with a great many mistakes, all about her belief in God the Father Almighty, who had made WAIT'S first place. 27 heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord.” She could say about, “ Our Father, which art in heaven,” as fast as any of the other children ; but she only believed in this Father and understood His love, about as much as did the whitewashed walls where the Creed and the Lord’s Prayer were hung up on large cards. But after a year or two there came a change — winter-time was coming round again, and many girls were wanted for service. With envious eyes, Nan saw one after another going out ; any change from this daily machine-cut life would be a relief ; and at last there came a chance even for her. One of the girls, who was to take a place as maid-of-ail-work to a green-grocer’s wife in Islington, fell ill just as she was going to it. Nan was of the same age and size, though she had not been as long in the school as some of the others ; but Sally Martin’s clothes exactly fitted her, which was a great point ; and the schoolmistress also said, she would never do any good at learning, that she had much better be put into some place where she would be made to work. And so Nan found herself, one morning in December, standing at the door of Mr Jackson’s shop. All through the night the snow had been falling, and now every- thing was covered with it, and even the muddy London roads were disguised with its soft whiteness — for as yet it was early, and but few carts and carriages had disturbed 28 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. or sullied it. The church-clock had just struck six, and, except for the light which the snow gave, the streets were dark, when the little girl stood in the piercing wind at the green-grocer’s door. She knocked timidly once or twice and received no answer, for she could not reach up to the bell, which was placed high ; but a policeman, who was passing, first frightened her, by asking her gruffly what she wanted, and then rang the bell for her, with a peal which must have aroused the whole house. Angry voices were heard inside, and presently a head was put out of the upper window. “ Who ’s there 'I ” said a woman’s voice. “ Nan Downing, please, ma’am,” answered the girl from below. “ What ! the workhouse girl ; what do you make such a noise for there ? one would think the house was a fire.” “ Please, ma’am, I didn’t .... it was” .... But the head was drawn back, and the window was shut before she could say any more, and she was left standing in the cold for some minutes longer. Nan dreaded the face that would probably appear at the door, after the angry greeting she had received from the window ; but when the bolts were drawn back, and the key turned, there was nothing very alarming on the other side, — only a sleepy boy, whose teeth were chat- tering with the cold, and whose lips were very blue. NAN’S FIRST PLACE. 29 “ Are you the girl % ” he said, yawning. “ Yes ! ” answered Nan, as she shuffled into the shop. “You’ll catch it!” “Why r “ For making such a row !” “It wasn’t me — it was the policeman.” At the name of the policeman, the boy looked awe- struck. “Do they send you from the work’us in his care ? why that ’s as bad as a prison.” The tears came into Nan’s eyes ; she was cold, and hungry, and very miserable, and it did not take much to make her cry ; but she looked sulkily defiant at the boy. “ There,” he said, good-naturedly, when he saw what his careless words had done ; “ you needn’t mind about that, I was only joking; but what was the bobby doing with you ? ” “ He rung the bell for me, that was all,” said Nan ; “ I couldn’t reach up !” “ That was it, was it 1 Well, missus was using pretty strong words about it ; but it wasn’t your fault, at any rate ! Come along and help us light the kitchen fire, and then we ’ll have to sweep up^ shop. Master ’s gone to Co vent Garden.” He led Nan past the small counter, and amongst numerous sacks of potatoes, bundles of wood, piles of 30 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. celery, and baskets of apples, to the kitchen at the back of the shop, and then he put some sticks in the grate, and a lighted match, and getting down a large, un- wieldy pair of bellows, he thrust them into Nan’s hands, and told her to blow up the flame while he went to fetch the coals from outside. When he came back he found the girl on her knees before the fire, but moving the bellows very feebly. “ Why, that might be a fly blowing,” he laughed, as he piled on the coals, “ I ’d like to see our missus watch you blowing up the fire like that, would’nt you catch it ! Here, give it to me, you aren’t even as strong as a cat,” and with boyish pride in his superior strength, he took the bellows out of Nan’s hand, and going hard to work, he soon had a cheery flame blazing and crackling up the chimney. Nan still knelt by his side, and stretched out her numbed fingers to the blaze, and as she did so, she turned to look in the face of her new acquaintance. He was a boy of about fourteen, with a broad open face, wide mouth and eyes, which, though they were small, twinkled with fun. If he had lived in the country he would have been a rosy-faced lad ; as it was, town air, late hours, and hard work had done a good deal towards making his cheeks white, but had not quite succeeded, and two small patches of red, like the rosy side of a weather-beaten apple, were still left on them. His hair was red, and very curly, and at the NAN'S FIRST PLACE. 31 present time very rough ; but Nan was accustomed to wild-looking boys, and thought this one had a more good-natured face than most of his sort. “ What ’s your name ? ” she said, doubtfully. “ Peter,” he answered, “ Peter Burke ; what ’s yours ? ” “Nan Downing.” “ What made you go to the workhouse ? ” An angry flush came over Nan’s face, and she did not speak. “ Couldn’t help it, I suppose ? ” said Peter, turning his twinkling eyes on her, curiously yet not unkindly. “ I shan’t tell you,” said Nan, sullenly. “ I don’t want you to,” said Peter, and he began to whistle, but presently breaking off in his tune, he spoke again, — “ I came out of the work’us too.” “You did?” said Nan, with great interest. “ Yes ! mother died there,” and the boy’s voice took a lower tone, “ and I was ill, and an uncle of mine came and had a look at me, to see if I would do for his work, but he said I was such a sickly chap, I might just bide where I was.” “Did you hate him?” said Nan, with a sudden fierce thought of her own wrongs. “ Hate him ? no ! that wouldn’t have done a bit of good, — not I, I just got well to spite him,” and Peter laughed a hearty, happy laugh that was an uncommon sound to Nan’s ear. At this moment the door was pushed open, and a 32 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. -faced woman came in with a baby in her / “ So you he Nan Downing ! ” she said, in a voice which was as sharp as her face, — “and what did you make all that row for, as if you were a duchess instead of a work’us girl ? I ’ll tell you what it is, I ’ll have none o’ your airs here ! And what are you doing here, Peter h be off now out of this, you Ve no business to be in the kitchen doing Nan’s work, you go and clean up shop, and don’t be blowing up the fire any more. Here, my fine duchess, take the baby, if you’re not too grand ! ” It was not a promising beginning in life, but Nan was tolerably hardened to rough words, much more ac- customed to them than to kind ones, and she only put on the old defiant look, and held out her arms for the baby. Mrs Jackson looked at her, as she put the child into her arms : it was not a pleasant face that she saw, it was sullen and ugly ; probably the baby would cry if it found such a face as that looking upon it ; she half drew the child back, but time was getting on, the ma^ ter’s breakfast would not be ready, and then there would be “ a row,” so she handed it over doubtfully to She need not have been afraid though, for baby was not ; there was no sullenness, no hardness in that face, when the wistful baby eyes looked up into it ; it was soft and gentle as any good girl’s might be, with a yearning motherliness in it that was a strange contrast Nan. TURNED OUT OF DOORS. 65 down his cheeks. u It ’s wicked to say that, when you know I didn’t.” Nan turned away ; hardened as she was, she could not bear the sight of the face, which had been such a friendly one to her, now looking so sad and miserable, and to feel that the misery was her doing. “ I ’ve been missing the apples for a long time,” said Mrs Jackson. “ Once more,” said her husband, catching Peter by the arm and shaking him ; “ where ’s the money V* “ I tell you the truth, I don’t know,” said Peter ; “ I never saw it.” “You’re a young liar, that’s what you are; and you ’ll take that, and that, and that,” and sharp blows fell on the boy’s head and neck. “ If I was you, Jackson, I ’d go for a policeman,” said his wife. “ Well, it ain’t worth while, and I ’m tired, but you may sack, young man, as soon as you like. I ’ll have no thieves under my roof ; you don’t sleep another night here. I ’ll stop the money out of the wages I owe you, and now T you be off.” Peter had sunk down on the floor under the heavy hand of his master, and when he stood up he was pale and trembling, and there were signs of blood on his face. “ Am I to go now V* he said in a low, hoarse voice. “ Yes, now.” E A LOST PIECE OF SILVER , . “ Where am I to sleep to-night ? ” “ Where you like, so long as it isn’t here, and think yourself lucky it ’s not in prison.” “ May I take my things 1 ” “ Yes, I don’t want your rubbish ; here ’s the wages I owe you. I Ve stopped out what you Ve stolen.” Peter looked up then, and without tears, but with his lips quivering, he said, “ I haven’t stolen. God knows I Ve not laid fingers here on nothing that didn’t belong to me.” “ That ’s as may be. You ’d better not give me no more of that sauce, nor be taking God’s name in vain like that ; and you setting up for being so good. I ’d like your teachers over at Sunday School to know about your thieving. Now, Betsy, you just get him his traps, or he ’d be taking something else that isn’t his.” Peter looked for one moment as if he could have sprung upon his master in his anger, but he clenched his hands together, and stood quietly until Mrs Jackson brought down his bundle. Then he walked across the room and took down his books from the shelf, and put them up with, his other things. Nan was furtively watching him, all sorts of feelings working in her heart ; a longing, even now, to say that she had done all the wrong, and that he was guiltless ; a pity for his bleed- ing face and trembling limbs ; a dread least anything should happen to call attention to herself, and she should be found out. TURNED OUT OF DOORS. 67 But as long as she lived she never forgot the look Peter turned on her as he went away. “ Good-bye, Nan,” he said, and he held out his hand, — “ I didn’t think you ’d have told a lie upom me, like that.” The baby was sleeping peacefully in its cradle through all this scene ; he stooped down and kissed it, then took up his bundle, and left the house ; and thus it was that Nan Downing drove her only friend away from her. The next day there was a new boy in Peter’s place, — “a much smarter boy than Peter,” Mrs Jackson said, but a boy with no kind words for Nan j a boy who only thought of saving himself trouble if he could, and of playing mischievous tricks on others. Nan began to know how much she had lost in Peter, when Bill Smith took to teasing her ; he very soon found out that she had a bad temper and that it was easily roused, and it was fine fun to him to see her getting angry, and to hear her mistress scold her. Nan hated him and wished he had never come, and added to this, she was haunted with a wondering fear as to what had become of Peter. She heard nothing of him after the street-door was closed on him that wretched night, her last remembrance was of that sad reproachful face, the cry of pain, the last piteous appeal to herself. Whenever she was sent out on an errand, she looked wistfully at all the boys she met, hoping that, perhaps, she might recognise Peter in one of them, but she never saw him, never knew whether he had found any shelter 68 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER, that night, or whether there was any one to give him any food the next day. She tried to think she did not care, that it was a very good thing for her to have kept herself out of prison by throwing the blame of her sin on some one else ; but what made matters worst of all was that one morning at breakfast, when Mr Jackson was reading his paper, he exclaimed, “ Here ’s a boy been found drowned in the river ; the description sounds uncommonly like Peter. Well, I suppose he ’d have likely enough come to the gallows if he’d lived, and if it ’s him he was a real bad ’un, that he was — and he setting up for one of your saints !” “ Oh ! but that’s shocking,” said Mrs Jackson. “ Hadn’t you better go and see if it was him, Jackson, and tell what you knew of him 1 ” “ Not I — it mayn’t be him; and if it is, I ’ll keep out of it,” said the greengrocer, with a guilty remembrance of the blows he had given the boy. Nan heard all this with a frightened white face, and wildly beating heart. Could it be that Peter was dead? — that perhaps she had caused his death, — if it was all found out would she be hung for murder ? What should she do ? Could she speak now and say that he had not stolen the money, that she was the thief, and that Peter had been true ? No ! she could not do that; it seemed harder than ever now if he was dead, and if she had driven him out to meet that death. Had he been so miserable that he had jumped into the water TURNED OUT OF DOORS. 69 and drowned himself? Nan had heard of this being done over and over again. Her own father had often threatened to do it, but she thought it was only wicked people who did it, and she didn’t think Peter would do it, for he was not wicked ; perhaps he had been so cold and hungry that he had fallen in, perhaps he had been pushed in by somebody else. There was an old spelling-book which he had given her, on the shelf, she took it up, hardly thinking of what she was doing, and carried it out to the door-step with the baby, and she sat there in the sunshine turning over the leaves, and looking at all the scribbling marks which Peter had made. Oh, he had been very kind to her, and there was no one left to be kind to her now. But hidden amongst the pages of the book lay the precious valen- tine, and as she looked at it, and the bright sunlight made the silver heart shine, she thought of Joey, and she remembered the smart red roses that she was to wear, and she began to hope that she would soon have another holiday, and after that she did not think of Peter any more. Just then, Mrs Jackson desired her to go to the baker’s shop near, and to take the baby with her, so she laid the old torn book, with the valentine inside of it, down by the door, and went away. When she came back Bill greeted her with a pro- voking grin. “ Where did you steal that there valentine ? ” 70 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. “ What have you been doing with my book ? ” asked Nan, angrily. “ Can’t you answer a civil question ? Who was ever such a fool as to send you a valentine ? I know I ’d have thought a good while before I’d have sent you one, or if I did, I ’d have sent you one of a cross cat.” “ Give it back to me ; how dare you touch it ? ” cried Nan. “ I haven’t got it,” said Bill, showing his empty hands. “ You know where it is, — give it back, I say, or I ’ll tell missus on you.” “ I haven’t got it,” again replied Bill, provokingly, but at the same time glancing up at the highest shelf in the shop, where a corner of the book was to be seen. “ Get it down, this minute,” said Nan, stamping her foot. “ I won’t ; I was told to clean up shop, and if you leave your things littering about, of course I must clean them up too. If you want it you can get it yourself, see there’s something you can stand upon,” and he pointed to two large potato baskets standing upside down, one on the top of the other, with a sack spread over the uppermost. Nan laid the baby down on the floor of the shop and sprang on to the baskets. Bill’s trap succeeded per- fectly, for in another moment there was a crash, and TURNED OUT OF DOORS , . 71 Nan disappeared, only one foot coming out on the other side of the baskets, as she rolled round and round in them on the floor ; the baskets had large holes in them, \vhich Bill had hidden with the sack, and Nan’s weight had been too much for them. She screamed, and the baby screamed for company, and Mrs Jackson came running out of the kitchen to see what was the matter ; she only found Nan’s head and feet struggling out of the two ends of a great basket, while Bill stood by in roars of laughter ; so she caught up the baby, pulled Nan out by the neck, shook her and scolded her for daring to touch the baskets, without listening to a word of her whimpering defence, and told Bill to mind his own business and not stand laughing there like a fool. Bill was rather sorry when he saw that the whole blame was falling on Nan, but to make up to her, he reached down the book, which contained the valentine, and car- ried it into the kitchen a few minutes afterwards. Nan glared at him with eyes full of anger and hatred, and said between her teeth, “ I ’ll serve you out, see if I don’t;’’ but Bill knew his own strength and only laughed at her. CHAPTER VIII. fjoKSt to 3Ttt. “ Alas ! for the rarity Of Christian charity, Under the sun ! Oh ! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. “ Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed : Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence ; v Even God’s providence & Seeming estranged .” — Tom Hood. ^ \ OOD news for Nan at last ; Mr Jackson 4 was going to take his wife for a long Sunday excursion, and they were to carry the baby with them. “ Please, ma’am, may I go out % ” said Nan, tremblingly, when she heard the announce- ment. “ Well, I had nearly said you never should again, when you stopped out so late last time ; but I dare say you ’ll only get into mischief if I leave you at home, so you may go for this once ; only mind, if you ’re out a minute after eight o’clock, you ’ll catch it,” replied her mistress. THIS HOUSE TO LET 73 It was not a very gracious consent, but Nan was glad enough to get away ; and if she might only see Joey again, and show him the fine flowers she had bought to please him, she did not mind about anything else. Sunday morning came, a fine, and almost a hot spring morning, one of the first breaths of summer — the trees were beginning to come out in the pure, bright green, that always looks so strange a contrast to the sootiness and dirt of London. The balconies of the grand houses were filled with bright flowers, and the large bunches of daffodils and primroses, which were sold in the Jacksons’ shop, had found their way into many a small room, to tell their story of sunny country banks, and country woods, where they had grown. The whole world seemed to be rejoicing in the spring-time, and even Nan’s heart was lighter than usual, and she was almost happy. Everything was going smoothly for her — her master and mistress had gone quite early; Bill was to be out until one o'clock, and then he was to come in and mind the house, while she w T ent for her holiday; and she had plenty to do in the meantime. As soon as her morning work was over, she got out the treasured roses, and began to put them in her bonnet. “ Two outside, and the rest inside, in a wreath, as the ladies have them ! ” she whispered to herself, as she separated the large flaunting flowers with her dirty fingers, and then stitched them on clumsily to her greasy, battered, black bonnet. 