CHAPTER VII.

Christmas Day.

JOHN GRIFFIN sat long alone, waiting for his wife to return. He grew uneasy as one quarter of an hour after another passed, and yet she did not come. It was but a few steps to Mrs. Cook's lodgings, what could be keeping her so long?

But at last he heard the sound of a vehicle stopping before the door of his house, and in a few moments his wife entered, bearing triumphantly in her arms what appeared to be a large bundle.

"I've got her, John," was all she said, and then she placed her bundle lightly on the hearth-rug, and ran back to dismiss the cabman, whom she had been obliged to employ.

The bundle stirred after Mrs. Griffin had placed it on the rug. A little white hand found an opening in the closely-wound shawl; and as it pushed the wrapping back, John saw a pair of dark eyes looking at him.

"How do you do, my dear?" he asked.

The child smiled faintly, but made no other response.

Griffin now noticed that her face was pale and wasted, and her eyes dull and heavy.

Just then his wife came bustling back.

"Why, what's the matter with the little maid?" he asked. "Is she bad?"

"Yes, poor little darling; and no wonder, you'd say, if you saw the place where I found her," replied Mrs. Griffin, in a tone of indignation; "a nasty, cold garret, John, close under the roof, with the wind coming in through the chinks enough to freeze you. And as for dirt! If you'll believe me, the dust was an inch thick on the floor. All the poor dear had to lie on was a heap of flocks, and a bit of a cobweb of a blanket to cover her. Mrs. Cook says the child has been bad for the last fortnight; but it's my belief that she has half-starved her. I had to fetch a cab to bring her home in, for she was too weak to walk, and I'm not strong enough to carry her so far, though 'tis but a little way. Now, wait a bit, my darling, whilst I get you some nice good beef-tea."

Mrs. Griffin talked fast to keep down the emotion which threatened to overcome her. She now brought a saucepan, and in a few minutes had warmed over the fire some of the excellent beef-tea which she had made for her husband. Then, lifting the little girl on to her lap, she gently fed her with spoonfuls of the warm broth, into which she had crumbled some bread.

Griffin leaned forward in his chair to watch the child being fed. To his joy, Maggie did not refuse the food, but took it with evident relish. She tried to sit up for a moment, and take a look round the room; but, weak and dizzy, her head quickly sank back on Mrs. Griffin's shoulder.

"Poor little maid!" said old Griffin, tenderly. "Poor little maid!"

"It was well I went when I did, John," said Mrs. Griffin; "I believe Mrs. Cook had forgotten the child's existence, and would have left her to starve. She was in drink as usual, and made high words about being troubled with beggarly brats."

Maggie had opened her eyes again on hearing Mrs. Cook's name, and her face wore a frightened look.

"You won't send me back to her?" she asked, in a feeble voice.

"No, that we won't, dear, you may be sure of that," returned Mrs. Griffin; "you shall never see that horrid woman again, if I can help it. Poor little dear, see how thin she has grown, Griffin. Still I hope that all she wants is good nursing and feeding. I'll take her upstairs now, give her a nice warm bath, and put her to bed."

Maggie nestled in the old woman's arms with an air of intense satisfaction, and pressing her to her bosom with a mother's tenderness, Mrs. Griffin carried her away.

When John Griffin went upstairs, half-an-hour later, he found Maggie snugly established in a little bed in a corner of their room. Polly had been wont to sleep in that cot. It was like a revival of bygone days to see it occupied once more.

"Come and look at her, John," said his wife; "she looks so sweet, poor little darling!"

Maggie already appeared better for Mrs. Griffin's loving ministrations. She had dropped asleep almost as soon as she was placed in bed. Her white face, with dark hollows beneath the eyes, was sad to see; but a faint smile lingered on her lips, and the smooth forehead, over which fell dark rings of hair, curling from the bath, had lost its shadow of fear.

A lump seemed to rise in Griffin's throat as he looked at her. His eyes grew dim.

"It's just as if our Polly had come back to us again," he murmured hoarsely.

"Not quite like our own little Polly," replied his wife, jealous for her child's memory. "But, John, we will be very good to this child for the sake of our own little Polly."

"Ay, ay," he returned; and if ever a man meant what he said he did then.

Mrs. Griffin nursed Maggie tenderly during the next few days, though her care for the child did not make her neglectful of her husband. But he was hourly becoming less and less of an invalid.

Mrs. Griffin was right in her conjecture that all Maggie needed was love and care. Treated with harshness and neglect, and in constant dread of blows, the child had sunk into a miserably low state of mind and body. Crouching for long hours on her comfortless bed in the garret, to which Mrs. Cook, having let all the better rooms, had dismissed her, Maggie had sobbed and mourned for the mother, who whilst she lived had striven so hard to save her child from suffering. Though often faint for want of food, Maggie had preferred to remain there, rather than by going downstairs run the risk of encountering Mrs. Cook, from whom she shrank with the utmost aversion and fear. So low had the child's strength ebbed, that probably she would have died ere long had not Mrs. Griffin come to her succour.

