CHAPTER V.

A NEW FRIEND.

"WE are to be friends, you see," said the lame boy, cheerfully, as Sandy set him to lean against the parapet, while he picked up the crutch. "I thought I should never catch you, though I have been following you as fast as ever I could all the way from the place where Mr. Mason was preaching. You liked his sermon, didn't you? I saw you listening as if you'd never heard anything like that before; and it's every word true, and more. I thought I'd like to ask you how you liked it; and when you turned in here, I caught up with you. Now would you mind telling me who it was you were speaking to, half aloud?"

The lame boy's voice was frank, and his face was lighted up with a friendly smile, such as Sandy had never met before. He could not shut up his heart against him. Besides, he had been longing to speak to some one about little Gip; somebody who would neither jeer at him nor be angry with him, as the other fusee boys were. Yet he felt shy still, and his brown face grew crimson, and his tongue stammered, as he once more leaned over the parapet, and gazed down at the eddying of the water under the arch, with his head turned away from the stranger.

"I were talkin' to Him as that gentleman spoke of," he said, in a very low tone, "Him as were lost Himself when He were a little child; lost in the streets, you know. The gentleman said now he were growed up. He do always walk up and down the streets lookin' fur folks as were lost. So I were arskin' Him to take care of my little Gip, if He come across her."

"Who's little Gip?" asked the gentle cheery voice at his side.

"Oh! she's my little gel!" cried Sandy, laying his head down on the stone coping, but doing his best to speak calmly. "Mother's little gel, you know; and mother got drunk last Tuesday, that night it rained cats and dogs, and lost Gip somewheres; and I've been lookin' for her ever since everywhere, pokin' into every corner as I can think on; and I begin to be afeard as Gip's dead!"

It had been hard work for Sandy to say all this; but when he came to the word dead, his voice was choked, and the sobs he had kept down broke out vehemently. He felt the strange boy's arm stealing round his neck; and so astonished was he, that his sobbing ceased, and he held his breath to listen to what he was saying.

"If little Gip is dead," he whispered, "she is gone to heaven, to be with the Lord Jesus, and she can never, never be hungry, or cold, or lost again. There are thousands and thousands of little children there, all good, and happy, and safe; and He loves them so! Nothing can ever hurt them again, because He is always taking care of them. If little Gip is dead, she must be with the Lord Jesus."

"I didn't know that," murmured Sandy. "I don't know nothin'. I don't know as my little Gip is dead. I'd rather have her than let Him have her. She were so fond of me; and I could make her happy, I could; and keep her safe. I never see Him as you speak of, or heard tell of Him afore now. Gip didn't know Him any more than me, and she'd be a deal happier with me; and wherever she is, she'll fret for Sandy, as used to give her peppermint and candy, and carry her to look at the pretty shops. If Lord Jesus finds her, He ought to give her up to me again; for it isn't Him as has nursed her, and took care of her ever since she were born."

Sandy's shyness had worn off whilst he spoke out his mind; and now he faced the lame boy with an expression of indignation, almost of angry defiance, at the thought that anybody had a greater claim to Gip, or could make her happier than he.

The stranger looked somewhat saddened and perplexed; but he kept his hand on Sandy's shoulder, to prevent him from running away from him.

"I wish you would come and talk to mother about it," he said, after a pause. "She's had three children that are dead, and she says they are happier than they could have been with her. If little Gip is not dead, mother will know what to do, and how to set about finding her, for she's the cleverest woman in all London; and I'll help you to search for her. I'm not strong enough to work; but when it is a fine day like this, I can get about on my crutches, and go farther than you'd think. I call them my wings. Yes, I'll search for little Gip, as well as you, if you'll come along with me, and tell mother."

Sandy hesitated a little. Compared with him, the lame boy was so grand that he scarcely dared go home with him; but there was the hope of getting advice and help in seeking Gip, and he could not lose any chance. He watched the stranger getting himself balanced on his crutches with a new and tender sense of pity, and the very feeling that he could so easily run away from him kept him closer at his side. He would have walked behind him, but the boy did not seem to understand that.

"Keep close to me," he said; "I want to talk to you. My name is John Shafto, and we live in the place I'm taking you to. Tell me what your name is, and where you live, while we are going along. See! I can get on with my wings as fast as you, unless you run."