74 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER . u My word, it does look fine ! ” she said, when her task was completed ; “ won’t the people stare at me, and think me smart — I must go and look in missus glass down- stairs and so she put the bonnet on, pushing her untidy hair as far back under it as she could, and went down to look at herself. She was highly pleased at the effect — for she had no one to tell her how tawdry and ugly the flowers really were, and how shabby they made the rest of her dress look. Just as she was turning away from the glass, her eye fell on a bright green scarf, and a large gilt brooch, which belonged to her mistress. She took them up, and fingered them longingly. “ Wouldn’t they be smart ? ” she thought. “ Mistress would never know if I just wore them to-day; no one would see ; and I could put them back before she gets home.” She only doubted for one moment, then the green handkerchief and the grand gilt brooch, with the piece of red glass in the middle of it, were added to her dress; and with some apples and nuts in her pocket, she was soon standing on the doorstep waiting for Bill to come in. Not long after the clock struck one, he made his appearance. But when he caught sight of Nan, he burst out, laughing : “ Why, what have you been doing to yourself, you fright 1” he cried ; “ are you going to be put up to frighten the birds away anywhere 1 ” Nan was ready to cry with vexation ; but then she remembered for her comfort that Bill was always rude ; THIS HOUSE TO LET. 75 and she was turning scornfully away from him without speaking, when the boy caught sight of Mrs Jackson’s brooch. “ Why, you Ve been stealing missus’s brooch, I do declare ! ” “ No ! I haven’t,” said Nan, with the colour rushing into her cheek. “ Then how did you get it ; for I ’ll swear that ’s hers anywhere ! ” “ She lent it to me,” said Nan, in a very confused voice, and then she hurried away, while Bill shouted after her, “ I don’t believe that ; I ’ll ask her the minute she comes in.” As Nan had expected, the people certainly did stare at her as she took her long walk. She was a strange figure, with her shabby dress, her old ragged shawl, her dingy bonnet, with its gaudy red and white roses, and the bright green scarf and large brooch. Some laughed at her, some spoke to her, but she stopped for none of them — she was only bent on reaching Jubilee Place as soon as possible. She had forgotten all about the dis- appointment of last time, she thought of nothing but of Joey in his Sunday clothes, of the apples and nuts she had stolen for him, of what he would say to the finery, which she had gone through so much trouble to procure. The walk seemed longer than before, she was so im- patient to get to the end of it, for she hoped to catch Joey before he went to his Sunday-school ; perhaps he 76 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. would give up going that afternoon, and she would get him to come out with her. Jubilee Place at last ! Nan almost ran up the street, she was so glad to get there. What was it she saw when she reached No. 22 that made her clasp her hands, and utter that short, sharp cry ? only the shut- ters shut, and a white paper in one of the windows, with This House to Let printed on it in large letters. Only that ; but those four words were enough. They told Nan that all her finery was of no use ; that she had stolen the money, the brooch, the apples, and had got poor Peter sent away for nothing, for Joey was gone. All her wild, fierce nature burst out then in an angry howl, which made the few people who were in the street turn round and look at her. “ What ’s the matter ? ” said one, in a half-curious, half-pitying voice. There was no answer, the girl was ringing loudly at the door-bell, and the sound was echoing through the empty house. “ Is she mad ] ” said another. “ She looks like it — look at them flowers !” “ Poor girl, she ’s in real trouble, whatever it is,” said a woman, more tender-hearted than the rest. “ What is it, my dear; don’t you see the house is empty V’ Then Nan turned round, with her face all flushed, her eyes scared and bewildered, and her hands trem- THIS HOUSE TO LET. 77 bling. u Where’s my Joey she cried, as she stood facing the little crowd of by-standers. “ Her Joe,” said a man, who was standing near, with a short pipe in his mouth ; and he laughed mockingly. “ Well, has he left you ? you ’d better get somebody else, my girl, I should think.” “ Hush ! can’t you ? — the girl ’s half wild.” The kindly woman said again, “ Who ’s Joey, my dear V' “Where’s he gone 1 ?” said Nan, stretching out her hands piteously, at the sound of a voice less harsh than she was accustomed to. “ Is it little Joe Downing, you mean 1 I don’t know in the least where he is ; they ; ve all been gone this fortnight. Downing, he got some work in the country somewhere ; I don’t know where, but it was too far for him to come back, so they ’ve cleared off, the whole lot of them. Was Joey any relation of yours V 9 “ He was my brother, he was,” said Nan ; “ and that ’s a wicked, bad man to have took him off and never told me.” Then all her angry words failed her suddenly. She sat down on the step of the empty house, and laid her head on her arms, sobbing as if her heart would break. The sight of sorrow is seldom interesting to a crowd when its curiosity is satisfied, and with a pitying word or two, the people all moved off, and Nan was left alone to her grief. How long she cried, she did not know or care; she was half stupid with it, when at last she raised her head and 78 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. saw, by the golden glow which had caught the windows on the opposite side of the street, that the sun was setting. As yet she had been too much taken up with the bitterness of the feeling that Joey was gone, and that she should not see him any more, to think much about what she was going to do ; but the closing day reminded her of the time for returning, and that, before ]ong, she would be expected at Mrs Jackson’s. Then, as if with Joey’s departure, all her strength and hope had departed too, she remembered, with a sudden pang of fear, the brooch and the apples, and Bill’s parting threat that he would tell “ the missus.” He was a cruel boy, and he would be sure to do it ; and Nan’s heart beat faster with a guilty terror. She felt as if she could even now hear her mistress’s angry words ; as if she could feel the policeman’s hand on her, drag- ing her off to prison, as she had seen him dragging a man only two or three days before, and a sudden deter- mination came into her mind never to go back any more. She would beg ; she would starve rather than return to her place to meet the punishment which she knew only too well she deserved. She rose up, trembling all over with the violence of her crying and the terror which had laid such hold upon her, and with feeble, tottering footsteps walked down the street. She did not know at first where she was going, but fright seemed to urge her on, to get away as far as possible from any chance of being found, and she soon began to J' There came a sound of soft, sweet music out through the open windows, then a burst of voices singing .” — Page 79. THIS HOUSE TO LET 79 walk faster, wondering where she could find a sleeping- place for the night. On and on she went, — while the sunlight all faded away, the twilight became gray and then dark, and the lamps were lit, — on through the unfamiliar streets, through the crowds of unknown faces, on past the churches where service was being performed, and people were asking God to “ lighten their darkness, and defend them from all the perils and dangers of that night.” Once, as she came near a church and saw the bright flood of light from it shining across the street, she stopped for a minute, leaning against the railings ; she did not know till then how tired she was, but she felt when she stood still as if she could not move another step. There came a sound of soft, sweet music out through the open windows, then a burst of voices singing — “ I will arise and go to my Father, and will say to Him, I have sinned.” Nan had never heard such sweeu singing as that; she raised her head that she might catch the words, and for a moment there came to her a yearning longing that she could go to some one and say, “ I have sinned tell out all her miserable story, and then lie down at their feet. But there was no one in all the world to whom she could go, and she believed God was angry with her, if He thought of her at all, for she had been doing all manner of bad things, stealing and telling lies and getting Peter into trouble ; and all she knew of God was that she thought He sent bad people like her to 80 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. hell, and took good people like the grand ladies in church, who had no temptations to steal or tell lies, to heaven. She did not know, poor, lonely, miserable child, that He was the Father to whom she could arise and go with her sad story of sin ; that He heard her short, gasping sobs as she leant against the church- railings, just as much as He heard the well-dressed people who were singing inside ; that He loved her just as much as He loved them ; and that His angels would sing for joy whenever she gave herself up to that love, and turned from her bad ways. Ho ! she knew nothing of all this yet ; but as she heard footsteps coming near, she looked quickly round, and, catching sight of a policeman, felt all the terror rushing back upon her, — thought that for certain he had been sent by Mr Jackson, and was coming after her, — and hurried away, as fast as her tired feet would carry her, down a dark narrow street which was near the church. She did not know where it led, but she soon found herself near the river — the great, broad river, where the lights from the city were reflected, and the dark barges were floating slowly up and down. She had not seen the river since she had heard about the boy who was found drowned, and, as she stood beside it now, gazing down into the slow and silently flowing water, she half expected to see Peter’s face, all white and ghastly, looking up at her. She glanced round guiltily, to see if the policeman was following her ; THIS HOUSE TO LET. 81 then, seeing no one near, she gazed again into the dark water. “Oh! Peter,” she muttered, “and it was all no good; and Joey never saw the roses.” And she snatched off her bonnet with angry fingers, tore the flowers from it, biting them when the thread would not break easily, clenched them up in her hands, and threw them far off into the water, where they floated away into the darkness. No one could find out now how the stolen money had been spent, at any rate. Then she took off the scarf and the brooch, and thought she would throw them after the roses ; but the lamp-light fell just then on the glittering red glass, and it looked so pretty and so fine that Nan could not make up her mind to part with it. She thrust it hastily into the bosom of her dress, and threw away the scarf only. On again, then, over the bridge which crossed the water — on across more wharves, and past landing-places and more narrow streets, still keeping near the river, as if it were a friend who could shield her, if the dreaded policeman came. But at last hunger, and weariness, and cold, became too much for the girl, and she felt she could go no farther. Where could she sleep? She looked about eagerly, and saw that she was near a rail- way bridge. There were great arches underneath the railway — surely no one would see her there. She crept under one of them, and stretched herself on the ground, with her back against the brick wall. It was not a very comfortable bed, but she hardly felt that. She drew F 82 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. out the apples which she had got for Joey, and ate them. Then, by degrees, she began to get drowsy, and was just falling into a sound sleep when a hand was laid on her shoulder, a light flashed in her eyes, and, looking up, she saw the much-dreaded policeman at last. With a frightened 07- she sprang up, thinking that the worst had come — that all w T as found out — that he was there to carry her away to prison. “ Let me go — let me go ! ” she gasped out. “I did not mean any harm.” “ Perhaps not, young woman, but you’d better move on ; this isn’t any place for you to be sleeping in. If you han’t got no place to sleep in, you ’d best go to the nearest workhouse.” And, to Nan’s great relief, he took his hand off her shoulder, and pointed onwards. He had not come on purpose to look for her, then. He was not sent by Mrs Jackson. He did not know that she was a thief ; and he only meant that she was not to sleep there. Nan took fresh courage, and walked away out of his sight. She could not bear the thought of the workhouse — she would have to obey some one there, and she wanted to be free — she would have to work there, and she wanted to be idle. She would not go to it at present, at any rate. And so, she wandered on, wondering if she could man- age to walk about all night. The moon was shining now, and she stopped to watch the long quivering line of light, which lay across the water, and shone on the tall, THIS HOUSE TO LET. 83 skeleton-like masts of the ships. She was standing on a broad road by the river, and just before her was a stonemason’s yard. It was full of white stones — some cut into gravestones, some in huge uncut blocks. The wall which surrounded it was a little broken down in one place. She could creep in there, perhaps, and be hidden. The policeman was not likely to come after her amongst the tombstones ; and she would be sure to wake up early, and get away before the workmen came. CHAPTER IX. ®Iu Sffiorkljoust again. Never a sigh of passion, or of pity ; Never a wail for weakness, or for wrong ; Has not its archive in the angels’ city ; Finds not its echo in the endless song.” —F. W. H. Myers. HE moon was shining down full on the yard as the shabby little figure crept in amongst the gravestones to seek for shelter, and the silvery light made the place look rather ghostly as it touched all the white images and figures. There was an angel yfe blowing a trumpet, and looking a3 if he was blowing it at Nan in a fierce, reproving way as she came towards him ; there was a drooping figure with a hidden face clinging to a broken pillar, Nan half expected the face to be lifted all white and wan and turned towards her; there were coffin-shaped stones, and pure white crosses, and stones with little cherubs’ heads on them, and somehow these last brought to Nan’s mind a remembrance of Mrs Jackson’s baby, of how THE WORKHOUSE AGAIN. 85 she had loved it, and held it in her arms and sung to it, of how it had learnt to know her, and to smile for her, and to crow at the sound of her voice, and it was a fresh pain, but not a fierce, bitter one like all the rest, that came with the remembrance that she was to see it no more. “ Will it miss me, I wonder? ” she said to herself, as she crept under the shelter of two large slabs of stone that were put slantingly against a working bench, and wrapping her shawl more closely round her, and think- ing of the baby arms that used to steal about her neck, and the baby lips that used to kiss her cheeks, Nan closed her eyes for the second time, and slept the sleep which only the utterly weary and exhausted ones amongst us can know. When the morning dawned, the early sun awoke her before any one came into the yard, and she stole out from amongst the stones, feeling very stiff and cold, but not so tired as she had done the night before. There were very few people about on the road, some men going to their work, some market-carts laden with fruit and vegetables, some waggons piled with cab- bages, some few waifs and strays like Nan herself, who had slept about in any nooks they could find, and who had begun to “ move on ” for the day. Where were they moving to ? Where was Nan to move to, during all those long hours ? She did not know ; she had not begun to think much about it, she only felt anxious 86 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. to put as many miles as possible between herself and Mrs Jackson. The fresh morning air seemed to make her happier, the trouble of yesterday seemed to have hardened and become part of all that which had gone before ; the fear of the policeman had grown less, and she actually began to w r onder whether she could find another place. In one of the streets through which she walked, she saw a baker’s shop, where there was a register office for servants kept, and she went in. The mistress was standing behind the counter, a stout, red- faced woman, who looked as if she was generally minding the ovens, and was then engaged in piling a tray with hot rolls for the morning customers. Two or three people were waiting to be served, and Nan slunk behind them, until the baker’s wife caught sight of her. “Now then, young woman, what for you?” she asked, not in the sweetest of tones, for Nan did not look the kind of customer to do credit to her shop. “ I want to get a place,” said Nan. w I want to be a nursemaid, or mind a house.” The baker’s wife laughed. “ I don’t know of any places for the like of you, my girl ; where ’s your char- acter from your last ? — and where is the half-crown to pay for putting your name down on my books ? ” Nan had nothing to answer to this, and hung her head. “ It ’s hard enough to find work for respectable girls,” went on the shopwoman, loudly, “ let alone getting it THE WORKHOUSE AGAIN. 87 for your kind. No ; be off witli you, and take my ad- vice, and clean yourself up a bit before you go looking for a place; a great tall girl like you ought to be ashamed to be such a slattern,” and she went on tossing the rolls out of a large basket on to the tray without taking any further notice of her. Nan did not stir ; when the woman looked up again, and saw her still standing there, she said, more angrily, “ Haven’t I told you I can’t do anything for you % go away directly.” “ A bit of bread, ma’am, ever such a little bit of bread, ma’am, I ’m so hungry,” said Nan, wistfully look- ing at all the piles and rows of fresh-baked loaves. “ Not a morsel. Do you suppose we ’re up all night to bake bread for your sort, that’s too lazy or too wicked to work for it ? Go and earn your bread, girl, and don’t beg it. I ’d be ashamed if I was you.” Nan still lingered a minute, — “ I be so hungry,” she said once more. “ Will you go,” said the baker’s wife again, and more fiercely, as she was struck afresh with Nan’s slatternly appearance ; “if you don’t move on this moment I ’ll send for a policeman.” That was enough for Nan ; at the dreaded word, she left the shop directly. What a long, weary day it was as she wandered about through the streets — no day of work had ever seemed so long as that day of idleness. She walked till she could walk no longer; then she threw herself down on the grass in one of the parks to 88 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER . rest : then she got up and wandered on again restlessly, till evening drew near, and she began to wonder where she was to sleep. She was too far from the friendly tombstones to make her way back to them, and she knew of no other shelter ; the rain was beginning to fall, so that the first feeling of summer went away, and it became cold, and almost winterly. Nan thought of the great brooch which she was carrying in her dress, but the fear of the policeman prevented her from taking it into a pawnbroker’s shop ; and with the night shadows, which were stealing on, this fear became greater, so that she left the more fre- quented places, and stole into the dark, narrow streets and by-ways, where there were more shabby people like herself. She stretched out her hand to two or three of the passers-by — with the usual beggar’s whine — of “ a penny to buy a bit of bread — I ’m so hungry *” but in her case the words were true, which in too many cases are not. She would literally have bought bread if she had been given money, many another would have turned into the nearest public-house, and bought a little of the fierce burning spirit, which would warm and comfort them for the moment, and then leave them more hungry, more craving, more wretched than ever ; but Nan knew nothing of that mock comfort as yet. At last, too tired and exhausted to walk any farther, she leaned against a lamp-post, which stood just oppo- site to one of the brightly-lighted gin-palaces. A sound THE WORKHOUSE AGAIN. 