CHAPTER XIII.

JOHNNY'S SUNDAY SUIT.

IT was strange how the thought of little Gip took possession of John Shafto's mind. The winter days, dark and cold, had fairly set in, and he could not creep along the streets with his crutches, looking wistfully at the ragged children whom he found in numbers about them. Yet if the summer warmth had filled the air, he could no longer have gone in search of her, for the little strength remaining to him was slowly ebbing away; and he was surely going down to the grave, the dark passage through which he was to reach his Father's house beyond.

But he scarcely seemed to feel the painful steps of the journey he was making, so full was his mind of little Gip. Perhaps it was because he and Sandy talked of little else; or because there was always a faint vague hope in his heart that when Sandy came in from his work in an evening, he would bring the joyful news that Gip was found. With this hope stirring in him, he never missed watching for Sandy's return; and when the usual hour would come, he turned the gas in the shop window higher, so that Sandy might see his face looking out beside the hatchment as soon as he turned into the grave-yard.

A whistle would bring him to the door in time to open it as Sandy reached it; and he always looked to see if there were not a little tattered figure standing beside him in the darkness. But Gip was never found; and the hearts of both boys grew hopeless and very sorrowful about her.

Mrs. Shafto thought but little of Gip in comparison with her boy, who was so soon to be lost to her. She kept her kitchen cheery and cosy, and wore blue ribbons in her cap, and tried to wear a smile upon her face for Johnny's sake; but no one knew how heavy and sad her heart was at times. She must keep up, she said to herself, lest she should make her boy miserable and low-spirited on her account; but it was very hard work. Mr. Shafto could not master himself as she did, having had no long practice in self-denial; and often he would sink down in his easy-chair, hide his face in his hands, and groan aloud when he thought how soon John would be gone away, and he should never more hear the tap of his crutches about the house.

Sandy was the greatest comfort they had, coming in fresh from his work, with all sorts of bits of news picked up in the street or at the wood-yard, and with curious questions to ask, which diverted them all from their own sorrow. The evenings, when he was sitting with them by their fire, were far less sad than the dark days.

At last the time came when John Shafto had not strength to rise from his bed and come downstairs to the cheery little kitchen, which had been kept so bright for him. He could only lie still now in the low room, with its shelving roof and the dormer window, from which he could see the gravestones. The change frightened Sandy, though he could not bring himself to believe that Johnny was going to die, while his face was so happy and cheerful, and his weak voice so pleasant. When the warm weather came again, he said, Johnny would be sure to feel better, and get about once more. He could not bear to think of losing him as well as little Gip.

"Mother," said John Shafto one Sunday morning, after he had lain in bed some days, and knew that he would never more get up and walk about upon his crutches, "mother, you'll take to Sandy, instead of me? I'm always saying to myself, Sandy 'ill be like a son to her, and she'll be his mother when I'm gone."

"You're not gone yet, dear heart!" she said, stroking the soft hair from his forehead, and speaking as calmly as she could.

"No, but I'm going, mother," he answered; "and I like to think of you having Sandy to take my place."

"He'll never take your place, Johnny," sobbed his mother.

"Not just at first, but by-and-by he'll be like your own son," continued John Shafto; "he'll be a good boy, I know, for he loves to hear me tell him of Jesus Christ, and he's beginning to understand it all better now. Mother," and John put his arm fondly round her neck, "I want you to let Sandy have my Sunday clothes, and let me see him go to chapel with father. I could watch them go across the grave-yard together, if you'd only raise me up in your arms for a minute."

"Oh, Johnny, Johnny! I cannot!" she cried, falling on her knees, and hiding her face on her boy's pillow.

He stroked her cheek tenderly with his wasted fingers, whispering, "Poor mother, poor mother!"

It was a long while before she could recover herself, or finish a sentence when she began to speak it, but at last she conquered her tears and sobs.

"Do you wish it very much, dear heart?" she asked. "It would be hard to see Sandy in your Sunday suit, but if you really wish it—"

"Oh, mother, I do," he said: "it's as if Sandy was my own brother, and little Gip my sister. I think of them so when I lie awake of nights. I feel as if I almost knew how Jesus longs to find those who are lost, and have them with Him in heaven. I found Sandy, and now it seems as if he belonged to me, and must share all I have. If we could only find little Gip before I die!"

It was a very sore trial for Mrs. Shafto, but she went through it bravely for Johnny's sake. She brought out his Sunday suit from the drawer in her own room, where she kept it neatly brushed and folded up; and she looked for a clean collar and a necktie, such as John Shafto had been used to wear. It seemed almost as bad as stitching Johnny's shroud—a sorrowful task that would fall upon her before the spring was over. She laid them on his bed; and then went downstairs to find Sandy, and bid him go and dress himself in her boy's best suit.

