CHAPTER VI.

MRS. SHAFTO.

IT was a very bright cosy little kitchen, with a clear fire burning in the grate, and not a single pinch of ashes on the hearth. The grate was an old-fashioned one, with well-brushed hobs, and two balls of steel on each side the fire, which glistened and sparkled like silver in the dancing flames. A polished brass warming pan hanging against the wall was bright enough to see one's face in. The floor was quarried with deep rich red tiles; and in a wide recess near the chimney stood a large cupboard, looking almost half the size of the room, and as if it promised plenty and to spare within it. In the warmest corner there was an easy-chair, with arms and back well padded, and covered with patchwork; and a pair of slippers lay on the warm hearth before it.

There was not much daylight; for the window opened upon a narrow passage between two of the high buildings which overshadowed the small grave-yard, and only a strip of sky could be seen beyond their tall roofs. But one did not miss the daylight whilst the fire burned so clearly, and Mrs. Shafto's beaming face smiled upon every one who came within sight of her. Her face was better than the sun, at least in John Shafto's eyes.

"Father's not come home?" he said, glancing at the empty easy-chair.

"No, Johnny, it's not time yet," she answered, placing a chair in the very front of the fire for Sandy, and bidding him put his cold bare feet on the shining fender. He dared not look her in the face yet; but he could not help watching her when she was not looking at him.

"First of all," she said, "we must have something to eat. Eating before talking is my rule, Johnny."

Sandy watched her with hungry eyes as she went to the cupboard, and cut two slices from a loaf, one large, thick, and substantial, the other thin and delicate, but both well spread with treacle. It took him quite by surprise to have the large slice given to himself, and the little one to John Shafto. This was treatment he could not understand, nor could he speak about it. All he could do was to sit still in blissful silence, feeling the glow of the pleasant fire through all his veins; and discovering how hungry he had been by the delight of devouring his substantial slice of bread.

"Now, then!" said Mrs. Shafto, when he had eaten the last crumb. She had seated herself in a low wooden rocking-chair, opposite to the easy-chair in the corner, and was looking at Sandy with kindly eyes, as if she had known him a long while, and was an old friend of his.

He felt as if he could tell her anything, and could never wish to hide a thing from her. With great eagerness, he told her all his story about little Gip. While John Shafto listened, nodding from time to time, as having heard most of it before.

Mrs. Shafto also shook her head now and then, and cried, "Well, well, poor fellow! poor little Gipsy!"

Until Sandy's heart grew warm, and almost happy, with her sympathy, before he ended all he had to say.

"Poor little Gip!" repeated Mrs. Shafto, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Have you looked for her in every place that she'd be likely to be, Sandy?"

"Ay!" said Johnny. "When Jesus was lost, you know, His mother began to think where He'd most likely go to, and she found Him in the Temple. Where do you think little Gip would go when she found herself lost?"

"She'd know of nowhere but the gin-shop," answered Sandy; "mother never took her nowhere else. There were two gin-shops where mother gets drunk, and I did go there."

Mrs. Shafto's face had a cloud upon it for a minute or two, and he heard her say as if to herself—"Poor little baby!"

"Mother's quite lost when she's in drink," continued Sandy, sadly; "it 'ud be no good to ask her if she rec'lects anythink. All she'd know is as she lost little Gip somewhere. I've not been nigh her again, for I can't bear to see her now she's been as bad as that. I didn't think as she could ever be as bad as that."

"But she's your own mother," said Mrs. Shafto, softly.

Sandy raised his eyes, which had been staring gloomily into the glowing embers, to look at her. Johnny had drawn his chair close up to hers, and laid his head down on her shoulder, and put his arm round her waist. What made him feel so, he could not tell, but all at once, he wished in the very bottom of his heart that he could love his mother like that; he wondered how she could be so very different from Mrs. Shafto.

"Perhaps," she went on, in the same soft, gentle tone, "little Gip found her way home the very next morning; I think it is very likely she did, and now she's watching for you, and fretting after you, and wondering where you are. What are you going to do, Sandy?"