89 of singing came from it. Nan could hear a woman’s voice singing loudly ; but it seemed to be a long way off. The tune seemed to beat itself into her brain, and her head went round and round to it. Sometimes, when it ceased for a moment, there came loud clapping and applause, and then it would go on again. “ Were they very happy, those people ? ” Nan won- dered, as the great glass-door swung open for a moment, and let a blaze of light out into the street, and peals of laughter came with it. The singing had ceased, or else Nan had lost all power of hearing it. She felt quite faint and dizzy, and would have fallen down if she had not been caught by some one, and brought back to her senses, by a loud, rough laugh. She opened her eyes, and turned them round, in a bewildered way, on the person who was supporting her. It was a girl, a year or two older than herself — a girl, whose face might have been pleasant to look at when she was a little child — for she had a bright colour, and dark bright eyes, and wavy brown hair ; but the story of our lives writes itself too plainly in our faces ; if our lives are bad, and unloving, and ungentle, our faces will become bad, and unloving, and ungentle too. And this girl’s face had become like her life — bad, and bold, and fierce ; but still she was not all bad, or she would not have minded about Nan’s pale face and tottering limbs ; she would not have stretched out her hand to keep her from falling ; and she would 90 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. not liave kept her arm round her, though she did laugh at her. “ What ’s wrong with you ? ” she said. “ My word, but you look sick ! ” Nan tried to speak, but her white lips could not frame the words. “ Here, have you got any money about you V' said her new friend ; “ just a copper or two would get you a little drop; that would set you up. How much have you got ?” “ Nothing ! ” gasped Nan. “ Where are you going to ?” “ Nowhere.” “ Got nothing, and going nowhere ; why that ’s just like me — we ’re sailing in one boat, you may say — steady there ; stick up, I say” — for Nan’s head was falling on her shoulder. “ Here, Ned,” she cried, to a man who was going into the public-house, and whom she evidently knew, “ bring us out a little drop of spirits.” “Not a drop, ’Melia; you’ve had quite a plenty, I expect,” said the man, with a sneering laugh. “It’s not for myself, Ned; not this time: don’t you see here ’s a girl dying for want of it. Now, do ; there ’s a good lad — just ever so little.” One glance at the pale face, which was leaning against ’Melia, looking so pitifully white and wasted in the lamplight, with all the damp hair clinging about it, was enough for the man : he brought out a small glass of gin, which ’Melia made Nan swallow, and though it THE WORKHOUSE AGAIN. 91 seemed to burn her throat like liquid fire, it partly revived her, and she presently opened her eyes, and tried to stagger on out of ’Melia’s grasp. “ Where are you off to % ” laughed the girl ; “ I thought you said you ’d nowhere to go.” “No! I haven’t. “ Well, I ’d advise you stay, and lark about the streets with me a bit, and watch the people — only it’s wet, and it ’s cold, and the rain would spoil our clothes ; ha ! ha ! ha ! ” and the girl pointed to her own rags and Nan’s, with a wild, scornful laugh. “ So come along with me to the workhouse ; on a wet night like this, I generally turns in there.” “ No ! no ! not the house,” said Nan, shrinking from her ; “ not that.” “ Why not ? You ’ll get some food and a bed, if you have a bit of work to do for it. I ’ll tell you what it is, you ’re in trouble ; that ’s what you are. I ’d lay ten to one, you ’ve run away ; now, haven’t you 1 ” “ What ’s that to you h ” said Nan, sullenly. “ Oh ! I don’t want to pry into any secrets, of course — I beg your pardon,” ’Melia answered, mockingly ; “ .but I ’m up to the sort of thing — don’t want to go to the workhouse, because queer questions will maybe be asked. What ’s your parish ? where did you live ? That ’s it now ; isn’t it ? I thought so,” as by the lamplight she saw that Nan was colouring. “ Well, I ’ll put you up to the dodge. Mind you say you come 92 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. from this parish — parents is dead, been out at place, missus is gone into the country — that's the kind of thing. Come along, we 're getting so wet.” The rain came down just then heavier than before, and Nan was too tired, too hungry, too worn-out to resist even the workhouse, — so she let 'Melia draw her arm within her own, and half lead and half drag her there, — 'Melia every now and then bursting into a laugh when a light shone on Nan's face. “ I look as if I was dragging a death's head along with me,” she said. “ Come, I say, now don't die here — it would be so unpleasant ” — and then she burst into a loud song — partly by way of rousing her companion, partly to attract attention, and partly because, as she said, “ she’d like to sing now, for soon she'd not get the chance.” “ Was it you was singing inside there 'l ” asked Nan. “ Yes, of course ; that's the way I earns my living — singing about at all sorts of places. Why, I am quite a professional. Lots of 'em says, they 'd sooner hear me nor Jenny Linny, or whatever they call that fine # singer.” Ten minutes walking brought them to the great door of the workhouse, where there was a little throng of miserable people already waiting for admission for the night. 'Melia dragged Nan in amongst the crowd, and told her made-up story for her, when the door was opened. They were admitted together, the great door THE WORKHOUSE AGAIN. 93 was closed again, and, for the second time, Nan was in the workhouse. She was not questioned closely as to her story that night, and being utterly tired out, she soon fell asleep on her bed in the casual ward, for she felt too sick and exhausted to care about the food that was given her. The next day, when her case was brought before the Board of Guardians, she again told the story which Amelia had made up for her — brazening out the false- hood about her life, and being so circumstantial in her details, all of which Amelia confirmed, that she satisfied the Board, and was regularly admitted as an inmate of the young women’s ward. She had been too much frightened by the actual starvation which had stared her in the face, to venture out again for some time. PART II. CHAPTER X. SSfarg tlje llefo SSarirtr. “ So go thou in, saint — sister— comforter ! ” — Poems by Author of “ John Halifax.” “ Therefore with set face and with smiling bitter Took she the anguish, carried it apart — Ah ! to what friend to speak it? it were fitter Thrust in the aching hollows of her heart.” — F. W. II. Myers. MONTH went by and Nan was still in __ * the workhouse. It was a month spent lix by her in a good deal of trouble, partly J through the effects of her own bad temper, and Jl, partly through the influence of the company i into which she had fallen. She was lazy and 4 would not do her work ; she was saucy when 1 she was reproved ; she was sullen when she h was spoken to by the other inmates ; and, in company with those who like herself were in the workhouse because they had nowhere else to go, she heard more of wickedness than she had known before, picked up bad language only ^ too quickly, and was in a fair way to become, as bad as the worst of them. But what did it G 98 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. matter ? there was no one to care what she be- came. So Nan thought. So we, too many of us, think in our ignorance and blindness of heart, but it does matter how we are living. There is One who cares about everything we say or do ; and who is grieved to see us sin — we who are created in His image, and who He asks to come to Him. It is not too late for any one of us to come to Him ; the greater our need, the more He is willing to give us His help. How different a workhouse would be, if all who are inmates of it would remember that they are brothers and sisters of one great family, having one Father who loves them all alike. They may be suffering brothers and sisters, — their very presence in the ^workhouse seems to tell that they must be in some sort of trouble, — but if all there, instead of speaking bad, fierce words, and instead of fighting with each other, would try, for God’s sake, what a few kind words, what a little patience and a little sympathy, would do, it would soon cease to be the miserable abode which it sometimes is, and the u refractory ward ” would more often be empty. It is in that same refractory ward that we next meet Nan, and it was a place she began to know only too well. “ Ah ! girls, here she is ; I said she ’d soon be in again/’ whispered ’Melia Simson, with a chuckle as the door of the ward was opened one morning and Nan Downing was pushed in, struggling and MARY HILTON, THE NEW WARDER. 99 crying. She screamed as the door was shut and locked again, and all the other girls who were there for bad conduct also, about eight in number, gathered round her. 4 4 What’s the row?” — 4 4 Wouldn’t you do your work ? ” — 44 Was it Jones got you put in ? ” were the eager questions poured out. But Nan only sobbed for answer ; the warder, who sat at her work in a tiny cell which opened from the long, low room, now came in. She was a grim woman, who had difficult work to do in keeping all these naughty girls in order, and who contented herself with treating them as naughty girls, and never tried to make them any better. 44 Go back to your work, girls,” she said, pointing to the heap of oakum on the floor which they were picking. 44 We were only speaking to Nan. I’m certain one of them ’s been hurting her,” said Amelia, sullenly. 44 1 daresay she deserved it ; she ’s a very bad girl,” said Mrs Thorn, the warder. 44 They shouldn’t hurt us,” shouted two or three. 44 We ’ll tell the master, that we will. Did they hurt you, Nan ? ” said Amelia. 44 Yes,” sobbed Nan. 44 It ’s a shame, it is and an angry murmur rose from the whole set, who always took the part of new- comers and believed them to be injured persons like 100 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER, themselves, because they were put in the refractory ward, never waiting to question whether or not they deserved punishment. “ What was you put in for, Nan ? ” “ Because I couldn’t do my work,” said Nan. “ Nonsense, Downing, you know well enough it ’s not that,” said Mrs Thorn, severely. “ I ’ll engage you gave some of your sauce to the taskmaster ; your tongue ’s a good deal too long.” “ I ’d like to scratch his eyes,” said Amelia ; and they all laughed fiercely. Come, Simson, you go to your work directly ; the master will be round very soon and I ’ll tell him of you — now see if I don’t.” “ Who cares h ” said Amelia, recklessly. “ We ’ll pay Jones out some day ; won’t we, girls, when he isn’t thinking ? ” “ You ’d better look out, or you ’ll find yourselves in prison, where Kate Wray and Biddy Doolan were sent yesterday,” rejoined Mrs Thorn. u I don’t care for that,” answered Amelia, with a short, sharp laugh. She had long ago lost all self-respect, and was con- tent to be the ringleader of the others in mischief. She had high spirits, and a sort of rough good-humour, that made her popular ; and the rest of the discontented were only too ready to follow her lead. That was a noisier day than usual in the refractory MARY HILTON, THE NEW WARDER. 101 ward. When the taskmaster entered to remove the oakum, the girls, at a signal from Amelia, all at once threw armfuls of it at him. A scene of confusion fol- lowed. The matron and master were sent for, and order was restored with difficulty. The master had a conversation with Mrs Thorn, and the upshot of it was, as Amelia’s quick wits gathered, that there was to be a change of warders — that Mrs Thorn gave up her post, and that another w T as to be appointed. “ She was worn out,” she said, “ with their bad ways ; they made her life a burden to her, and she wouldn’t have anything more to say to them.” In the evening, when the work was finished, the girls amused themselves in a wild, half savage way, by danc- ing round the pile of oakum. They shook down all their hair for fun ; and they took each other’s hands, and sung songs as they danced. It was not because they were happy that they danced and sang ; it was rather to help them to forget all the miserable thoughts that were in their minds. But it was a strange scene, in the dim evening light, as the door opened, and the new warder stood amongst them. She was a tall woman, with a grave, sweet face. She had not been long in the workhouse, but some of the girls had seen her in the “ able-bodied ward,” and knew her by the name of Mary Hilton. She stood now in the gathering gloom about the door — in her check dress, 102 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. her little shawl, and the white workhouse cap tied under her chin — and she looked for a moment at the scene before her without speaking ; but if any one had been near enough to her, they would have seen the tears start to her eyes — they would have heard her whisper, “ Poor children ! ” “Here’s the new ’un,” said Amelia. “Come on, girls ; ” and she led the wild song louder than ever, as if in reckless defiance. Mary Hilton advanced a step or two nearer to them, and then her voice rang out cheerfully above the song : “ Have you finished your work, dears h ” If a gun had gone off amongst them they could not have been more astonished ; and they stood still and silent before her. They were not used to be spoken to in that pleasant tone, and it was many a long day since they had been called “dears.” They were treated as if there was nothing dear about them, and they were accustomed to think that it was impossible there should be. But this woman — whom they were trying to pro- voke, whom they already looked upon as their natural enemy — had spoken her first words to them kindly. “Yes, ma’am, we ’ve quite done,” said one of them, who w^as quieter and more gentle than the rest, and was in the refractory ward for the first time. “ And now you ’re dancing to warm yourselves 'l ” went on Mary Hilton. But they danced no more ; they stood before her MARY HILTON, THE NEW WARDER. 103 silent and ashamed. It was no good going on dancing like fools, if it did not surprise or annoy her. “I’ve come to be the new warder,” she said, still in that friendly cheery tone. “ Is Mrs Thorn gone for good ? ” asked Amelia. “ Yes.” “ She told the master w T e made her ill, didn’t she \ * “Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Mary Hilton, gravely. “I’m glad we did ; we hated her,” said Amelia. “ Hush, dear ; don’t say that about anybody,” replied the new warder, in that same gentle voice. “ I told the master I hoped I ’d soon be able to say you were all good girls, and ready to go out of this ; will you help me to keep my word ? ” Hone of them spoke, but one or two began furtively to twist up their hair. “ That ’s right ; I like to see girls with tidy hair,” said Mary, watching them. “ Won’t you put up yours, dear?” and she laid her hand on Amelia’s long wavy locks, adding softly, “ What nice long hair you’ve got ; I daresay your mother was once very proud of it.” There was no answer. Amelia turned her head away with a jerk, and began wisping her hair up into an old chenille net, which she had pulled off when she led the dance ; but a sound very like a sob was heard in the twilight. As for Han, the tones of this gentle womanly voice brought back the same feeling which had come to her 104 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. as she leaned against the railings, and listened to the sweet music in the church, on that miserable Sunday night, which now seemed so long ago. She crept away into a far corner of the darkening room, and sat down on a bench, covering her face with her hands. She had a longing to go to this woman, who spoke as if she cared about them all, and tell her about Joey, and about all her trouble and all her sin, and to cry to her — “Help me, I’m so wretched; help me to be differ- ent.” But stronger even than this longing was the feeling of shame, and the wish to shrink away from one who was good and kind — to hide herself, and her misery and her sin, from the light of those gentle, tender eyes. And so she kept aloof, cowering in the dark, while Mrs Hilton sat amongst the girls, talking to them in her quiet motherly way, — asking them their names and their ages, and drawing out as much of their stories as they cared to tell. But Nan was not to be overlooked. Those kind eyes, scanning all the shadowy corners of the ward, saw the dark figure on the bench ; and a moment or two afterwards that same voice, which seemed to thrill to Nan’s heart, was asking — “ What is your name, my child ? ” “ Nan Downing,” she answered ; but she did not raise her head from her hands, or look into the face which was bent over her. “ And how old are you 1 ” “ Sixteen nearly.” MARY HILTON, THE NEW WARDER. 105 “ Why, you are the youngest in the room ! Do you mind telling me where you come from h ” Nan did not speak. She could not find it in her heart to tell an untruth to this woman, and yet she was afraid to tell the real state of the case. “Well, never mind; we shall be better friends by and by.” And then Mary Hilton touched the bent head gently with her hand — smoothing Nan’s shaggy hair — as no one had ever touched it since her mother had died, long ago. There was no more noise or confusion that night. And when Nan went to bed, the last thing she thought of was the voice that had called her “my child/’ and the hand that had been passed over her hair, just as if some one cared for her in this great world, which she had found so hard and rough and cruel. So Mary Hilton began her new work. Silver and gold she had none, but she had that which God has given to nearly every woman on this earth — a voice which could speak kindly words, a heart that could be sorry for sin and trouble, and a hand that could be stretched out to help another in need ; and for His sake she used them. CHAPTER XI. Cljx isforg of f fjo Wixtck. “ Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, Whene’er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. ‘ Honour to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow, Raise us from what is low ! ” -Longfdlou. “ I am afraid Of you, but not so much if you have sinned, As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven.” —Jean Ingelow. ^IINGS went better the next day. No serious outbreak occurred, for once or WX twice when some of the girls were in- ^ dined to be quarrelsome, Mary Hilton, in her firm, kind way, interfered, and put matters straight. When the master came his rounds, she made complaints of no one, but merely said, that she hoped soon to be able to say they were all good girls, and that there was no more work for her. “ Ah ! the new broom sweeps clean,” said the master to himself ; “ she ’ll soon get tired of THE STORY OF THE WRECK. 