"I am so glad to be here," said little Maggie simply, the next morning, when old Griffin and his wife stood beside her bed, watching her as she took her breakfast of bread and milk. "I think God must have sent you to fetch me. I kept praying to Him; but I thought He had forgotten me, for I was left all alone, and no one came to me. But He had not forgotten me, you see, for you came at last."

"Yes, my dear; and I'll always take care of you,—you need not fear," said Mrs. Griffin, scarce able to understand this childish expression of faith, but feeling more and more convinced that Maggie was the sweetest child she had ever known, except her own little Polly.

Griffin turned away, conscious of a strange humbling sensation. He was learning from little Maggie how poor a man he had been in the past.

It was wonderful how quickly Maggie's child-nature revived under the sunshine of kindness and love. In a day or two she was running about the house, still looking pale and thin, it is true, but bright and happy nevertheless. With the elasticity of childhood, she had already thrown off the memory of her dark experience, and abandoned herself to the enjoyment of the pleasanter circumstances in which she now found herself.

How strange it was to John Griffin and his wife to hear the child's happy laugh ring through the house, and the sound of her feet as they bounded lightly across the floor.

On the morning of Christmas Day, John Griffin was in his shop, taking advantage of the holiday to put his things in order. It was a bright, sunshiny day. There had been a slight hoarfrost at dawn, just enough to remind the world that it really was winter; but now the sun was as warm, and the air even milder than on many a spring day. The church bells rang out with a merry, festive sound, and the streets were already filling with churchgoers and holidaymakers.

The dwellers in the lane were not much in the habit of going to church. On this morn there was more idling and gossiping than on most days; but the men and women who lounged about the doorways looked no whit more respectable than usual, and the rough children who played in the road were as ragged and dirty as ever. Unhappily, the many public-houses which the lane could boast were already doing a brisk trade.

It was nothing to old Griffin that this was Christmas Day, except that he was glad to have leisure to arrange his shop. How could the day be anything to him, when he was ignorant of the Saviour whose birth it commemorates? But he liked the sound of the merry bells, and they set him whistling as he moved about amongst his precious wares.

Suddenly his wife appeared at the door of the shop. She had an agitated look as she held up her finger to warn him to be silent.

"Hush, John," she whispered, as he was about to speak, "I want you to listen to that dear child. She's singing so prettily, and the very words that our Polly used to sing. Don't you remember her learning them at Sunday-school?"

Griffin came to where his wife stood, and began to listen.

Little Maggie was in the inner room. Mrs. Griffin had given her a doll that had been Polly's. It had cost the bereaved mother some sacrifice of feeling to give into another child's hands the toy which for so many years she had guarded as a sacred relic; but she had her reward in seeing Maggie's joy over her gift. Now, as Maggie hushed her dolly to sleep, she was singing in a sweet, childish treble, the well-known words:

"'Around the throne of God in heaven Thousands of children stand, Children whose sins are all forgiven— A holy, happy band— Singing, glory! glory! glory!'"

"Oh, John," cried Mrs. Griffin, when Maggie suddenly ceased singing; "I can't help thinking that perhaps our little Polly is there!" And covering her face with her apron, she burst into tears.

"Come, come, old wife," said John, not unkindly, but with an air of embarrassment, "don't ee take on so over a bit of a song."

"It doesn't make me unhappy, John," sobbed his wife; "don't think that, although I am crying. I'd be glad to know she was there. I've always thought of her dear little body lying in the cold earth; but if I could have been sure that she was up in heaven, singing with the children there, I'd have been more comforted about her this long time past."

"Deary me! Well, maybe it is so," said Griffin, thinking to himself what queer fancies women take into their heads.

"John," said his wife, as she wiped her eyes, "little Maggie says that she would like to go to church. Would you mind if I went for once?"

"Mind? Of course not," he returned, sharply. "You can please yourself about it. You can't say that I have ever kept you from going to church."

"No, but I knew you did not like me to go," said his wife, meekly, as she went away.

It was true, as he said, that he had never forcibly prevented her from going to church, but his influence had been strong enough to restrain her from doing so. She knew with what contempt he regarded parsons and churchgoers. She had had hard work to persuade him to allow their little Polly to attend Sunday-school. Since the child's death, Mrs. Griffin, from fear of incurring her husband's scorn, had scarcely ever entered a place of worship, though before that time she had been accustomed to attend church pretty regularly.

But on this Christmas Day, though she could plainly see that Griffin disliked the idea of her going, Mrs. Griffin took little Maggie to a church at the foot of the hill, up which the child had toiled with her mother on the last night of her earthly life. Maggie told Mrs. Griffin how she had come that way before, and talked to her of the mother whom she had not forgotten, although she was so happy in her new home.

How old yet new seemed that Christmas morning service to Mrs. Griffin! It was strange to hear again, after so many years, the familiar story of a Saviour's coming to redeem the world. The glad tidings had a sweetness for her now that they had lacked in earlier years. There are some who have to learn by hard experience what it is to be weary and heavy-laden, ere they can welcome the gentle sound of the Saviour's, "Come unto Me!"