He was keeping up with Sandy quite easily, his white face turned towards him full of eager interest and friendliness. Sandy had never seen a face or heard a voice like his.

"My name's Sandy Carroll, sir," he answered, pressing nearer to John Shafto, for all his reserve had melted away like frost in the sunshine, "and mother's called Nance Carroll. She's never anythink else but drunk. If she's sober a bit of a mornin', it don't last longer than she can get a few coppers. I was a-gettin' afeard little Gip 'ud take to it, for mother 'ud give her drops of gin and such like; but now she's lost, I don't know what 'll become of her. Maybe it 'ud be better for her to die, and go to that place you spoke of, only I don't see how she's to get in. If I'd known of it before, I'd have tried to get Tom and little Vic took in, but it's too late now. They're buried and done for, I s'pose."

He spoke very regretfully, for he had been fond of Tom and little Vic, though they were nothing to Gip, who had lived to learn the pretty tricks he could teach her. Yet he was grieved to think that perhaps he could have managed to get these babies taken into a good place, where they would never be hungry or cold again, if he had only known of it.

"If Tom and little Vic are dead," answered John Shafto, "they are gone to heaven. Every little child goes there when it dies."

"I know nothin' about it!" said Sandy. "Tell me all you know."

"Mother knows more than I do," he replied; "let us make haste to her."

It was not long before they reached the house, which lay at the back of a small chapel, and in a corner of a little square grave-yard, where the grass grew rank and dark over the mounds, in spite of the smoke and soot falling upon it from the chimneys around. There was no other dwelling in the yard, but the blank high walls of some workshops enclosed it. Nor was there any symptom of the turf having been dug up for years, and the head-stones of the graves were black with smoke. All was quiet, and dark, and gloomy the sun could hardly shine into it at midday, and now it was evening. But it was very peaceful and still, hushed away from the great turmoil and bustle of the city, though it lay in the very heart of it.

Sandy lowered his voice when they turned into the grave-yard, and crossed it by a path paved with flat stones, which bore the names of persons long since dead and forgotten.

At the back of this grave-yard, in a corner where a sharp eye might by chance see it from the street, stood a little low old-fashioned house of two storeys, if the upper floor could be called a storey, when it was not more than seven feet high in the pitch of the roof, with two dormer windows in the front. On the ground-floor there was a large shop window, with a very dingy hatchment in the centre, and above it a bunch of funeral plumes, brown with age. On one side of the hatchment hung a card, framed in black, with "Funerals performed!" on it. Whilst in the opposite pane was another card, displaying the words, "Pinking done here."

One of the three large panes had been broken, and a stiff placard was pasted over it, to keep out the wind and rain. The old house looked as if it were skulking in the corner of the grave-yard to hide its poverty and decay; keeping out of sight as much as it could, yet forced to show itself a little, that those who dwelt in it might have a chance of earning a scanty living.

[Illustration: "This is mother," said John Shafto.]

John Shafto's crutches seemed to tap more loudly on these flat gravestones than on the common flags in the streets; and before he and Sandy reached the house, the shop door was opened from within. A rosy, cheerful, motherly-looking woman, with blue ribbons in her cap, stood in the doorway as they drew near to it. So strange and odd and out of place she seemed beside the broken window and gloomy hatchment, that even Sandy felt a strange sensation of surprise.

Her voice, too, when she said, "Johnny!" was cheerful, and as she kissed the lame boy fondly, Sandy stood by, staring at her with wide-open eyes.

"This is mother!" said John Shafto.

"And who have you brought home with you, Johnny?" she asked, holding out her hand to Sandy, as if she did not see his poor rags and dirty skin.

He did not know what to make of it; but she took his hand in hers, and gave it a warm, hearty clasp.

"He's lost his little sister in the streets last Tuesday," said John Shafto; "and I've brought him home to ask you what we must do, mother. You'll be sure to think of something. Now then, Sandy, you come in and sit down, and tell mother all about it."

He led the way into the house, and Mrs. Shafto gave Sandy a friendly push to follow him before her.

Inside the shop, on the counter, lay a little coffin, about the size that would fit Gip; and Sandy paused for an instant to look into it, as if, perhaps, he might see Gip's dear face and tiny limbs lying for ever at rest in it. But it was empty. And keeping down a sob which rose in his throat, he passed on into a small kitchen behind the undertaker's shop.

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