107 that line, when she finds the lot she ’s got to deal with.” And Mary almost feared this herself, when the girls began to get lazy, and threw the oakum about, instead of working diligently to get it all picked in task-time. tc Now, look here, my dears,” she said, gravely and firmly, “ your work has got to be done, you know it has as well as I. There are words in the Bible which say, ‘ If any man will not work, neither shall he eat . 5 So just put your hearts into it, and see how soon it will be finished ; and then, w T hen the twilight comes, and you can’t see any longer, you shall come and sit round me, and I ’ll tell you a story.” There was something pleasant and comfortable in the sound of sitting round and hearing a story, and every one set to work again : even Amelia, who was generally the laziest of any, worked harder than usual ; and, when the evening came, she was the first to claim the promise. The girls all gathered about Mary, and were as quiet as possible when she spoke to them. “ Shall I tell you about my old home ? ” she asked ; and her voice trembled a little as she spoke. “ Yes ! yes ! ” they cried, and came closer to her, — some sitting on the bench, some on the brick-floor at her feet. But just as they were all seated, there came a cry from Jane Smith, a tall, pale-faced girl, who was supposed to be rather idiotic, yet still had sense enough to know right from wrong. “What’s the matter with you, Jane?’’ asked Mrs Hilton. 108 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. “ ’Melia pinclied me,” she answered, whining. “She pulled my hair quite sharp,” said Amelia, loudly and angrily. “ Hush, girls, no more of that, I can’t tell my story to a set of babies ; and if you behave like babies, you must go and sit by yourselves.” The words were said good-humouredly, and there was no more quarrelling. She began to tell them of the home by the sea, where she had lived before she came to London. Her story was of a rocky sea-beach, of great waves that broke upon it, — of fishing-boats, and of hardy fishermen, and it sounded strange, and fresh, and beautiful in the ears of those city girls, who sat listening to it in the gloomiest part of a city workhouse. “ My brother was drowned at sea,” said one of the girls. “ Poor lad,” said Mrs Hilton, with a sigh. “ Ah ! many and many ’s the brave heart that the waves have buried away out of our sight. Shall I tell you, girls, of a shipwreck I saw once 1 ” “ Yes ! yes ! ” they cried. “ Well, it was a dark, wild night on our coast, and father came in all wet. He was living near my home, and he was a lifeboat man ; that is, he was one of those who used to go in the lifeboat to help poor creatures who were wrecked, and try to bring them safe to shore ; and he said to my man, ‘ Come, Ned/ said he, 6 there ’s a ship firing guns of distress, we must get our boat out at once.’ My husband was a sailor. He THE STORY OF THE WRECK. 109 jumped up from his supper, and he took his sou’wester, and he turned round to me, and says he, ‘ Mary, dear, do you hear, and I must be off ; you keep up a cheery fire, for perhaps some of the poor things will need it, and our cottage is handiest to the shore,’ — and then he stooped down and kissed the two little ones, who were toddling about near us ; and he said to me, ‘ keep a brave heart, lass ; we ’ll be all right,’ — and away he went. I piled up the fire, and I hushed the children to sleep ; but the wind got louder and fiercer, and shook and rattled the window ; and the waves broke with a roar like thunder, — and I got frightened, — I couldn’t stop there alone; and I caught up my cloak, and got my lantern, and went to mother’s house, which was a few doors off ; and I said, 6 1 ’m frightened for our men, mother, and I ’m going down to see where they be, if you ’ll go in and mind the children,’ for mother was an old woman then, and couldn’t get about in the storm as I could. Well, I went down then to the beach, where there was a little crowd of us sailors’ wives gathered — and I shall never forget, that sight. The rain w~as over, and the moon had come out from amongst the dark clouds, and by its light we could see the waves coming in like great walls moving, each with a crown of foam, that drifted off in a shower of spray, and wet us all through and through as it broke : and there was the poor ship lying out a very little way from the shore amongst the breakers — and there was the lifeboat, with 110 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER . all the brave men whom we loved in it, struggling through the waves to get up alongside the ship. “ We didn’t hardly speak, we women : we all crept close together, and strained our eyes out, watching. We saw them reach the ship ; we saw all the poor creatures getting down the side as fast as they could ; we guessed that the ship had struck on a rock, and was filling with water, so that if they didn’t get off quick, there was no chance for them : and the great waves seemed as if they ’d swamp the lifeboat altogether. “ At last we saw it beginning to come back. Every now and then a wave would lift it up, and then it would go down, down, out of our sight, and our hearts sank down also ; but the men hadn’t pulled only a few strokes away from the sinking ship, when a cry rang out above the wind and the waves— a sharp, bitter woman’s cry — sometimes I think I can hear it still, for I never heard the like of it. There, standing on the edge of the vessel they had left, was a woman, her dress blowing about in the storm, and something dark huddled up in her arms. “ We heard the answering cry from the boat; and then, between the roar of the waves, we heard the shout of angry voices rising high. “In another instant a man had sprung from amongst the rowers, and plunged into the sea ; he was a strong swimmer, and he reached the ship, then there seemed to be a struggle between him and the woman, he could THE STORY OF THE WRECK. Ill not save both at once, she was holding out the bundle to him, and insisting that he should save the baby whom she loved better than herself, and he did it ; he took the child, and battled through the breakers back to the boat, threw the baby into the arms out- stretched for it, and turned back again to the ship. The crew, as if ashamed, turned the boat back also. We hid our eyes then, at least some of us did, and we cried to God to save him, for we thought he could never get to the vessel again.” Mrs Hilton paused, pressing her hands over her eyes, as if she saw the scene all over again. The girls, eager, yet quieted, whispered, “ Did he save her, — did he get to the woman 'l ” “ Yes ! yes,” she answered, “ I don’t know how he did it, but he dragged her to the boat, she was pulled in, he was hauled in after her, and fell down exhausted amongst them. The boat got safely to the shore, and twelve lives had been saved that night. My fire was useful then, for the poor creatures were wet through, but that woman, oh ! I shall never forget her, as she sat by the fire, rubbing the cold limbs of her little baby, it looked so fair, and so quiet, as it lay there all unconscious of what had happened, and the mother bending over it as if she would give her own life for it gladly.” “ Oh ! it didn’t die !— please, say the baby didn’t die,” gasped Nan, who had come closer and closer to Mary Hilton and now laid a cold hand on hers. The 112 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. tears were streaming down her cheeks; and her face was full of excitement and interest. “ No, my dear, it didn’t die, it soon recovered, and you should have seen the poor mother’s smile as she looked up at the man who had saved them both, and thanked him. He only patted the baby’s cheek and said, ‘ 1 ’d have wanted somebody to bear a hand and save them if it had been my good woman or my little Ted that was there. How did you get overlooked V C I don’t know,’ she answered ; ‘ baby was asleep in the cabin, and I ’d gone to fetch him.’ ” “ What a good man that was,” said one of the girls, eagerly. “ Was he your father, missus ? ” “No, he was my husband,” she answered sadly. There was something in the tone of her voice which kept them all from asking any more questions, but she added presently, “We came to London soon after that, when my parents died, and he went many more voyages, but last year he went away with my boy, and the ship has never been heard of since : that ’s how I come to be here.” She bowed her head in her hands, and the girls could hear the quick, short sobs she was trying to keep back ; they crowded round her with kindly words, the fiercest, the roughest of them had sympathy for her ; they touched her hands gently, they laid theirs upon her knee, they said, “ Don’t cry, missus, don’t cry, may- hap he isn’t drowned, — mayhap he ’ll come back yet, but don’t ’ee fret, — there ’s a dear soul.” She was none THE STORY OF THE WRECK. 113 the worse for that sympathy, even though it was the worst of the workhouse girls who gave it to her ; it was the best they had to give, and she felt very grateful for it. “ Let ’s sing a song and cheer her up,” said Amelia, who felt the sadness of the scene irksome, and she be- gan one of the street ditties which she knew best. It was kindly meant, and the warder took it in good part, but when the song — which was not a very pleasing one — was finished, she said, “ You have a very nice voice when you don’t sing too loud, Amelia. I ’m very fond of singing too, let’s sing ‘Home, sweet Home’ together. Do you know it ? ” “I should think I did,” said Amelia, with a short laugh, “but it’s not a very new song.” “ I like the old ones best,” replied Mary Hilton, and she began to sing in a sweet, though rather trembling voice. The old familiar song sounded as strange as the story of the sea, in this room where the homeless ones of the earth were gathered, and Amelia’s voice, though it be- gan loudly enough, died away altogether before the end. “ Why, girls,” whispered Jane Smith, chuckling, “ I do believe there’s ’Melia crying.” “Then it’s the first time she ’s ever done it, that I ’ve knowed of,” was the answer ; and then Amelia spoke angrily amidst the sobs which she could not control, “ I don’t care, I can’t help it, I never, — never sung that song since I sung it with mother over our work, and I don’t see what we should H 114 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. sing about sweet home for, when we haven’t one of us got a home to go to.” “ There ’s our Father’s Home for every one of us,” said Mary Hilton, gently and gravely. “ That ’s not for our sort,” said one girl with a startled remembrance of words which she had learnt as a little child about “ our Father, which art in Heaven,” and had never thought of since. “ Our Saviour came to tell us it was for every one who wanted it.” “ Don’t you preach about Him,” said Amelia, roughly; “ that ’s all well enough for good people, but we don’t care nothing about these things. Every one says we ’re lost — don’t they, girls'? — and it don’t matter what we do and she laughed a bitter, reckless laugh. Mary bent forward, her eyes shining with that ten- der, womanly yearning that seemed to draw all these poor hearts so close to her, and she said, in a voice faltering with earnestness, “ The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which is lost.” There was a grave silence through the room, which was broken at last by Han’s voice speaking low and fast, “ Do He care about us ? — us that hasn’t got no- body to love us h ” “ Yes, even us,” answered Mary, slowly, and she laid her hand on Nan’s arm as she spoke, with a pitying, loving look; but Nan shrunk away again from the kindly touch, for it seemed to burn into her heart, and to fill it with shame. CHAPTER XII. Amelia’s <®fcr. ' ♦‘Good is stronger than evil. Life stronger than death, Light is stronger than darkness, So all that have breath Praise the Lord.” — Thoughts in Verse for the Hardworking and Suffering. HE next week the refractory ward was empty. Every girl who had been in it had promised good behaviour, and most of them had gone back to work in the young women’s ward. One or two had left the work- house ; one had even returned to a long-deserted home, where an old, broken-hearted mother had longed and watched for her in vain for many a year. Mary Hilton’s work had had its first reward, but she was too sensible to suppose that a sudden impression, such as her sympathy and kind words had made, would have a lasting effect. She knew too well the strength of evil, and how soon a wild, lawless nature would break out again ; yet still she was thank- 116 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. fill that there were soft places in these girls’ hearts that could be touched, and that order was for a time restored. When Nan went back to her work, she shrank away from her former companions. After Mary Hilton’s gentle voice and words, there was something in the bad language which she heard which seemed to make her ashamed, and she kept apart as much as she could. Her face was so sad and so ill-tempered ; her voice was so sullen ; her manner so dull and listless, that no one cared to speak to her, and she never seemed anxious to make a friend. She had nothing to love, nothing to hope for, now that Joey was lost to her; and the haunting fear that Peter was dead through her fault, and that her former mistress would find out where she was, seldom left her. Every time that a new inmate was admitted her heart filled with guilty terror, that she might know something of her past history. When a visitor or the chaplain entered the ward, Nan shrank away to the farthest corner, only dreading lest they should speak to her. She did her allotted amount of coarse needle- work ; she took her meals ; she went to chapel ; she walked about in the yard, but 1 day by day life seemed to grow sadder and drearier, and, before long, she began to feel a dull oppression over her. She did not care for her food, she fell asleep with her head on her arms at Service, and her limbs shook under her when she took AMELIA'S OFFER. 117 exercise. She did not know what was going to happen to her, and wondered, in a dim sort of way, if she was going to die as her mother had died. She sometimes saw Mary Hilton, but they never spoke to each other. Mary often smiled at her, but Han evidently shrunk from being spoken to, and Mary wondered sadly whether any one could ever get hold of the heart that beat so warmly under that rough hard nature; she was quite sure that it was a warm heart when it was touched, for she had not forgotten how eagerly Han had spoken about the baby in her story of the wreck ; and the girl’s sad words often rang in her ears, “us that hasn’t got nobody to love us.” One day, as Mary was crossing the yard at the hour for exercise, she saw a figure, which she thought she recognised, seated on one of the steps where the sun shone warm and brightly. There was something in the forlorn way in which the girl was sitting with her head buried in her arms that went to Mary’s kind heart, and she laid her hand on Han’s shoulder saying, “ Is that you, Han, my dear ? why aren’t you walking 1 ain’t you well?” A shiver seemed to run through Han’s whole frame at the sound of her voice, and for a moment she did not look up ; then she lifted a face almost as white as the cap which surrounded it, and said, “ I shake so, I can’t walk.” “Poor dear, I’m afraid you’re ill,” said Mary, 118 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. taking her hand. “ Why, it ’s burning ! and I daresay your poor head is aching.” a I don’t know, I think it is,” said Nan, wearily. “ But I ’m not ill, I ’m not ill ; I ’m going out of the house to-morrow.” “ Where are you going, my dear ? ” A faint flush came over Nan’s pale face. “ I don’t know,” she said, “ but ’Melia Simson is going, and she says she ’ll take me, and find me something to do.” Mrs Hilton laid her hand on the girl’s arm then, and spoke as a mother might have spoken to her. “ Don’t go with her, my child, don’t go with her. Did you know anything of her before you came here ? ” “ No ; I met her one day, and she brought me here.” “ Have you no home, no parents, my dear ? ” “ No ; father died about two years ago, and mother ever so long, and uncle ’s took Joey away, and I ’ve nobody now.” “ Who’s Joey?” asked her friend; but Nan only answered her with a sob. “ Well, dear, I didn’t know your mother, but if she loved you as I loved my girl, she ’d rather have seen you die than go off with ’Melia Simson. Think better of it, there ’s a good child, and don’t go.” “ I ’ve said I will,” said Nan, “ and I think I ’ll die if I stay cooped up here any longer.” “ I think you ’re ill now, and I ’ll speak to the matron, and get you something to do you good.” AMELIA'S OFFER. 119 “No; I don’t want nothing,” said Nan. “I want to get out of this, that ’s all ; and ’Melia ’s promised to take me.” “ My child, you mustn’t go — you mustn’t go ! ” Mrs Hilton answered her, folding the two burning feverish hands in hers, and speaking from her heart, which yearned over this motherless, lonely girl. “You don’t know what you ’ll become if you go away with ’Melia, not knowing what you’re going to do.” “No one cares,” sobbed Nan. “ Let me go.” “ Don’t say that, Nan ; I care.” She sat down on the step beside the girl, and put her arm round her. “You wouldn’t care if you knew,” said Nan, making a last effort to hide herself in her old sullenness, and to escape from this woman, who had come to her with light and help and comfort. “I think I should,” said Mary, tenderly. “And God knows it all, even if I don’t ; and yet I know He cares for you.” Then suddenly Nan laid her head down on her new * friend’s shoulder, and the cry of her weary, lonely life broke out in the words — “ If only I ’d some one to love me, I’d try to be better, I would.” Very simply, as she would have told the story to a child, Mary told her about Christ — who had lived on the earth amongst us — who knew all about the lives oi the men and women round Him — who loved even the worst of them— who helped even the most sinful to be 120 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. better — who died for their sakes — who loved Nan even then, when she was all alone in the world, and wanted her to love Him, and to live a good life instead of a bad one. “ He was a good man. I think you must be some- thing like He was,” said Nan, who had kept her head on Mary Hilton’s shoulder while she listened. There was silence for a minute, and then she added, “ I w^on’t go w r ith ’Melia ; I ’ll bide here, and do my work.” “ God bless you ! my dear,” said Mary, kindly, and she stooped down and kissed Nan’s cheek. A hope seemed to come into the girl’s heart with that kiss — a hope of a brighter and a better life— a hope that not even the thought of all the bitter past, with its sin and its sorrow and its terror, could kill. She struggled to her feet, and dashed away her tears. “I must go to w r ork now,” she said. “ You ’re not fit for work,” said Mary, as she watched her tottering across the yard. “ I ’ll go and look for the matron at once ; ” and then she added softly to her- self — “ Lizzie, are you glad ? I wonder if you know. Is there joy in heaven — or will the child slip back to the old ways, and be lost again ? She shan’t if I can help her, at any rate.” The matron, an energetic and kind-hearted woman, looked for Nan a short time afterwards, and ordered her to the sick ward at once. And Nan was not sorry to lay her aching head down on the clean little bed. AMELIA'S OFFER. 