CHAPTER VIII.

Maud Platten visits the Shop.

"How very dirty your china looks, Mr. Griffin," said Maggie, coming into the shop the next morning, "why don't you dust it?"

"I've no time to dust the things," said the old man, with a smile; "they come and go too fast to make it worth while to clean them, let alone the risk of breaking them."

"I can dust them for you, if you like," suggested the child; "I know how to dust, for I used to help mamma put the room tidy."

"No, no, thank you, my dear; they're best left as they are," replied old Griffin; "you're like all good women folk, fond of cleaning and putting things straight. But I daren't trust my china in your little fingers."

"I should be very careful," said Maggie, rather hurt that her offer of help should be thus received; "oh, there is mamma's jug!"

She had caught sight of the old Worcester jug, which Griffin had placed in a prominent position in the window. Almost before he knew what she was about, she had it in her hands, and was looking lovingly at the pictures painted upon it.

"Oh, what a pity you have let it get so dusty," she cried; "do let me dust it, Mr. Griffin. I know just how mamma used to do it."

"Very well, let me see how you can dust it," said John Griffin, with a smile; "the wife will give you a cloth, if you ask her."

Maggie bounded away, and soon returned duster in hand, and a look of proud importance on her face.

"Mind you are very careful," said the dealer, who was not without anxiety as he saw the jug in Maggie's hands; "that jug is worth a sight of money."

"Is it? How much?" asked Maggie, promptly.

Old Griffin turned away, and did not reply. There was a flush of shame on his face, for the child's question reminded him of the wrong he had done her mother.

"Mamma did not want to sell the jug," said Maggie, heedless that her question remained unanswered; "she liked it so much, and she had had it ever since she was a little girl. But she had no money to buy anything with, so that she was glad you gave her some for it. She said you were a good old man."

[Illustration: A PLEASANT DUTY.]

"She was wrong there," said old Griffin.

"What do you mean?" asked little Maggie, in a tone of innocent surprise. "Aren't you a good man, Mr. Griffin?"

"No, no," he said, hastily; "I'm far from being good."

Little Maggie looked troubled. "But you mean to be good, don't you?" she said, after a minute. "You'll try?"

"I'd like to be good," said old Griffin, in an undertone.

Maggie seemed satisfied with this admission, and now turned all her attention to the jug, which she was carefully polishing.

"There now!" she exclaimed, presently, holding it up for admiration. "Doesn't it look a deal better than it did?"

"Yes, indeed, you've made it look fine," returned the old man; "now mind how you put it down."

"May I dust it every day?" asked Maggie as she replaced the jug in the window.

"If you'll always be very careful with it," he replied.

After this Maggie never neglected to dust the Worcester jug. She took both pride and pleasure in the self-imposed duty, for the jug was fully as precious to her as to the china-dealer, though she set a different sort of value upon it.

Maggie spent many an hour with old Griffin in his shop, and proved such a pleasant companion that he, who had formerly been so afraid of a child's intrusion into his sanctum, was now never so happy as when Maggie was with him. He taught her to call him grandfather, and treated her in all respects as his grandchild. Strange talks they had together, in which the old man learned many a deep though simple truth from the lips of the little girl.

Sometimes Maggie would sing to him, whilst he was engaged in mending china. Of all her songs, the one which he loved best to hear was that which told of "a green hill far away, without a city wall." Maggie sang it so often to him and his wife, that they soon knew the words by heart, yet they did not grow weary of them.

One day Maggie was with old Griffin in his shop, when a chaise drove up to the door, from which a gentleman got down, and then waited to assist a lady to alight.

"It's Dr. Thornton," said John Griffin, looking through the window, "and he's got a young lady with him."

In another moment the doctor and Maud Platten came into the shop.

"How are you, Griffin?" said Dr. Thornton. "This is not a professional visit. I've brought a lady to see your curiosities. I told her you would be happy to show them to her."

"She's kindly welcome, sir," said the old dealer; "I'm always glad for people to see my things, whether they are going to buy or not. It ain't much that I've got to show, still there's some nice pieces here. Be careful how you walk, please, miss, we haven't much room to spare."

"Why, who is this, Griffin?" asked Dr. Thornton, as his gaze fell on little Maggie, who stood with eyes fixed on the young lady, whose pretty dress and far prettier face called forth the child's strongest admiration. "I did not know you had a little girl."

"She's my grandchild, sir," said old Griffin, shortly; "she has lost her parents, and has come to live with us."

"Oh, indeed! She will be a nice little companion for you and your wife," said the doctor, as he laid his hand caressingly on the child's curly head.