"I'm glad that I went, John," she said to her husband, when she came back; "it was good to hear the Christmas hymns again. They sang, 'Hark the herald angels sing!' and 'O come, all ye faithful!' Little Maggie was delighted. I think I shall go again, for I do believe there's a blessing comes with going to church."

In the new hope and joy that the child had brought her, Mrs. Griffin felt herself lifted above all fear of her husband's sneers.

Griffin gave a low grunt, the precise meaning of which it would be difficult to define. He would not admit that his wife was right, yet something withheld him from uttering words of contempt.

In the evening, John Griffin again spent some time in his shop; but he did not stay there very long. His treasures had no longer the first place in his life. Little Maggie's society had a greater attraction for him now. He loved to watch her pretty looks and ways; and the more he observed her, the more he admired the child, and felt his heart going out in love to her. He was constantly drawing his wife aside to whisper to her some comment on the child's appearance.

"Do you note what pretty little feet she has?" he would say. "It's only amongst the real gentry that you see such an arched instep. And look at her tiny hands, and those little shell-like ears. She reminds me of a piece of rare old Sèvres. Depend upon it, she's the best porcelain, or I don't know a piece when I see it."

His wife would smile at his words; but she too had her pride in the child, and was determined to keep her as clean and neat as any lady's child could be.

When Griffin went back to the little sitting-room, he found his wife at work altering a garment of Polly's to make it fit Maggie; whilst the child sat by her side, with her mother's Bible open on her knee.

"Oh, John," cried his wife, looking up with a delighted face as her husband opened the door, "Maggie can read so prettily; do come and listen to her."

John sat down and listened. Maggie was reading the old story of the angels bringing the glad tidings to the shepherds in the fields at Bethlehem. To Griffin and his wife the child's reading seemed wonderful. Her mother had taken great pains to teach her to read well, and she pronounced each word so clearly and correctly, and gave such pretty expression to what she read, that it was very pleasant to listen to her.

John Griffin was not much of a reader. The only book he ever studied was the well-thumbed handbook on china, which he always spoke of emphatically as "the book."

He listened now with wonder and interest as little Maggie read of the glad tidings of great joy to which his ears had so long been closed.

"Shall I sing you the hymn that mamma and I always used to sing on Sunday evenings?" said Maggie as she closed the Bible, pleased that her reading had been so much appreciated.

"Yes, do my dear," said Mrs. Griffin.

And in her sweet childish voice, Maggie sang the simple, touching words:

"'There is a green hill far away Without a city wall, Where the dear Lord was crucified, Who died to save us all.

"'We may not know, we cannot tell, What pains He had to bear; But we believe it was for us He hung and suffered there.

"'He died that we might be forgiven, He died to make us good, That we might go at last to heaven, Saved by His precious blood.

"'There was no other good enough To pay the price of sin, He only could unlock the gate Of heaven and let us in.

"'Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved, And we must love Him too, And trust in His redeeming blood, And try His works to do.'"

"Do you like that?" Maggie asked, when she had finished, feeling surprised at the silence which followed her song.

"Yes, it is very pretty, my dear," said Mrs. Griffin, in a voice that was not quite steady.

"What does it mean about unlocking the gate of heaven?" asked Griffin, abruptly. "Where is heaven?"

Maggie's dark eyes instinctively looked upward. "Where Jesus is," she said, softly. "Mamma is there now; for she told me that though she had been a wicked woman, she knew that Jesus had forgiven her sins. And oh, Mrs. Griffin, your little Polly that you were telling me about this morning, she must be there too, don't you think? 'Around the throne of God in heaven,' you know."

"Maybe she is," murmured Mrs. Griffin, tears that were not all of sorrow coming into her eyes. "I've been thinking of that."

"Jesus!" thought old Griffin. "The Lord Jesus Christ of whom the doctor spoke to me."

Then aloud, he asked: "Who is Jesus?"

"Why, don't you know?" exclaimed little Maggie, looking at him in astonishment.

"Never mind whether I know, 'you' tell me," returned John Griffin.

"Jesus is the Son of God, who died for us," said Maggie.

"Died for us!" repeated old Griffin, wonderingly. "Who do you mean by 'us?'"

"Us means everybody, of course," said the child: "it means 'you,'" she added, pointing to the old man; "and 'you,'" pointing to his wife; "and 'me,' and all the people that are in the world."

"Did He really die for me?" asked Griffin, with a strange tremor in his voice.

"Why, yes, I tell you so," said Maggie; "and the hymn says so too."

"I knew all about it once," remarked Mrs. Griffin, with a deep-drawn sigh; "but I have not thought of these things for a long time till to-day."

"I wish you would sing that song again, my little maid," said John Griffin, after a few minutes' silence.

So Maggie sang her hymn again, even more sweetly and clearly than before.

Then Mrs. Griffin decided that it was time for Maggie to go to bed, and led her away, whilst Griffin sat alone with the words ringing in his ears:—

"'Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved, And we must love Him too, And trust in His redeeming blood, And try His works to do.'"

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