121 She felt too ill to take notice of all those who were lying in the beds on each side of the long ward, but she drank the cup of tea, which one of the nurses brought her, and lay with her eyes closed, and in a sort of stupor, till night; then she became more ill; and, when the morning came, it was no question of her leaving the workhouse with Amelia, for, even if she had not given up the intention of her own free will, she was too ill to move. She was attacked with pleurisy and fever. The time that came after, seemed always to be a dream to her. She fancied that she was again at Mrs Jackson’s, and that the baby was in her arms — that she took it out and threw it into the river, and that she jumped in then herself, and snatched it out, hugging and kissing it. She thought Peter was teach- ing her to read, and that suddenly the policeman came, and held up the roses she had bought with the stolen money, and said she must come to prison, — and that Peter said he would go, and that he was struck on the face, and knocked down. Then she thought she was amongst the gravestones in the stonecutter's yard, and that the white figure, with the hidden face, suddenly lifted its head, and it was Mary Hilton, who was look- ing at her. Then she fancied herself watching the wreck which Mrs Hilton had described, only the woman who uttered the cry was changed to Peter, and he held Mrs Jackson’s baby in his arms. She cried out then, “ Save him — save him ! don’t let 122 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. Peter be drowned ! I took it — I did, indeed ! ” And she tossed her fevered hands out wildly. Her hands were taken gently and put under the bed-clothes, and something cold and wet touched her forehead, which she fancied was spray from the storm-driven waves. “ I want to go into church,” she went on muttering. “ I want to go like a lady, and have smart flowers in my bonnet, and carry a book; and Joey will like me then. Ring at the bell, — ring louder, he can’t have gone ; he wouldn’t be so cruel, when I ’ve walked such a long way, and have got my smart things on. I’m so hungry, ma’am — a little bit of bread. Hush ! there ’s the pretty music in the church again ; — they ’re singing ( Home, sweet home.’ Yes, yes, sir ; I ’ll move on.” To us, who know her story, it is not hard to see that her mind was going over all her former life, and pour- ing out all the sad history which had been shut up in it so long ; but, to those around her, the ravings seemed wild and terrible. Sometimes, in her calmer moments, she had a strange feeling of a hand touching her, and a voice speaking to her, that she began to fancy were her mother’s, they were so gentle and tender ; but once she opened her eyes, and looked up, and saw Mary Hil- ton bending over her, and then she knew whose hand it was, and why it had reminded her of her dead mother. “ Is it you ? ” she said, in a weak whisper. “ Yes, dear ; now lie still, there ’s a good girl.” AMELIA'S OFFER. 123 “ Have I been bad again ? ” asked Nan, thinking she was in the refractory ward, which she connected with her friend. “No, my dear, only ill; and I’ve come to nurse you. There was no work for me, so they made me a nurse. Here, have a drink ; ” and she lifted the weak head gently, and put a cup of barley-water to the fevered lips. Nan drank eagerly; then, fixing her large eyes wistfully on Mary Hilton, she said again, “ If you knew about it all, you wouldn’t nurse me.” “ Yes I would,” answered Mary, cheerfully. “Now you lie back, and get a nice sleep, there’s a dear.” Nan did as she was told, like a tired child. CHAPTER XIII. fog for $|targ pilfotr. 11 Up, up ! the day is breaking, Say to thy cares good-night, Thy troubles from thee shaking, Like dreams in day’s fresh light. Thou wearest not the crown, Nor the best course canst tell, God sitteth on the throne. And guideth all things well.” —Paul Gerhardt. HE next thing that Nan remembered was opening her eyes from what had seemed a very long sleep, and feeling that all pain was gone from her head and side. She hardly knew where she was at first ; but when she looked wearily round, she saw the same kind face which had come to her, as she thought, in her dreams, by her side, and heard the same kind voice saying to her, “ You’re better now, dear?” “ Yes,” she whispered, and tried to stretch out her hand to Mary Hilton ; but from weakness, the hand fell powerless upon the bed. Mary brought her a drink of broth, and smoothed her pillow, and then begged her to lie quite still, JOY FOR MARY HILTON. 125 as her poor head would ache again if she talked any more. “ But I ’m tired,” said Nan ; “ I want to sit up a bit ; I’ve been lying down a long time.” “You can’t get up yet, my dear. Now, you lie still, and I ’ll bring you something to look at.” She went over to the window, and came back with some roses and pinks in her hand, which she laid on the bed. “ There was a good lady here yesterday, who brought some flowers with her, and she gave me a few for you, in case you were a little better, and cared for them.” Nan smiled as she touched the bright roses. “They’re sweet,” she said, “ and they ’re pretty ; did she really mean them for me ? ” “ Yes, she did, and I kept them in water for you.” The girl’s eyes brightened, and her fingers strayed amongst the flowers, lifting first one and then another, and letting them drop again ; no one had ever given her a flower before. “ Do you like them h ” asked Mary. “ Yes ! I used to watch for the flower-carts going up and down the streets, they look so pretty and so gay ; and we used to have flow r ers in our shop sometimes ” — but here Nan stopped — as a terrible rush of remem- brance came over her — and the old fear of being found out returned to her. She was too weak, however, to feel anything very strongly ; . and there was something 126 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. in Mary Hilton’s presence, which seemed to save her from herself, and from the sad wicked past. Mary saw the change pass over her face, and fearing that some sad memory had come to her, which it would make her ill to brood over, she said — “ These look as if they had come straight from the country.” Nan looked round at her, wistfully. “ The country is where Joey ’s gone,” she whispered. “ Is Joey your brother ? ” “ Yes.” “ Perhaps, some day, we 11 find him, and get him to see you.” “ I don't know where he is,” said Nan, sorrowfully. “ Is the country a very big place ? ” Mary smiled. “ Yes, my dear, but still well ‘hope on, hope ever,' — we may perhaps find him, though it is. We used to have roses like these in our garden. I mind how they grew, and people said they were so fine to be so near the sea. My poor man, he was very proud of them. And these white pinks ! why, my Lizzie, she used to pick him a pink on a Sunday morning, and a bit of old man, and bring them to put in his button-hole going to church. I never smell them now that I don't think of it. Oh ! and the smell used to be so sweet as I ’d sit at my work by the cottage-door, when there had been a shower.” She talked on soothingly and pleasantly, and when JOY FOR MARY HILTON, 127 Nan fell asleep again, she had no more fearful dreams, but thought she was in a cottage, where there were roses growing at the door, and that Joey picked them and brought them to her. She began to recover steadily from this day, though she did so very slowly. Mary spared all the time she could from those who were more ill, and needed her nursing more urgently, to look after Nan ; but she was rather disappointed that, as the girl grew stronger, she grew also more silent, and less friendly with her. She never said anything about her past story ; and there came a look of sadness and shame into her face, which made her new friend very sorry, for she felt that there was something hidden, which was hanging like a dead weight about the poor girl’s heart ; and what she most feared for her was, that she should become hopeless and reckless about herself. One evening, when Nan was nearly well again, and was sitting in the room where the convalescent patients from the sick ward were allowed to take their meals, Mary Hilton brought her some tea, and seeing that the room was empty, she sat down by the girl, while she took it. She often hoped that Nan would tell her her story; but whenever she alluded to it at all, Nan was quite silent, and shrunk away from the subject, for she had not faith enough in her friend to think that her love could last, if she knew of the stolen money and the brooch — and about poor Peter, who had been so 128 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. kind to her ; the thought of that kindness of his was sadder to her than anything else now. “ Is your tea sweet enough J” asked Mary, kindly. “ Yes, thank you,” said Nan ; and then after a mo- ment’s silence, she said abruptly, “ Where’s ’Melia ?” a She ’s been gone away a long time now,” said Mary, sadly ; “ I begged her not to go, but she would ; and she said, she ’d come back sometime — I ’m afraid she will.” Nan stirred her tea, and said nothing. “ Nan, my dear,” Mary went on, anxiously, “ if ever ’Melia comes back, and wants you to go with her, don’t you go. I want to be your friend, and I say to you, you ’ll come to no good with her.” “ She promised she ’d help me to get some money, and some good clothes,” said Nan, wistfully. “ Child, she can’t help you ; she can’t even get clothes herself, let alone getting them for you. It’s quite natural and right that a girl should want good clothes, — clean and tidy ones, I mean, for I don’t hold with finery, — but let her earn them rightly, by work- ing respectably for herself ; and going into such bad company to look for them, isn’t getting them rightly, my dear.” Nan hung her head. She knew that her friend’s words were true. “ I know what girls are, Nan. I was a girl myself, and I had a daughter once.” Her voice faltered here, Joy for Mary Hilton .” — Page 128. UbKARV OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS JOY FOR MARY HILTON. 129 but with a strong effort she recovered herself and went on. “ Nan, if I didn’t care about you, I couldn’t talk to you of my Lizzie. She was my only daughter, and I was so proud of her. She was so pretty, and not only in her face, but she had a pretty word for every one. Well, she began to find out how smart things set her off, and to long for them, and she couldn’t keep contented in her home, but must go off to earn money that she might dress well, she said. Her father and me wouldn’t have minded her being a respectable maid- servant in a nice family, — there ’s nothing more to be admired, say I, than a faithful, steady servant, — but my Lizzie, she wanted to take a place in a house we didn’t like, and father said she shouldn’t ; and Lizzie, she ’d a high spirit, and she ran away from us.” Mary was silent for a moment, and Nan said, eagerly, “ Did she never come back % didn’t you never see her any more % “ Yes,” Mary went on sadly ; “ she came back to me to die. She ’d got into service, and she ’d bought her fine clothes, and she had thought she was very happy. Then she got engaged to be married, and her banns had been called in church once, when she found out that the man had been married before, and had got a wife living, and after that she fell into bad health. She ’d never been very strong, and she had to go to the hospital. She was too proud even then to let me know she was ill, but they dismissed her as incurable, and i 130 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. then, when she was almost starving, she came back to me. I was so glad to see her again, that I did not make out rightly at first how ill she was, but she soon told me she ’d only come home to die. My poor girl, I think I see her now, as she lay in bed with her great, dark eyes fixed on me, so loving and so gentle-like ; and said she, ‘ Oh ! what do the poor girls do that hasn’t got a mother to come to ? ’ And then another time, when she was near her end, she started up one day, and she caught me by the arm, and, says she, ‘ Mother, if ever you get the chance to help a poor girl that ’s lonely and in trouble, do it for my sake. Tell them it ain’t finery, nor gay company, nor pleasure- loving that ’ll make them the happiest ; it ’s to think of God, and keep respectable. They mayn’t believe it at first, but the day will come when every one of them will.’ Ah ! she was so good and so patient all that long time until she died, and she seemed as if she couldn’t love me enough, but just before she left me she said again, 1 Mother, there ’s hundreds of girls far more wretched and worse off than I ’ve ever been. If ever you see any of them, tell them there ’s One who can save them ; tell them there ’s One who cares for them.’ So you see, my dear, it seems like Lizzie’s voice telling me to speak to you, and I can’t help it.” Nan looked very thoughtful for a few minutes, and then said, “ Was you living in London then ? ” “ Yes ; I kept a little shop when my husband was JOY FOR MARY HILTON. 131 away at sea, but it failed a while ago, and then I ’d nothing left, for I ’d been trying to keep my man’s parents, who were very old people and lived near us. I couldn’t bear to see them in such want and I not able to get anything for them, so I proposed we ’d all come here, and I ’ve got friends looking out for a situation for me.” “ I wish some one would find me one when I ’m well,” Nan said, sorrowfully. “ Were you in service before you got here? ” “ Yes.” Nan’s eyes fell as she answered. “ Did you leave of yourself, or did your missus give you notice?” “ I left of myself.” The reply was so low that Mary could hardly hear it ; but she guessed the truth from Nan’s face, and though she asked no more questions, she was certain in her own mind that the girl had run away, and that this was the secret of the guilty, fright- ened look so often to be seen on her face. Having got so far Mary would have added more, but at this moment a voice was heard calling, “ Mrs Hilton, Mrs Hilton, come quick, the matron is looking for you,” aud she was obliged to go directly. A minute or two afterwards the sound of a glad cry came in through the open window to Nan, who was moodily finishing her tea. It was a cry such as she had never heard before, but it sounded as if some one had suddenly been saved from sadness and danger ; as 132 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. if the burden of a lifetime’s sorrow had been rolled, away ; as if hope and love and joy had suddenly been set free after long imprisonment. Not that Nan thought all this ; it was only that some one was happy, and was almost crying with happiness, that she knew. She crept to the window and looked down into the courtyard, and saw Mary Hilton there, with her head resting on the shoulder of a weather-beaten sailor, whose arms were round her, while the matron stood near with a happy face, half-laughing and half-crying with pleasure. Then Nan knew what it all meant in an instant. Mary’s husband had come back to her, and she would be leaving the workhouse. And when the girl thought of this she came away from the window and did not seem any longer to care to watch Mary’s pleasure, but laid her head on her arms which were resting on the table, and did not look up again until she heard her friend’s voice speaking to her. “ Nan ! Nan ! he ’s come back,” said Mary, and her voice was quite hoarse with joy. “ Yes,” said Nan, still not looking up. “ Aren’t you glad for me, child ? I feel as if I never could thank God enough, and there ’s my boy all safe too ! though he ’s not come home, he ’s joined another ship.” “ I suppose you be going away now,” said Nan, who had not yet learnt enough of unselfishness to be glad for another’s joy at the expense of pain to herself. JOY FOR MARY HILTON . 133 “ To-morrow,” said Mary ; “ the master very kindly said I might go to-night, though it wasn’t rules, but I thought poor Sarah Martin, who ’s so ill, would miss me in the night, so I had better stop, and my husband he ’s looking for a little new home for us all to go to to- morrow.” Nan’s face was hidden again, and Mary could not understand her silence, but she guessed what it meant a moment after, when a deep sob broke from the girl. “ Then, then, my dear, don’t ’ee fret, I won’t forget you, Nan, I ’ll try and do something for you by and by ; and now you’re nearly strong again, ain’t you, and you ’ll be back again in the able-bodied ward in a very short time, and then, my dear, you ’ll try to be steady and good, won’t you, and keep your temper, and do a kind turn for any one you can; you can’t imagine the difference it will make in your life. Oh me ! I hardly know what I ’m saying, I ’m that happy, — to think that when I had begun to believe that they were both drowned, — that God should have saved them for me, and brought them back to me, and delivered me out of all my troubles. It ’s like a story out of the Bible, I say.” “ Like Jonah in the ark, as I ’ve heard the chaplain tell about,” said Nan. “ In the whale, my dear, you mean ; it was Noah in the ark.” 134 A LOST PIECE OF SIL VER. “Well, I can't remember their names, but I've heard him say something about them being saved out of the waters. I say, Mrs Hilton ” “ Well.” “ Do ’ee try to find me a place. I can't abide stay- ing here no more, and — and now you 're going, it 'll be worse than all.” “But, Nan, who ’s to know what you’re good for? can I say you ’re honest, and you ’re clean, and you ’re good-tempered, and all that a missus wants to know about ? ” Nan did not answer ; life seemed so utterly hopeless as she looked out into it, with no character, no friends, no money, that her heart died down within her. At last she said, “ I 'd try,” and then the dormitory bell rang, and it was time for her to go to bed. “ I mayn't see you in the morning, perhaps,” said Mary, “so good-bye, my dear,” and she kissed her. “You keep up a brave heart, and you pray to God to make you a good girl, and I think something good will come for you soon.” For an instant, the longing came back to Nan to tell her all her story, but it was too late then, and so the time went by, and it remained untold, but just as she was leaving the room she turned back, and coming over to Mary Hilton, she thrust the gilt brooch which she had stolen from Mrs Jackson (and had managed to hide when she was searched on entering the workhouse) JOY FOR MARY HILTON. 135 into her hands, and said hurriedly, “ That’s all I’ve got — you keep it.” Mary looked at the brooch, and would much rather not have kept it, for sham finery was not much to her taste, but she did not like to hurt Nan’s feelings, and the girl was looking at her so wistfully with the tears standing in her eyes, that she could not refuse ; she did not know that the brooch was stolen. Thus they parted, but it was not a parting for ever. CHAPTER XIV. gait’s Sctonfr |jlaa. Poor, indeed, thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw ; If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world, through weal and woe.’* — Heart- Music. f N a few days Nan was back again at work. “ Her illness has done her a deal of good/’ said some of the women, who noticed how much her manner was softened, and how much more diligent she was than she had been before. It was not the illness though, which had worked the change ; it was the kind words of a friend which still remained in her heart ; it was the feeling that some one had cared what became of her, which made Nan wish, though as yet in a very feeble way, to be different from what she had hitherto been ; and the more she thought of these things, the more she hated to think of the days that were past, the more she shrunk from her old companions in the workhouse. NAN’S SECOND PLACE. 