Griffin had determined that he would give no explanation but this to any one who questioned him concerning Maggie. He had adopted the child as a grand-daughter, and he did not see that there was any harm in allowing people to suppose that she really was related to him. Naturally a reserved man in all matters connected with his private history, he was unwilling that any one should know the circumstances which had led him to take Maggie into his home. Mrs. Cook, of course, could tell folks what she knew, but his customers and acquaintance were not likely to come in contact with Mrs. Cook.

"What a dear little girl!" said Maud Platten, turning from the vase to which Griffin had directed her attention, to look at little Maggie. "What lovely dark eyes she has!"

The moment before she spoke, Leslie Thornton had been observing, certainly not for the first time, the beauty of her eyes. Turning now to look at the child, he was struck with a certain resemblance between her and Maud. Both had large, dark, liquid eyes; but there was a serious, almost sad look lurking in the depths of the child's eyes, of which the bright laughing orbs of the woman showed no sign.

Maggie's face glowed with joy as she heard the lady's kind words; and when Maud stooped and lightly kissed her cheek, the child felt as happy as possible. She kept close to the young lady as she moved cautiously through the narrow lane between the piled-up goods, examining one thing after another with a bright, intelligent interest that gladdened old Griffin's heart as, growing eloquent, he discoursed on the merits of his china, and gave her a full and particular history of each specimen which he brought to her notice.

Dr. Thornton bought some rare old plates to adorn the walls of his drawing-room; and then, having stayed in the shop for nearly half-an-hour, the lady and gentleman wished the old china-dealer and his grandchild, "good day," and took their departure.

"Isn't she lovely, grandfather?" said Maggie, standing at the door to watch the chaise drive down the lane. "I never saw any one so pretty. And her voice was so soft and sweet. I'm so glad she kissed me."

"Like to like," said old Griffin to himself. "The child belongs to gentlefolks, and she takes to gentlefolks."

"I fancy that we shall hear before long that Dr. Thornton is married," he said, aloud.

"What! To that pretty lady!" cried Maggie, joyfully. "Why do you think so?"

The old man's eyes twinkled merrily behind his thick-rimmed spectacles—"I saw a many things that made me think so, Maggie," he said.

A fortnight later old Griffin knew that this conjecture was correct. Walking through the streets of Plymouth one morning, he heard the bells of the old church ringing noisily; and when curiosity moved him to inquire the meaning of their merry din, he was told that the bells were ringing because Dr. Thornton had been married that morning to Colonel Platten's daughter.

"Colonel Platten's daughter?" said old Griffin, in a tone of interrogation. "Who may Colonel Platten be?"

"Why, surely you know the old colonel, who lives up at the top of Lockyer Street?" said his informant.

"No, I don't know him," said Griffin; "he has never done business with me. Dr. Thornton has, though, and I think I have seen the young lady who is his bride. Well, I wish them joy,—for he's a good man, the doctor is. I shan't soon forget how he brought me through that illness of mine."

As he went on his way John Griffin said to himself—"Colonel Platten! How strange that the name should be the same as that in my little maid's books. I wish I had asked how it was spelt. There can't be anything in it though, surely."

John Griffin now always thought and spoke of Maggie as his "little maid." The child grew dearer and dearer to his heart. He counted her his most precious possession. Nor did his wife fail to show as much love for the child. Maggie's coming had brought light and joy to the home of the old couple. Mrs. Griffin's face had lost its melancholy look, and wore quite a new expression as she attended to the child's wants, making and mending for her with an ardour which made the tasks their own reward.

Though Griffin still took a great delight in his old china, a delight which he taught Maggie to share, his life was no longer buried in his business. Sometimes, as the spring advanced, he would close the shop at an early hour, that he might take his "little maid" and his "old woman" for a walk by the sea. It would be difficult to say who enjoyed those walks the most,—little Maggie, who had such delight in seeing the waves break upon the rocks, or in gathering shells and sea-weed, which by diligent search might be discovered on the beach, or the two old people who found their pleasure in watching hers.

Mrs. Griffin generally took Maggie to church on Sunday mornings; and, though Griffin would not accompany them, he said not a word against their going. He would even seem interested in Maggie's childish account of the service and the singing. And he was always willing to hear Maggie read from her mother's Bible, and sing the hymn which her mother had taught her.

Thus, from the lips of a little child, the old man gradually learned to know and love and trust the Son of Man, who died for him, and began to try, though but feebly and imperfectly, to do His works.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]