This was a very important and difficult business to Sandy, and John Shafto lay watching him with quiet but very great delight. His old rags had disappeared one by one, and he had learned to keep himself clean and tidy; but he had never put on any clothes at all to be compared with these, though they were rubbed a little at the elbows and knees, and all the seams were somewhat frayed. He brushed his hair before the small looking glass, and tried anxiously to part his rough, strong curls as smoothly as John Shafto's fine and thin hair. Very carefully and slowly he put on the clean white collar, and did his best to fasten the blue necktie under his chin as neatly as John would have done. But, after all his efforts, he felt sure he did not look like him, and he was almost ready to cry with vexation and disappointment. His brown healthy face and rough hands were very different from John's delicate appearance.

"Come here, Sandy," said John Shafto, in his low, feeble voice: "come here, and kiss me."

He had never asked him to kiss him before, and Sandy felt frightened. But he bent over the pale, sunken face, and touched it as softly with his lips as he had been used to kiss little Gip when she was asleep.

"Why, nobody 'ud know you now," said John, looking at him with critical and admiring eyes. "I don't believe your mother 'ud think who it was if she met you in the streets dressed like this."

"But little Gip 'ud never know me!" cried Sandy, dejectedly. He was proud of his new clothes; but if they were to stand in the way of his finding Gip, he would rather return to his old rags. He began to think that perhaps he was out of the way of finding her, now that he had been lifted out of their old life. What good would it be to him if he lived well, and had a comfortable bed to sleep on, and wore fine clothes, if his little Gip were starved, and cold, and almost naked? He would give up all, even Mrs. Shafto and his friend Johnny, and go back and down to the former degradation and misery, if he could only save Gip by doing so.

"But you'll know little Gip," answered John Shafto: "you couldn't pass by her, and not know her."

"Ay!" said Sandy: "I'd know her if there were thousands and thousands of little gels; I'd pick her out among 'em all."

"That's how it is," murmured John Shafto; "we don't know Jesus Christ, but He knows us. I see plainer how it is. He is seeking us just as you are seeking Gip. All the world is like little Gip to Him, lost, and miserable, and starving; and He couldn't be happy, even in heaven, till He has found us. I think He must be troubled, like you are, about Gip; but he will find us all some day, though we do not wish Him to find us."

"But can He find us when He likes?" asked Sandy, lifting up his sorrowful face to look at John.

"Not when He likes," answered John, "or all the world would be safe and happy now. It's like as if little Gip kept running away from you, and hiding herself anywhere she could out of your sight. That would be very hard for you, wouldn't it?"

"Ay!" said Sandy, with a heavy sigh. "But little Gip 'ud never do that with Sandy."

"But that's what we do with the Lord Jesus Christ," continued John Shafto, solemnly; "we run away from Him, and hide anywhere, anywhere so that He should not find us. Oh! Sandy, if all the world would only be found by Him!"

"I'll be found!" cried Sandy. "See, Lord Jesus! I'm lost from You like little Gip from me. Find me, wherever You are: find me, and let me never be lost again. And when You've found me, please let me find my little Gip."

"Amen!" whispered John Shafto, his face smiling brightly. "He'll find you, Sandy, never fear; and little Gip as well. Now go down, and I'll watch you and father walk together across the yard to chapel."

Sandy stole slowly downstairs, half ashamed of his new costume; but when he stepped into the kitchen, and saw Mrs. Shafto at the sight of him fall into a chair, and cover her face with her apron, he forgot all about it, and ran to her side.

"Has anythink hurt you?" he asked earnestly. "Isn't there nothink as I can do for you? I'm very strong, and I'd do anythink in the world for you and Johnny. Only you say the word. What are I to do?"

"Nothing!" she answered, still sobbing, and laying her head upon his shoulder, upon Johnny's jacket.

Whilst Sandy, in utter amazement, ventured to touch her blue ribbons gently with his finger.

"Nothing, my boy. Only I saw you come down in these clothes, and you looked partly like Johnny, and yet so very, very different! It's not all trouble, dear heart! that I'm crying for. I know where he's going to, and I'm sure you'll be a good boy; but I can't help crying a little. There, you must go now; Mr. Shafto's quite ready, and it's high time you were off; and I'll run upstairs, and hold Johnny so as he can see you."

So John Shafto, held up in his mother's arms, watched Sandy and his father walk together side by side across the grave-yard. When they reached the tablet on the chapel wall, Mr. Shafto paused a moment, and Sandy, turning round, waved his cap for John to see him, though it was impossible for him to catch a glimpse of John in the dark, low room.

"He'll be a good boy, I know," murmured John Shafto; "and now, if he could only find little Gip!"

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