137 The wild and disorderly girls laughed at her when she would no longer join in their frolics, and said she was growing a saint, and that she had better take to preaching sermons ; and those of the quieter and better sort kept aloof from her, on account of her having belonged to the wild set before she was ill — so that she w T as left very lonely between them ; and it did seem very hard trying to be better. Sometimes she found it so hard, that she would give it up entirely ; but then there generally came to her some thought of Mary, and of Mary’s words, and she would feebly try again. There was one young woman who seemed more inclined to be friendly than any one else ; she had given up her seat to Nan when she came back to work after her illness, that she might be out of the draught, and she had often asked how she was ; but she. was a rough, careless sort of girl, and did not think it was any busi- ness of hers to trouble herself any further. However, the two girls struck up a sort of friendship, and almost the first kind action that Nan had ever done for any one, she did for Jessie Jones. There was a letter for Jessie one day, which she fingered, and turned round and looked at very curiously, while Nan was sitting at work near her; a little while ago Nan would have taken no notice of anything that happened to others, she would have had no thought to spare from herself and her troubles, to rejoice with their joy or to sorrow with their grief ; but she felt 138 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. differently now, and when she saw Jessie’s face looking so happy, and yet so longing and wistful, she felt a little glad also, and said, “ Have you heard some good news V ’ “ I don’t know,” answered Jessie ; “I'm no scholard, and I can ’t make out a word of it.” Nan laughed, “ Shall I try ? ” “ Now^do, there ’s a good girl ; I think it ’s from my brother in America, and aunt has sent it on to me. Ah ! poor Tom, he don ’t fancy where I am, I know.” Nan unfolded the letter. Inside the envelope was written by Jessie’s aunt, “This has come from Tom, hoping this finds you well as it leaves us at present, — Your affectionate Aunt, Sarah Tomkins.” “Ah ! that’s him,” said Jessie, her face shining with pleasure. “Now get on, Nan.” Nan was not a great scholar herself, but by slow degrees she managed to spell out the letter from Jessie’s brother. He had got Work in New York, and he said it would be a very good thing if Jessie could come out there, that there were plenty of openings for her. Jessie had been a seamstress, and had worked regularly for a large shop in the city, which had failed, leaving her with no money and no means of getting any. For several days she had wandered about looking for employment, and had got none, and at last she had been obliged to come to the workhouse. Her brother did not know all this, but he did know that she had been very much underpaid, NAN\ S SECOND PLACE. 139 and that she was very lonely ; so that was reason enough for him to wish her to join him. Jessie's face brightened more and more as she heard the words. 44 That's right, that's right, but go on, Nan." There was not much more than this, only that Jessie’s old friend, Ralph Banks, was getting on well in the same place, and often asked about her ; and when Jessie heard this her face grew happier than ever ; but when she had heard to the last, her bright looks suddenly clouded. 44 What can I do ? Here ’s Tom saying he 'll send me money if I want to go, but how can I tell him % I, that can’t write a word; and what ever ’ll he say to hear I’m in the workhouse h ” 44 Do you w r ant to go all off there ? Did you say it was across the sea ? ” 44 1 should think it was ? why it takes near a fort- night on the sea to get there." 44 I wouldn’t go," said Nan. 44 Wouldn’t go ? not if you ’d a chance of getting out of this h not if you 'd a brother, and friends out there as cared for you V 9 A quick thought of Joey came to Nan, and she felt that if she had had such a letter as that from Joey, she would have gone anywhere for him. 44 Perhaps I would," she said ; 44 but I haven’t got no one to care for me anywdiere” — and then there followed a thought 140 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. of Mary Hilton ; and for the sake of all the kindness which Mary had shown her, Nan said, “ I ’m slow at it, Jess, but I ’ll try to write that as you want, if you ’ll find the paper.” Thanks to Peter, Nan was able to write in some sort of fashion, though it was very hard to make out one of her letters, both from its bad spelling, and the straggling way in which it was written. However, Jessie gladly accepted her offer, and the first spare time that they had, they set to work at the composition. “ How am I to begin ? ” asked Nan, who had got her fingers very inky, and had smeared them down her dress before she had written a word. “ My dear brother,” suggested Jessie. “ I can’t spell ‘ brother it ’s too long,” said Nan. “Well, then, ‘ My dear Tom.’” There was a long pause, in which Nan painfully scrawled the words, and then drew her ink-smeared fingers again over her dark petticoat. “I was delighted to receive your kind letter, and hopes this will find you well, as it leaves me in the London Workhouse.” “ Wait a bit,” said Nan, “ I can’t put all that. I can’t spell those words a bit, I never learnt ’em ; now, let ’s see. ‘ I got yours, and hopes this finds you in the workhouse/ ” “ No ! no ! ” roared Jessie, “ not that — I hopes it finds him well.” Nan did her best, but it was not very NAN'S SECOND PLACE. 141 clear what she put at last. However, Jessie went on : “ I lost my work at Smith’s, and I was near starved, and I had to come here, and I couldn’t get any more work.” Some of this also Nan managed to write, and then Jessie continued : 44 Do, dear brother, send me the money, and take me out of this which Nan cut down to, 44 Do send and take me out of this.” “ And I ’ll come at once.” “ And I ’ll come once,” said Nan, nodding, after five minutes’ hard work. 44 And my love to all inquiring friends.” “ I can’t do 4 inquiring,’ or 4 friends.’ I don’t know a bit about them words,” objected Nan. 44 Can’t you say the man’s name he says, it was short.” 44 Well, my love to Ralph Banks.” Nan made an attempt at this also. 44 And Almighty God bless you,” said Jessie, think- ing it was right to make a pious ending to a letter that w^as going so far off. 44 No ! I don’t know nothing about that,” said Nan. 44 Well, never mind that, so long as you ’ve put about the money ; and 4 1 am, yours truly, your sister, Jessie Jones.’ ” 44 Now it ’s done,” said Nan, in a tone of relief ; 44 it ’s a bit blotted, but he ’ll make it out. Now, what ’s to put on the envelope ? ” 44 Tom Jones, America,” suggested Jessie. 44 That won’t do, if it ’s a big place ; the postman 142 A LOST PIECE OF SIL VEIL might never find him,” said a woman, who was near. “ What town is he in, my dear]” “New York.” “ Then you ’d better put New York, near America,” advised the vroman. “That doesn’t sound right somehow. I think I’ll send it to aunt, and she ’ll get it sent right. So please, Nan, you just put, — £ Mrs Tomkins, Crown Place, Is- lington,’ and then you write, c please send to Tom,’ very plain, where she ’ll see it.” But this was quite beyond Nan, who put something like, — “ Mrs Tomkins, please send Tom to Crown Place,” — and left the direction in such a confused state, that it was impossible for any postman to make it out. However, the matron, when she came her rounds, very good-naturedly took charge of it, promised to put it in a fresh envelope, and put a stamp upon it, so that Jessie’s mind w T as quite relieved. Nan could hardly understand why she felt so happy when Jessie thanked her, and said, “ She’d never forget that good turn she ’d done her” — it was the first time she had ever tried to do a kindness for any one. Two or three days after, it was Nan’s turn to help in the bakehouse, and she had just pulled her arms out of the great tub of dough which she was kneading, when some one said, “ Nan Downing ’s being asked for.” Ah! how the guilty terror came back with a rush to her — it might even now be the policeman or Mrs Jackson — NAN'S SECOND PLACE. 143 fear was so much more common a feeling with her than hope, that she never thought it possible that it could be a friend, and she did not want to show herself. But the fear all went away a moment after, when she heard Mary Hilton’s voice saying her name. “ Well, Han, I haven’t forgotten you.” Han could hardly speak for pleasure at seeing her. “ Did you think you ’d never see me again, poor child?” and Mary smiled that same smile which had lived in Han’s heart during all the weary days since she went away. Han’s hands were grasping her shawl tightly, but she did not speak. “ I ’ve been hearing such nice things of you, Han, how you ’ve quite been trying to be a good girl, and mind your work.” Han looked up gratefully. If she had tried at all, it was for her friend’s sake, and she was glad that she should know it. “ What do you think I ’ve come for ?” “ Did you come to see me ? ” “ Yes ! and for more than that. I ’ve come to say, I ’ll try you for a servant, if you ’ll promise to do your best.” Han looked into Mary’s face very keenly for a minute. “ You ’re going to take me to live along with you, and do for you ? ” she asked, hoarsely, feeling that it was almost impossible that such good news could be for her. 144 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. “ Yes, my man says I must have some one to help me, now that the old folks live with us ; and when he said I must get a girl, I thought of you. I’ve got some work to do, and it ’ll take up my time a good bit, and I want a girl who’ll be willing, and handy, and clean, and mind what I tell her ; and we ’ll give you a shilling a week, and keep you ; and you and me we ’ll save up your wages, for them tidy clothes you want so bad.” Nan wondered for a moment whether, if Mary Hilton knew the story of the past, she would still take her, but she was not strong enough in her love of right and truth, to risk losing this newly-found happiness, and she only sobbed for joy as she answered, “ I ’ll try, I will. I ’ve never tried to be a good girl before, but I ’ll try ever so now.” “ I ’m sure you will,” said Mary. “ And now listen till I tell you where it is I live, for you ’ll have to find your way to-morrow morning, — or stay, I ’ll meet you at the workhouse gate when you come out, and bring you home, that will be best.” The rest of the day passed in a happy dream to Nan ; nothing seemed hopeless or dreary any longer, she was to be with Mary Hilton, and to learn from her, and there was to be no more workhouse life or street wan- dering for her, no more fear of Mrs Jackson, or of the policeman ; a new hope and a new life were before her, and all the old trouble seemed to be buried away for ever. NAN'S SECOND PLACE. 145 Slie had not many good-byes to say in the workhouse. Jessie Jones was truly glad “ to hear of her luck,” as she said, and was so happy in the prospect which was opened before herself that she could see her friend go away without any envy, and there was no one else who felt any interest in Nan Downing. How bright and glad even the dingy streets looked the next morning, as she stood in her old clothes at the door of the ’work- house ; never had she felt so glad and so hopeful as when the great doors shut behind her, and almost be- wildered at the thought of her freedom, she began to descend the steps, and to look about for Mary. She had not far to look, for Mrs Hilton was just coming round the corner of the street, but she was hardly prepared for the change which Nan’s own bad clothes made in her appearance ; Mary had always seen her in the work- house dress, in which she looked clean and neat and respectable, but now she looked anything but clean and respectable, and Mary was almost ashamed to be seen walking with her. “ I must give her something tidy to put on, the very first thing,” she said to herself, “ or Ned will never stand to see her in the house. There ’s that dress of poor Lizzie’s, I don’t know that I could do anything better with it, and there ’s my old boots, which I can mend up.” Nan was too happy to trouble herself about her clothes; as she walked along she could almost have sung K 146 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. for joy ; she fancied that even the people who passed her in the street looked pleasanter than they had ever looked before, as if they were sharing her good fortune. “ Here we are,” said Mary; “ now rub your feet clean before you come in,” and she opened the door of a small house in a back street, and brought Nan into a cheerful little room where an old man and woman were sitting by a bright fire, with a large black cat asleep between them, where everything was clean and neat, though nothing was grand, where the furniture and the pictures on the wall, and the row of crockery and pewter on the chimney-piece, all shone with cleaning and polishing, and where a parrot gravely called out from his cage, “ Breakfast ’s ready, come, look sharp.” Then, for the first time, as she looked round the pleasant tidy room, it struck Nan how dirtily and badly she was dressed, and what a dark contrast she was to everything about her, and she hung her head with shame. She had never known any one so clean and neat in all ways as Mrs Hilton must be ; the workhouse authorities had insisted on a certain amount of cleanliness, it was true ; but then it was a perpetual drudgery of cleaning, and to Mary Hilton it seemed to be a positive pleasure. “ How can I sit down to my work,” she would say, “ feeling that my hands and face are smutty, that my hair is untidy, that my dress is torn, or that the room hasn’t been dusted, or the floor washed ? Why, I ’d sooner set to my work without having had my breakfast.” And NAN'S SECOND PLACE. 147 Nan had heard her once say to a woman in the work- house, who was complaining of the trouble of keeping a house clean, “ What’s the good of having a home if you don’t keep it clean and comfortable 1 Why, bless you, the home is given us, to be kept for God, just the same as ourselves is, and our children, and anything else as belongs to us, and it isn’t like keeping it for Him to have it dirty, and everything lying about in a muddle. If we ask Him to be in the midst of us, we should try to make the place as fit for Him as we can ; He don’t care for it to be grand or fine, but He do care for it to be clean.” And it was this wonderful new feeling of order and cleanliness that came upon Nan, as she looked about her, and felt how different this home was to anything she had ever seen before, and how unfit she was to be in it, and she felt inclined to turn straight round from it all, and run out at the street door, and get back into the old life, where she might be dirty, and untidy, and wicked still, and no one would care ; but as the girl glanced down at her own clothes, Mary caught the look and understood it. “ You come along with me,” she said, “I’ve a dress as will fit you;” and she took her up to the garret which she had made ready for her, and brought her a dark dress of Lizzie’s. “ There,” she said, u now, you try to be a clean, tidy girl in that dress, for I shall like to think you ’re wearing it, if you are. And I don’t much 148 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. hold with your wearing this,” and she touched a net of greasy silk and glass beads, wdiich Nan wore over her hair ; “ I ’ve got a brush and comb for you here, and you try to keep your hair tidy ; my master, he likes womenkind to have their hair smooth ; here, I 'll show you the way to-day, and then you 'll know for yourself another time,” and Mary showed her how to divide it and brush it piece by piece. It was very short hair then, for most of it had been cut off in the fever, but she made it look quite tidy as she smoothed it away be- hind Nan's ears, and tied a piece of narrow black ribbon round it to keep it in its place. And when Nan had got on Lizzie’s dress, and a pair of Mrs Hilton’s boots, she looked much more the kind of servant that a mis- tress would like to see in her bouse. “ Now, you know, Nan,” said her friend, “ this dress would soon wear out if you wore it for rough work and for best, so we must get your other washed as soon as we can, and mended up. I don’t mind if it ’s a bit faded so long as it ’s clean, and we can be quite sure of that if we use enough soap and water ; you shall do that this afternoon. Now, you come along down and help me to get the dinner ready, and I’ll lend you a big over-all to cover up your gown. Here, we ’ll pin it up at the back.” Mrs Hilton then led the way to the kitchen where the old people sat by the fire. “ Mother,” she said, loudly, for her mother-in-law was somewhat deaf from WAN'S SECOND PLACE. 149 age, “ this is our girl, Nan. I hope she s going to be a great help to me.” The old woman looked round and chuckled pleasantly, “ I hope she be, my dear, I hope she be. It be much pleasanter here than in the workhouse, ain't it, lass? Not but what they was mostly kind enough to me there, but it ’s not what I like, to have folk all a-moaning and a-groaning about me. Poor things, I dare say they was all very bad ; but, for my part, while the Lord leaves me my health, I ’ll be contented. Not but what I ’m very bad with the rheumatics — ain’t I, Mary ? — and the asthma, but then you see I did try to keep a cheery face about it ; and when they did any of ’em ask how I was, I didn’t answer ’em all whining or snappish like, as if it was their faults that I ’d got the rheumatics or was bad in the breathing. And now there ’s our Ned come back, and it ’s all right again, thank the Lord, and I can sit as near the fire as I like ; can’t I, Mary ? ” and the old woman chuckled again. “ Yes, mother; that you can, and we ’ll- make it a bright one.” “ So you’ve come to be Mary’s servant, have you?” and the old woman looked up at Nan. “ You don’t look very strong ; — but you said she ’d been ill, didn’t you, my dear ? ” “ Yes, mother.” “ Well, now, you mind and be clean and tidy, and don’t you go playing and idling about, but stick to 150 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. your work. Father, wake up now, and look at the new servant-girl. ” The old man, who was dozing in his chair, turned round at the sound of his wife’s voice. “ What ’s her name ? ” he said, sleepily. “ Nan, father,” answered Mary. “ Nan ! ” he laughed heartily. “What be you laughing at, father?” asked the old woman. “ Why, don’t ’ee remember, mother, how we had an old goat called Nan ? ” “ Ay, I remember ; ” and then she laughed too. “ I shall be for ever thinking it is the goat when I hear her name.” “Shall we call you Nancy?” asked Mary, kindly, seeing a cloud come over the girl’s face. “No,” she said sullenly; “I be Nan, and I’ll be nothing but Nan.” “ There, there, I was only joking,” said the old man, seeing that something had gone wrong though he could not tell what. “ She ’ll be a good girl, and mind what sne ’s told, and then we ’ll never mistake her for the goat.” Mary’s husband came in, in time for the early din- ner. He had a pleasant face, and gave a kindly greeting to Nan, telling her that his wife had said how ill she had been. Perhaps he half expected to draw* from Nan some grateful praise of his wife’s kindness in nursing NAN’S SECOND PLACE. 151 her, for Ned Hilton knew what a good woman he had got for a wife, and liked to hear her praised ; but in this he was disappointed, for Nan kept a sullen silence, and hardly answered his questions. After the dinner-things had been washed and put away, she was told to wash her working-dress and after- wards to mend it, which gave her occupation enough for the rest of that day. CHAPTER XV. ®0tr <£ltan a Some. “Sinful thoughts of pride and passion, Greedy wishes, selfish care, In our human hearts lie hidden. Ready to awaken there. “Still the wrong way will seem pleasant, Still the right way will seem hard, All our life we shall be tempted. We must ever be on guard.” — Hymns for Little Children. ARY HILTON found out before Nan bad been long in the bouse that tbe task wbicb sbe had undertaken of saving this girl from her disorderly and careless life would be no easy one, and that it would require y* patience and kindness of an untiring sort. For a few days tbe novelty of her fresh clothes and tbe extra comfort of tbe home life wbicb I she was for tbe first time allowed to share, made f Nan wish, with a vague unstable wishing, that she could be more like all she saw r around her. T Then, when this novelty had worn off, the sense i of contrast between her own self and this ne w life TOO CLEAN A HOME . 