He had started to his feet, and sprung to the door; but he stopped for a moment as she spoke to turn round, and answer, in breathless haste,—

"I'm goin' to run home," he said; "p'raps it's like what you say. Little Gip's there, p'raps. Oh! why didn't I think of that afore?"

"Stay one minute, Sandy," cried Mrs. Shafto, "while I put on my bonnet, and I'll go with you; and we'll bring Gip here, and all have tea together, if father isn't at home. Johnny 'ud love to see little Gip, wouldn't you Johnny?"

"I should love it dearly," he answered; "and I'll get tea ready whilst you're away. Be sure you come back, Sandy; I'm so sorry for you, I can't say how sorry. But perhaps some day your mother will become good, and be like my mother."

Across Sandy's mind there glanced a happy thought of his mother, with a bright, cheerful face, and wearing blue ribbons in her white cap, like Mrs. Shafto; and of a kitchen like this, with its clean floor, and comfortable chairs, and warm fire. But it all vanished away in an instant; and he fancied he could see her instead, with her red and swollen face, dressed in dirty rags, and lying in a drunken sleep upon the floor. That was his mother, and little Gip's!

It was not long before he was walking away at a brisk pace beside Mrs. Shafto, in the direction of the alley where little Gip had been born. Mrs. Shafto had a good deal to say to him as they paced along about himself and Gip. If they did not find her at home, she said, she would speak to her husband about it. He was a very learned man, and could give as good advice as anybody she knew; and perhaps, if he felt well enough, he would go with him to the police-stations, and make inquiries there about the missing child.

Sandy had never thought of going to the police, whom he looked upon as his and Gip's natural enemies, with no interest in them, except to cuff him and order him about his business when he was too pressing in trying to sell his fusees. He was very doubtful whether they would not cuff him if he went troubling them about little Gip; but Mrs. Shafto talked in so hopeful a strain that he felt his spirits rise as if he were sure of finding her when they reached the alley.

They did reach it at last: and Sandy rushed up the stairs, and tried to lift the latch of their old room. But the door was fast locked, and no shrill little voice answered him, when he called Gip through the keyhole, in the hope that her mother had left her there for safety. His spirits sank again. There was no key in the lock, so it must have been fastened from the outside. They descended the dirty, creaking staircase again, Mrs. Shafto keeping her skirts well from the wall; and Sandy knocked at the door of the neighbour who lived in the front room on the ground-floor.

The man who opened it greeted him with a low, jeering laugh.

"Come arskin' after your mother, eh?" he said. "Well! she's gone, and a good riddance, I say. She was always a tearin' and a stormin' up and down the alley, till there wasn't a moment's peace and quietness. All women is averse to peace and quiet; but I never see one like Nance Carroll for blusterousness. She were larfed at so about losin' her baby as she couldn't bear it, and she made off on Friday. The key's here, but there's nothink left in the room but the bed, and that goes to the landlord. Have I seen little Gip? No, no. She's at the bottom of the river long ago, I bet. Babies aren't lost like that, you know, if they haven't been made quiet. It were high time for your mother to make off, for the police were beginnin' to poke their noses up this alley; and arskin' some very ill-convenient questions."

"Do you think the poor little creature has been made away with?" enquired Mrs. Shafto, with a faltering voice.

The man winked, and nodded significantly; half smiling at her ignorance of human nature, as he closed the door in their faces.

Sandy sat down on the lowest step of the staircase, and hid his face in his hands, rocking, himself to and fro.

Mrs. Shafto stood by, in silence, for a minute or so; and then she laid her hand gently on his rough head.

"Come home, Sandy," she said; "come home with me, and have tea with my Johnny."

"She's my mother, you know," whispered Sandy, hoarsely, "just like you're Johnny's mother; and I rec'lect her kissin' of me once when I were a little chap. I don't want to think she could kill little Gip!"

"No, no," answered Mrs. Shafto; "she never could, I'm sure. It's not in a mother's nature; and who should know how a mother feels better than me, when I've had four, and lost them all, save Johnny? Come home with me, Sandy; and we'll talk it over with Johnny and Mr. Shafto."

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