153 became stronger than ever, and instead of setting her to work to overcome the faults which kept her back from being what her friend wished to see her, it made her more reserved, more sullen and dogged, sometimes even more careless about doing what she was told to do. Day after day Mrs Hilton would tell her the same things, and day after day Han forgot to do them, or if she did not entirely forget, she did them so care- lessly that it was nearly as bad as not doing them at all. Instead of learning from Mrs Hilton's own ex- ample to be cleanly and orderly, Han seemed to take pleasure in being dirty and untidy. I say seemed , because if people could have looked into the girl's heart they would have seen there that she hated herself for being so unlike her mistress ; that it was a sort of despair which had taken possession of her, when she compared herself and her life with that with which she had for the first time become acquainted, — the better and higher life which she had never known anything about before. As was to be expected, Han’s untidy and careless ways soon began to tell on the comfort of the home. First it was the old people who said that she neglected them ; that the food was badly cooked when she had to do it ; that she was so sullen that they did not like to look at her. Then by degrees, even Mr Hilton, who tried to be patient with the workhouse-girl for his wife's sake, found that his home was not as comfortable 154 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. as lie liked it to be, and that his wife over- worked herself in trying to make up for Nans failures. But Mary held true to her kindly purpose through all. “ It will take time,” she would say. “ For nearly seventeen years she has had these faults growing every day in her. We can’t cut them down and put them away for ever in a few days or weeks. When she comes to value cleanliness and order, and to understand a bit more of the difference they make to our lives, she ’ll be more inclined to practise them. Why, Ned,” she added, laughingly, to her husband, " those gold- diggers you were telling me about, you wouldn’t have me think they’d spend their days a-digging and delving for gold unless they knew that gold meant money ; till our Nan has seen that the orderliest life is the best life and the one that pays best, you can’t think she ’ll be orderly.” “ You ’re a wise woman, Mary, but don’t let her slave your life out, that ’s all,” her husband would answer proudly, and then for a while he would raise no more objections to Nan. And all this time, apart from the feeling of irksome restraint, and from the shame which Nan felt for falling so far short of Mary’s clean and tidy example, there was a gulf between them which seemed to widen day by day, for Nan knew that if she were really true- hearted, she would have told her mistress the story of her past life, and as she heard honesty and truth TOO CLEAN A HOME . 155 praised, and saw how those with whom she was living tried to be honest and true in their lives, she felt how dishonest she had been. She tried not to think of it, but every day helped to make the past seem blacker and the burden of it more intolerable. Mary Hilton was sorely disappointed ; she had hoped much from Nan’s affectionate nature, and as she found her own influence apparently wearing off, she feared that her efforts for making Nan’s life happier and better, were all in vain. Meanwhile there was a strange resolve growing up in Nan’s heart. That wild wish which had come into her mind, as she stood for the first time in Mary Hilton’s home, and had felt how unfit she was to be in it, that wish to turn round, and run back into the old life, where no one cared what she did, where there was no law, no order, no restraint, where shame did not press upon her so hard, and goodness did not touch her, or cause her any of the bitter feelings which she had now ; that wish was beginning to deepen into a steady pur- pose. She would go away from Mrs Hilton, she would go back to the idle, free life outside that bright com- fortable home, where every one seemed happy except herself, and she was strengthened in this resolution, by a chance meeting which took place one day in the street when she was sent on an errand by Mrs Hilton. Gene- rally her mistress did not allow her to go out by herself, or for long at a time, but on this day she had had a press 156 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. of work, and she was obliged to send Nan with, some of it to a distant part of the town. It was as she was returning home that Nan suddenly met Amelia Simson. She did not see her until a hand was stretched over her shoulder, and touched her cheek, and a loud familiar voice said, “ Why it ’s Nan, as smart as a new pin, I declare.” “ ’Melia, how ever did you get here ? ” gasped Nan, only half pleased to see her. “ Me, why I ’m in most places, I think it ’s more for me to ask how did you get here, and all them nice clothes, when I left you in workhouse rags. Be you turned pious, Nan?” “Not that I knows, but I ; ve been out of the house this ever so long, — I was ill, you know.” “ I know,” said Amelia, “ that was just when I went out.” “ And then Mrs Hilton’s husband got home from sea.” Amelia gave a quick little cry of pleasure, “ No ! did he ? Well, I be right glad to hear that, she was very kind spoken, she was, I be right glad she’s got her man.” “ Well, and then she came and took me out, and took me to be her servant, and gived me these clothes.” “ Some people’s luck ’s wonderful,” said Amelia, turn- ing up her eyes. Then catching sight of the sullen, dissatisfied look on Nan’s face, she went on, — “ Well* and how do you like it, lots of prayers and good talk and all that ? ” TOO CLEAN A HOME. 157 “ Yes, there ’s all that, and worse.” “ What ’s worse h ” Then Nan spoke out desperately, “It’s all so clean, I hate it.” Amelia burst into a loud laugh, “ My word, that ’s good, — too clean for you, eh h ” “ Yes it ’s scrub, scrub, polish, polish, dust and mend, and clean up from morning till night, and I must have a clean face, and I must keep my dress neat, and I must be always at it.” “ I dare say it ’s dull, I know I ’d hate it,” said |ier bad counsellor. “ I say, Nan, you ’d have had better fun if you ’d corned away with me.” “ I sometimes wish I had,” Nan answered moodily; then as if a sudden touch of remorse had come to her with some thought of all Mary’s goodness, she added, “ But missus is very good to me most times, if she wasn’t always at it about being clean and tidy.” “ Oh ! I dare say,” said Amelia, hooking her arm into Nan’s and leading her along the street; “ but then you see such partikler ways don’t do for a girl of spirit. I say, Nan, I dare say you han’t got all the spirit now you had w T hen you first came to the house; what a good ’un you used to be for rows then.” “ I ’d be just as good now,” said Nan. They were silent for a few minutes. Then Amelia said : “ If it be really so strict, and so clean — if I was you, I ’d take to the songs after all ; now, you just join 158 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. me, and 1 11 put you up to a thing or two, and we 11 make a life of it together.” Nan looked at her wistfully — the proposal was made in a kind, friendly voice ; and here seemed the very chance which she had been looking for — she might be free at once. “ Missus would be awful vexed,” she said, slowly. “ Missus needn’t know nothing about it : you just slip off on the sly, and 1 11 meet you. 1 11 engage it not the first time you Ve run away.” Ah ! Nan knew that life would not seem so dark and hopeless to her, if it had not been that the memory of that first running away hung round her neck like a heavy clog, keeping her back from all that was good and right. “ Where do you live h ” asked Amelia. Nan mentioned the name of the street. “ Ah ! there ’s the bridge close by there ; well, if you like to come, 1 11 meet you on the bridge to-morrow night.” “ No ! not to-morrow night — that wouldn’t do — for missus would be at home, and I couldn’t get away well ; but Sunday night, she and master go out to church, and there ’s only the old folks left at home, and they be generally asleep : I ; d come Sunday night.” “ All right, then ; 1 11 be there as soon as it ’s getting darkish ; and see if I don’t give you a bit of fun. Why, I ’ve got a friend that 11 treat me to anything, and you too, if I ask it.” TOO CLEAN A HOME. 159 “ I ’ll come,” said Nan, and slie meant it. Then Amelia left her, and she hurried home as fast as she could, afraid that she had already delayed so long as to give rise to suspicion. But Mary only lifted her head from her work for a moment, as she entered, and said, — “Well, child, are you tired h it ? s a long walk ; take your bonnet off, and here ’s a good cup of tea I’ve been keeping for you.” There was something in the kind voice and action which seemed to pain Nan to the heart, but she drank her tea in silence, and her resolve remained un- shaken. The next day of working and cleaning seemed more intolerable to her than ever, partly because it was Saturday, and there was more than usual to be done ; and, partly, because her time of freedom was so near. It was hard work to silence that reproachful voice, which kept telling her that she was going to do wrong. She knew she was ungrateful — she knew she was wicked, but she tried to think that she did not care ; and with this fight going on within her, it was no wonder that she seemed even more sullen than be- fore, and that her face had a darker and sadder ex- pression. Mary Hilton noticed it, and could not account for it. “ Aren’t you well V 7 she asked on Saturday night, when she found Nan, who had been washing up things in the 1 GO A LOST PIECE OF SIL VER. little back kitclien, standing listlessly, with her head resting against the chimney-piece. “ Oh, yes ! ” “ Yon ’re tired. Well, it ’s been a hard day to-day ; but to-morrow ’s the good day of rest, my girl, and you shall have as much of it as you can. You shall come to church along with me in the morning, and you shall go to bed quite early to-morrow night.” NT an looked at her with a grim smile. Mary knew that all was not right. “ What ’s the matter, child 1 ” she went on : “ Ain’t you happy 1 ” “ No.” “ What ’s wrong — you don’t want to be back in the workhouse, do you and Mary laughed a little. “No.” “Well, then, why don’t you cheer up, and do your best 1 ” “I do ‘ do my best,’ but it ain’t your best, and I can’t make it.” “ Well, Nan, nobody can’t do more than their best — you just stick to doing that really and truly, and I ’ll be satisfied — because then I know your best will soon get better.” Nan glanced at her mistress for a moment. She spoke in the gentle, kind, motherly voice, which she had always used to her, and Nan felt at that moment as if she could kneel down at her feet and tell her TOO CLEAN A HOME. 161 everything ; but then she happened to look all round the little kitchen, which they had both been working so hard to make neat and clean, and the hatred of this cleanliness and order came back upon her, and drove away all softer feelings, and so the opportunity went % CHAPTER XVI. $2 Itigljt Oit % §ribge, “ What is this psalm from pitiable places, G-lad where the messengers of peace have trod? Whose are these beautiful and holy faces Lit with their loving, and aflame with God ? '‘Ave unto these, distributeth the Giver Sorrow and sanctity, and loves them well, Grants them a power and passion to deliver Hearts from the prison-house, and souls from hell.” — F. W. II. Myers . Loving Lord J esus, Thou wilt come through the dark, When men are all sleeping, and no eye can mark. Though, ‘ clean forgotten, like a dead man out of mind,’ This lost piece of silver, Thou wilt search for, and find.” — Poems by Author of “ John Halifax .” AJNDAY morning came, and Nan woke to the feeling that this was her last day in Mary Hilton’s home, and that she was going to a new life. It was a dark, wet autumn day, — everything looked gloomy and dingy, and somehow Nan had expected to feel happier than she did. She was going to get her wish, and she ought to have been happy. She thought it must be the wet day, which made her spirits low. In the morning, she went to church with her BY NIGHT ON THE BRIDGE. 163 mistress, Mr Hilton stopping at home to bear the old people company, and to fetch the hot dinner from the bakehouse at the right time. Han had often been to church with Mrs Hilton, but this morning every- thing seemed to strike her in a way which it had never done before. First she heard the words which she still remembered so well, “ I will arise and go to my Father, and will say to him, Father, I have sinned,” and then the prayers seemed some of them to be about her, for she did feel that day that she was “ a miserable sinner,” kneeling there beside her one true friend, and being about to deceive her so wickedly, and Han wished she could have shut her ears and not heard all the words which seemed, one after another, to be meant for her. As if to make things worse, the clergy- man preached from the text, “We love Him, because He first loved us,” and said a great deal about gratitude and ingratitude, which she could understand quite well when she thought of all that Mary Hilton had been to her, and how ungrateful she was going to be in return ; and, altogether, though she had never listened so at- tentively, she never had been so glad for the service to come to an end. The afternoon seemed very long, and Han began to get restless and uneasy as it drew towards a close, afraid lest the downpours of rain should keep her mistress from church in the evening ; but Mary’s heart was set on going with her husband. She put on her cloak and 164 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. bonnet as soon as the bells began to ring, and turning to Nan she said, 44 Now, I trust father and mother to you, — you be a good girl, and keep the door locked till I come in, and make a good fire.” Nan promised all things, and then Mary and her husband went through the front room to the door, Nan going with them to shut it when they were gone. 4 ‘It’s raining hard,” said Mary. 44 Yes,” said Nan, holding the door open and looking out into the darkness, and then, as Mary stepped across the threshold some sudden impulse came to the girl, and she laid her hand on her friend’s arm for an instant, to keep her back, as though she knew that with her, help, and hope, and love would go away for ever. 44 What is it ?” said Mary, 44 1 ’ve got the umbrella.” 44 Nothing,” answered Nan; 44 good-bye, missus.” 44 Good-bye, we ’ll soon be back.” Nan stood looking after her for a minute, and her heart died down within her, and Mary said to her hus- band, as she walked on, 44 1 do believe Nan’s fond of me. I ’m sure she ’ll be a good girl, some day.” 44 It won’t be your fault, anyways, if she ain’t,” said her husband. About a quarter of an hour later, the old people were dozing comfortably by the kitchen lire, and Nan was dressed in Lizzie’s gown and the boots Mrs Hilton had given her, and a bonnet which her mistress had made and trimmed for her herself, and the shawl which had been BY NIGHT ON THE BRIDGE. 165 washed and mended so that it looked quite tidy, and she was ready to run away. Even then she paused be- fore she opened the door, looking round at everything for the last time, — the cheerful fire, the quiet faces of the old people sleeping by it, the bright pewter and crockery which she had so often cleaned, now shining in the firelight, the clean kitchen table, with the large Bible lying on it, where Mr Hilton had been reading to his father and mother, and the American clock with its loud ticking, which had become such a familiar sound to her. “ What ever will missus say when she finds I be gone h ” she said to herself. “ I declare, I think 1 11 stay and have another try at the cleaning ; — but then what would Amelia say if she come through all the wet to meet me ? No ! I must go, and 1 11 forget this all as quick as I can.” She took no more time for thought, but lifted the latch softly, left the door partly ajar, and stole out into the dark night. It seemed to be raining harder than ever, but Nan hardly felt or thought of that, she was so frightened and guilty. All the old feelings of fear came over her; it was not only her present mistress whom she dreaded, but remembrances of Mrs Jackson and the stolen brooch, and of Peter, to whom she had been so cruel, came crowding upon her. She felt as she had done on that Sunday night long ago, only worse if possible, for then she had been hardened and did not 166 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. much care, but now love had touched her life, and had partly softened her heart, and it was impossible not to care when she thought of Mary Hilton. She crept through the street, with her head bent down, afraid of being noticed or detected, and always chose the least frequented ways, until she reached the bridge. It was a dark night, and the light of the gas- lamps was misty and feeble through the heavy rain. She leaned over the side of the bridge, looking down into the water, and a thought of Peter — of Peter drowned through her fault — came to her. She turned away and walked on looking for Amelia, but Amelia was not there. It was very cold, Nan’s teeth were chatter- ing, and her damp clothes began to cling about her ; she drew her shawl closer round her again, and leaned on the wall of the bridge with her face turned from the water, watching for Amelia, and she heard the clocks from the churches near the river strike eight. “ Missus will soon be out of church,” she said to herself ; “ oh ! what will she say ? She ’ll think first I ’ve only gone out for a lark, and I ’ll soon be coming back for her to lecture me, and then she ’ll find its getting later and later and I don’t come, and then she ’ll know, and then she ’ll find out what I am, and she ‘11 wish she ’d never took me out of the workhouse, and then she ’ll say I ’m a good-for-nothing, and she ’s well rid of me, and she ’ll get another girl, and, — Well ! I don’t care. I ’ll have no more cleaning. I wonder when ’Melia’s coming ] BY NIGHT ON THE BRIDGE. 167 she ’s real late.” She walked again up and down the dark bridge, that she might not feel the shaking and trembling of her limbs, and then she stood and gazed down into the water again. She felt as if she could not help it. She did not wish to look at it, and yet she looked in spite of herself ; the water was flowing out with an even swift rush from under the arches of the bridge, the long wavering lines of light from the street lamps were reflected in it, and the barges crept up and down, dark moving masses, which she could hardly dis- tinguish through the gloom. People passed her on the bridge and wondered why she stood there, some even wondered whether she was thinking of jumping into the water, but Amelia did not come, and at last a wild ter- ror took possession of Nan. What if Amelia should not come at all h What if she was left alone here % What would become of her without a friend in the world, for she dared not go back now ? Mrs Hilton must be home from church before this. Her wicked- ness was found out, and the door would be shut against her for ever. She walked up and down again restlessly, gazing wistfully at every woman she met, in the hope that it might be Amelia, but still Amelia did not come. Once her heart seemed as if it would stand still with terror, for just as she was passing under a gas-lamp, she caught sight of a face which she knew ; a man brushed past her, and looked into her face as he did so. 168 A LOST PIECE OF SIL VER. It was Mr Jackson; Nan could hardly keep back a cry of alarm, and it was evident that her former master had some sort of remembrance of her, that her face was fa- miliar to him, though he did not know how; he turned and looked after her a moment, but could not recollect where he had seen her before, and so went on. After this Nan’s unhappiness was complete. She did not dare to go away because Amelia had promised to meet her there, and she had no hope left but Amelia. She waited on and on with a sickening heart, till the clocks struck ten. “ Oh, she will not come, she will not come now, what shall I do]” thought wretched Nan, and she crouched down in a corner of the bridge, trying to hide away from all those who were passing by. It was so dark, so cold, so lonely, she wished she could die. “God help me,” she muttered; “ God help me. I wonder if He does really help people, as my missus says He does ] Can He see me here through all the dark and the rain, and does He know what trouble I ’m in ] What was that she said about His seeking for the lost ] If He was here — in London — now, I wonder if He’d come and look for me ] Oh ! God help me, don’t leave me to die out here in the cold ; I Ve been a bad girl, but do send Amelia, don’t let me be here all alone.” She clasped her hands, and raised her eyes to the dark, rainy sky above. Could her poor frightened voice ever reach to God ] But, just then, she heard people coming towards her, and a broken snatch of a song in tones which she re- BY NIGHT ON THE BRIDGE. 169 cognised, and she stumbled to her feet to meet Amelia, who had come at last. As she did so a hand touched her, and a voice, — that voice which she had never thought to hear again, — said, “ Nan !” She started and turned round, and the misty, feeble light of the gas-lamp showed her the face of Mary Hilton. “ Let me go ! let me go !” she cried, bitterly. “ I have left you. I will never come back. Let me go !” “ No, Nannie, I will not.” The words were said very tenderly, but it was quite plain that the speaker meant them. Amelia had come up to them, but when she saw whose charge Nan was in, she shrugged her shoulders and laughed,— “ Hulloa ! little one, you ’re caught ; well, never mind, better luck next time ! ” And she w r as going on, but Mary said — “ Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Amelia, to be try- ing to entrap a poor girl away from a happy home V } “ She ain’t happy ; that 's just it,” said Amelia, roughly. Mary's lips were quivering ; Nan could see that as she stole one guilty look at her face, then she tried to wrench her arm away, crying out piteously, “ Amelia, wait, wait ; I ’m coming ! ” Amelia stood at a little distance looking at them, half-waiting to see if Nan was set free. 170 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. Mary dropped the girl’s arm, and her own two hands fell by her side. Nan was free, and was just setting off at a run to join Amelia when there was a sound which made her pause. It was a sob which seemed to burst from the depths of Mary’s heart. Nan stopped. “Missus, was that about me?” she asked, wonderingly. Mary could not answer ; her tears came thick and fast. Nan grasped the edge of her shawl, — “ I han’t stole nothing this time ’cept these clothes as you give me. I ’ve runned away. I suppose you ’ll be sending me to prison now ; it ’s the best place for such as me, — that or the river there. Missus, don’t cry. I ’ll go anywhere you sends me, if you ’ll not cry like that.” Mary laid her hand on the cold one which had such tight hold of her shawl. “ Don’t ’ee, missus, now don’t ’ee cry like that. I — I ain’t worth it,” and the girl’s voice was broken and hoarse. “Are you coming, Nan?” shouted Amelia. The answer came half-choked with sobs — “ No ; 99 and, with a mocking laugh, Amelia went on her way. “ Thank God !” whispered Mary. But Nan stood silent. “ Come home, child ; you ’re wet through. You ’ll be ill again, if you don’t get warmed soon.” “ What ? ” said Nan, not taking in the meaning of the words. BY NIGHT ON THE BRIDGE. 171 “ You must come home and get to bed as $oon as you can.” “ And when wdll you send me to prison ?” “Not at all, Nannie.” “ And did you come after me for to bring me home, when I ’d runned away from you like that ? ” Nan was speaking fast and low. “ Yes ; I got a fear of the truth over me when I came in from church and found you wasn’t there, and I ’ve been looking for you ever since.” They were walking towards Mary’s home now. Suddenly Nan stopped, and looking up earnestly into her mistress’s face, she said, “ Missus, what made you do it % ” “ Because I loved you.” “ Loved a bad girl like me, who ’s been bad all the time she ’s been with you, and who runned away to Amelia ! ” “ Yes, Nan.” “ Then I wish I ’d been dead before I done it.” They walked on again in silence, Nan’s teeth chattering with cold and damp ; but just as they were getting near the house, she asked, “ Will master be very angry ? ” “ Perhaps he will, Nan ; you must bear it.” “ Ay; I know I deserve it,” she hesitated. “ Missus,” she half- whispered, “do you mind those words you said once about Him seeking them as was lost ] ” 172 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. “ ‘ The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.’ Was that it, Nan ? ” “ Yes ; I think I seem to know a bit what that means now. He do care for us ; I ’d like to love Him.” There was no scolding from Mr Hilton that night, for Nan turned faint and sick on entering the warm room after the cold to which she had been exposed, and had to be helped up to bed at once ; but before she slept she had told Mary Hilton the story of her past life with its sins and its troubles, — there were no more secrets between them, — and Mary had knelt by her young servant’s bed, and asked their Father in heaven to forgive the past, and to give strength and help for the life of the future. CHAPTER XVII. Jkst Steps in Cntilj mtir fioirestg. * So, in repentance, we must turn From what is false and wrong, And with the light God’s Spirit gives. Go steadfastly along. ‘ Onward and onward, in His name Who is our life and strength ; Onward and onward, till we reach Our Father’s house at length.” — Thoughts in Verse. HIS was the real turning-point in Nan’s life. It was not that that life had be- come any easier than it had been before; on the contrary, it was far more difficult. It is always far more difficult to do what is right than what is wrong ; but she began from that night when she “ had been lost and was found , ” to wish to do right for right’s sake ; to wish to keep God’s laws because she loved Him who made them, Him who had looked upon her in her misery, had heard her prayer, and had given her such a friend to help her. That Father in heaven, and that Saviour who had lived and died on earth, 174 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. were no longer unreal to her. She believed that they were real, because her cry had been heard, and she had been saved in the hour of danger ; and feel- ing that she was loved, and seeing that love reflected in the true earthly friend whom God had given her, she opened her heart to it, and tried to show she was thankful for it in her every-day life. At first, Mary Hilton was fearful as to whether it was wise to keep the girl with her any longer ; she had an uncomfortable fear that Amelia might get hold of her again, but then she thought sadly of the very small hope there was of any one else taking her, and so, with her husband’s consent, she determined to give her another chance. Both she and Mr Hilton had spoken very gravely to Han on the day after she had run away, about the sin of having broken the trust which she had been given to keep, and having gone out when she had been told to stay at home, and Mr Hilton had added a good deal more about Han’s general conduct, winding up with, “ One would think, Han, you had no feeling for any one that had been kind to you, when you behave in such a way.” Then the tears rose to her eyes, and, twisting her apron round on her fingers, she said, “ Don’t say that, don’t. I love missus, — I’d die for missus.” “ Well, she don’t want you to die for her,” said Ed- ward Hilton, looking well pleased; “ she wants you to live and be a good, stirring, cleanly lass, for her, and FIRST STEPS IN TRUTH AND HONESTY. 175 do her credit for taking you out of the workhouse.” And after that he never said another word against Nan. It is an easy thing to say that at some time or other there has come a great turning-point into a life, and that a person has steadily tried to do what is right, in- stead of what is wrong, from that time forth ; but many will object, “This is all very well in a story-book, but in real life it is a very different matter; doing what is right, instead of doing what is wrong, is hard up-hill work, and the slowly-fought battle of many years.” Perfectly true ; and that is exactly what Nan found it ; perhaps it was even slower and harder work to her than to most people, for her faults were very firmly rooted ones, and they conquered her many a time. But with that night on the bridge had come to her the desire to live her life, whatever it was, for God, and she never lost that desire again entirely. The proofs of this were her efforts to do her household work well, efforts which were very feeble and w r eak at first, but became by degrees stronger and more earnest. She began to be cleaner and tidier, and fought against her laziness, and tried not to speak sullenly, but to keep a cheerful temper, first for her mistress’s sake ; and then, by degrees, that love led to the Higher Love, and she learned that a life of scrubbing and cleaning and mending might be lived for the love of God quite as much as a king’s or a clergyman’s. One day Mrs Hilton’s heart was made very glad. 176 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. She had gone into the front room which Nan was scrubbing, and she had said, “ I don’t wish to do any- thing that could hurt you, Nan, but I ’ve a feeling that I don’t like to keep anything that isn’t honestly mine ; and you know this brooch you gave me isn’t yours nor mine, but Mrs J ackson’s ; so I thought I ’d give it back to you, my dear, to do what you think best with it.” Nan took the brooch in great surprise, and laid it away; she was not accustomed to that sort of honesty, and she thought about it all day. In the evening, she came to her mistress, “I have got sevenpence-halfpenny of my own,” she said, hurriedly, “ I ’d like to give back the money and the brooch to Mrs Jackson and tell her I took it, not Peter, — poor Peter,” and a miserable look came over her face. “ I ’ve throwed away the green scarf.” “ Supposing I was to advance you money to buy a new one, and stop it bit by bit out of your wages ? ” “Oh! I’d like that ; and then, missus, would you put them all up in a parcel, and write a letter about them and send it to her ? ” Mrs Hilton looked up at her questioningly. “ And, please, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind, not to put where we live, please, because then she couldn’t never send the policeman after me.” “ She won’t do that when you restore the things, child, and I think it would be best, if you took them back yourself. I’d go with you if you liked, some evening.” FIRST STEPS IN TRUTH AND HONESTY. 177 But Nan was too fearful to consent to this for some weeks. At last, love “ cast out fear,” and she begged Mrs Hilton to take her, for she said she wanted to be honest in her way. It was a cold, frosty evening towards Christmas- time, when the two stood together at the door of Mr Jackson’s shop. Nan remembered how she had first stood there, a little shivering girl from the workhouse ; how, afterwards, she had trembled as she stood there the evening of the day on which she had seen Joey, and how Peter had let her in and saved her from a scolding. She could not understand why it was that she had never felt really grateful to Peter before, for now one kind deed after another sprang up to her remembrance, and the bitterest thought of her life was, that she had so unjustly accused him, and had perhaps caused his death. The shop was open, there was no need for ringing at the bell, and with a heart which beat wildly with terror, Nan followed Mrs Hilton up to the counter. Mr Jackson was there, looking much the same as he had ever done. “ You don’t remember this girl, Mr Jackson, per- haps 1 her name is Nan Downing,” said Mrs Hilton. Mr Jackson’s answer was loud and angry, “ Nan Downing ] I remember her well enough, she was a hor- rid little thief. Don’t you be looking for a character here, for you’ll get none. What’s more, I tell you, M 178 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER . now I ’ve caught you, I ’ll have the law on you, — where’s my missus’s brooch? Wife, I say,” and he called out loudly, “ come here.” Mrs Jackson appeared in the doorway at this moment, already attracted by the sound of her husband’s fierce tones. “ Who ’s this, do you suppose, come here with her impudence to look for a character ? Why, Nan Downing that stole your brooch and scarf ! If you ’ll just keep her I ’ll send for the policeman and clap her into prison in no time.” “Wait a moment,” said Mrs Hilton, seeing Nan growing white with fright ; “ wait till you hear what she ’s come for.” Then she laid the brooch and a new green scarf upon the counter, and Nan spoke very low and hastily, “ I took them, and I took the apples, and I ’m very sorry now I did.” “ Well, I ’m sure,” said Mrs Jackson. “ Well, I’m blessed,” said Mr Jackson. “ And that ’s not all,” she said, speaking faster and faster, and with difficulty keeping back her tears, “here’s sevenpence-halfpenny which I took, and said it was Peter.” “ You horrid little liar,” screamed Mrs Jackson. “ You are the most hardened young sinner I ever saw,” said her husband ; “ and that boy, I believe, drowned hisself because we sent him away for that sevenpence- halfpenny,— serve you right if he haunts you to your FIRST STEPS IN TRUTH AND HONESTY, \ 179 dying day. And what else did you steal while you were about it % ” “Nothing,” said Nan, sullenly, “I’ve told you all.” The door at the far end of the shop was opened just then, and a little child of three years old toddled in. “ The baby, — the baby,” said Nan, and sprang to meet it with a glad cry. “ Don’t touch her, you young thief,” said Mrs Jack- son, “ I ’m right thankful you didn’t stay here to teach her your wicked ways.” Nan’s outstretched arms dropped suddenly, and she turned away, without a word, while the child hid her face against her mother and whimpered. “ Good evening,” said Mrs Hilton, and taking Nan by the arm she led her out of the shop. She listened to the girl’s sobs for some time, then she said, sooth- ingly, “ You have done your utmost, my dear. God knows you have, and I feel I can trust you now.” “ It ’s bitter hard work,” sobbed Nan, “ this trying to be better.” Bitter some of it was indeed, but not all, and Mary Hilton knew that it would be good for Nan to feel that she had the power of being helpful and loving. She had grieved for the girl when she had seen her love for the baby whom she had held in her arms so harshly repulsed, and a few days afterwards she said to her, “I want you to help me this afternoon. I promised Mrs Smith I ’d look in for a bit and see after her, and now 180 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER. here ’s all this batch of work come in to be done at once, and I shan’t be able to keep my word. Do you think you ’d go for me h ” Nan looked at her mistress, to see if she really meant her words. “ What could I do, missus h ” she asked, doubtfully. “ Why, if you ’d just go and hold the baby a bit, and let that eldest girl clean up the room, or you clean up while she holds the baby, or see if Mrs Smith wants anything; she has no one nursing her but that girl, and she ’s quite a child.” “ But she ’d not like me, mayhap,” Nan objected. “ I ’m sure that she ’d like any one that would lend a helping hand. Just you go and see, will you ? Say I sent you with my love, and I hope she’s pretty com- fortable, and could you do anything to help her, as I ’m very busy with some new work h ” Nan could not refuse. She did not go sullenly now as she would have done of old, but she was very shy, and almost wished when she stood beside Mrs Smith’s bed that the woman would say she did not want any- thing. However she was only too thankful to see her; there were six children tumbling about on the floor ; the eldest, a girl of about ten, was trying in vain to hush the screams of a tiny baby who had screamed itself quite red and nearly purple in the face, and two or three, who seemed almost babies also, were fighting over an old leaden spoon, which had lately been dipped in the sugar-bowl. FIRST STEPS IN TRUTH AND HONESTY, \ 181 “ It ’s that baby,” said the mother faintly, for she was nearly worn-out with the noise, if anything would quiet it.” “ Let me try,” said Nan, and she held ont her arms for it. She never had had such a young baby in her arms before, but the old feeling of love to the little tender things seemed to wake in her heart again as she felt the little head lying helplessly against her breast ; and she knew the way tiny babies like to be cuddled and kept warm, so she drew it close up to her, and wrapped the covering closely round it, till only a little breathing place was left, where a corner of the red face peeped out, and then she swayed herself backward and forward with the steady, even step, which so seldom fails to soothe even the most restless. Baby, who only wanted a little rocking and comforting, soon went fast asleep, and Nan was proud and pleased as the mother said, “Well, I’d no idea you’d be so handy with a baby ; why, that ’s the first right good sleep it ’s been in to-day, and I ’m nigh worn-out with it. Here, give it to me now, it’ll sleep on sound enough.” “ Is there anything more I can do t ” Nan asked, feeling quite cheerful. “ Well, now, if you could just heat me a little of that broth, our parson’s wife, she sent me some this morning, but it bain’t of no use unless it ’s heated, and I ’m so feared to let Mary Anne go near the fire, she ’s such a bad one for meddling with the saucepans.” 182 A LOST PIECE OF SILVER . “ The fire ’s bad,” said Nan, and she went down on her knees, and poked it up, and kindled it with some fresh sticks, and then set the saucepan on with the broth. While it was heating, she got a piece of bread and toasted it, as she had seen Mrs Hilton do for the old folks, and when it was all ready she brought it to Mrs Smith, who took it eagerly, arid said she felt much the better for it. After that, Nan helped the girl to tidy up the room a little, and minde By Rev. J. Erskine Clarke. By Rev. Laurence Tuttiett. Price id. each, or in Packets of Thirteen Copies, price is. each Packet. NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION. Psalms and Hymns for Public Worship. Compiled by the Right Rev. T. B. Morrell, D.D., Coadjutor Bishop of Edinburgh ; and the Rev. W. W. How, M. A., Hon. Canon of St Asaph, Rector of Whit- tington, Shropshire. 1. Long Primer 24mo. Cloth limp, 8d. Cloth boards, is. Calf limp, 2s. 6d. Morocco, 3s. With Supplement, Cloth boards, is. id. Ditto, Cloth limp, 9d. Ditto, Persian limp, 2s. Ditto, Antique calf limp, 3s. 6cL Ditto, Antique morocco limp, 3s. 6d. LONDON : W. WELLS GARDNER, 10 PATERNOSTER ROW. MORRREL AND HOW’S HYMNS -continued. 2. Bourgeois 24mo. Cloth limp, 6d. Cloth boards, 8d. French morocco, is. 4d. Calf limp, 2s. With Supplement, Cloth limp, 8d. Ditto, Cloth boards, iod. Ditto, Persian limp, 2s. Ditto, Antique calf limp, 3s. 6d. Ditto, Antique morocco limp, 3s. 6d. 3. Brevier 32mo. Cloth limp, 4d. Cloth boards, 6d. French morocco, is. 4d. Calf limp, 2s. 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