CHAPTER I.

NINETY-NINE, MADEIRA STREET.

THERE were other things connected with the house besides its number which could have been expressed by the figure nine. For instance, its tenant, Mr. Grainger, had a family of nine children, and the day on which my story opens happened to be the ninth birthday of Olive, the third girl, and the sixth child.

Perhaps it will be better if I tell you at once the names of the younger inmates of the house, and say a few words about each of them as I pass from one to the other.

Edgar, the eldest, was sixteen, and for nearly a year had gone daily to a large wholesale warehouse in the City. Next came Dorothea, generally called Dora; she was a year younger, and was just now rejoicing in the fact that she had left school. Between her and the twins, Katie and Robert, was a difference of two years.

These were followed by Lancie, the dearest of her flock to Mrs. Grainger, for a mother, though full of tenderness for all her children, always loves the afflicted most. He was nearly eleven, but his pale face and pain-sharpened features made him look much older. When a child of five, he had been stricken with paralysis, and had never recovered the use of one of his legs. It was so much shorter than the other that he had to walk on crutches, and his health was so delicate and his body so weakly that he was often confined for days together to the couch, which, in consequence, had gained the name of "Lancie's sofa."

In strong contrast to the little invalid came sturdy Giles. He was younger, but he was a full head taller than the brother who was his senior by twelve months. There was the same difference between him and Olive. Then came Lottie, aged six, the last of the family being the two-year-old Philip, the pet and plaything of them all.

But that it was Olive's birthday was not the chief circumstance that made the day a memorable one at 99, Madeira Street. It was the last in which the whole family would be together for a long time; for early on the following morning Mr. Grainger would leave his home in London to sail for Australia, and, in all probability, a year would elapse before he would again set foot on his native land.

It had cost him much to make up his mind to leave his wife and children, and only a very strong inducement had led him to arrive at such a decision.

Mr. Grainger was a clerk in a large English and Colonial Bank, and though from time to time his salary had been increased, his wife, with her large family, had found it as much as she could do to make both ends meet.

She was, however, a capital manager, and the end of the year always saw her expenses within the limits of her income.

But unexpected trouble came upon the Graingers when little curly-headed Phil was nearly twelve months old. One evening Mr. Grainger came in from the City with a troubled face, and, calling his wife apart, told her he had become responsible for a bill for £150. He had been persuaded to put his name to it by a friend, who had assured him he would run no risk, as the money would be ready long before it was wanted. It was only, he said, that he could not lay his hand upon so large a sum just at that time, and if the old playmate of his boyhood and companion of his schooldays would do him the kindness of going through the mere form of standing his surety, he would always be grateful. Two days before the bill fell due, this so-called friend and distant relative became bankrupt.

There were those who said Mr. Grainger ought never to have yielded to such persuasions. But he was a kind-hearted man, and, judging others by his own honesty and uprightness of dealing, he had signed his name trusting that no ill would befall.

Neither husband nor wife had any private means, so to meet the bill Mr. Grainger had to borrow money on his life insurance and upon the furniture of his house. Retrenchment, of course, became necessary. Edgar left school, and thanks to the good word of one of the heads of the bank in which Mr. Grainger had been clerk for many years, a situation was obtained for him in a noted hosiery warehouse in Wood Street. Taking his inexperience into consideration, he received a remarkably good salary, and Edgar, though his life did not seem to be shaping itself after his own inclinations, was glad to be able to help the parents who had done so much for him.

Then Giles and Olive were also taken from school, and they, with Lancie and Lottie, become their mother's pupils, while Dora, who was a fair musician, gave the two little girls music lessons. Husband and wife weathered the struggle better than they expected, but Mr. Grainger knew it would be a long time before he would have paid the last shilling he had borrowed. For notwithstanding the numerous ways in which his wife curtailed the household expenses, Edgar's weekly wages, and the money he himself earned by evening employment at book-keeping, they had only paid off £50 at the end of the year, so that they were still £100 in debt.

They would have paid off more had they not been obliged to incur a doctor's bill. Lancie had been weaker than usual that year, and they could not let their child suffer without giving him all the relief in their power. Had it not been for the little cripple's sake, they would certainly have removed into a smaller and lower-rented house, but the doctor said that his life was probably owing to the warm aspect, and open healthy situation of Madeira Street, which was within a twenty minutes' walk of Regent's Park. And what could his parents do but decide, that, whatever other sacrifices were entailed, they must stay in the home in which they had lived since the twins were born.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Mr. Grainger had been asked if he would go to Sydney, and remain while the head clerk in the branch bank there was absent on a twelve months' leave. The sum he was offered over his regular salary, and what he could save from his allowance for travelling and living, would more than free him from debt. So though it was a hard trial to part from his wife and children, he made up his mind to accept the proposal.

Tea was later than usual that evening in order that the entire family might be present, and a cake—a much rarer luxury than it once was—graced the centre of the table. All the children were inclined to be dull and depressed, even down to little Phil, who had been crying in the afternoon because "Fader was doing away across the big sea, and perhaps he'd tumble out of the ship and det drowned."

But Mr. Grainger was determined that the last meal they would all take together should be a cheerful one, and putting aside his own feelings, he made such jokes, and laughed and chatted so gaily, that very soon the elder children caught his spirit, and all joined in the mirth he provoked. Nobody would have guessed what heavy hearts some of those smiling faces concealed.

But when the table had been cleared by the not very efficient little servant, and chairs were drawn round the fire, which a frosty night in the early part of the year made so agreeable, the conversation became more serious. Instinctively the children left two empty seats side by side for their parents. Then Phil climbed into his father's arms, and that being his favourite resting-place, lay quietly and happily there till the low hum of voices lulled him into a slumber. None of the others felt sleepy, notwithstanding that the talk lasted till the clock in the passage struck nine—not even Lottie, though she was glad to make Dora's shoulder a pillow for her head.

Would those boys and girls over forget that talk! They thought not, at any rate. With the exception of the baby, they all knew why their father had made up his mind to leave them, and there was first of all a little joyful anticipation of the time when he could return, and they would "all be so happy again," and not obliged to save every possible penny.

They next discussed arrangements with regard to the frequent exchange of letters. Then breaking a silence, Mr. Grainger said,—

"Children, do you know I have something to give each and all of you before I go?"

They all looked curious, even Edgar. Perhaps on another occasion he would, from the term of address his father had used, have considered himself excluded from those to whom the words were spoken. But to-night he knew—and the knowledge pleased him—that they were meant for him equally with the rest.

"Is it a present, father?" asked Giles, who had practical ideas about everything.

"No, my boy," replied his father, "it is a trust. I give you one very precious charge. Will you all try to take care of your mother for me till I come back?"

He was answered by a chorus of yesses, some loud, some low.

"As much as lies in his power," he continued, "Edgar must take my place in relieving her of those duties which ought always to fall on the master of the house."

"Such as locking up the doors at night, and seeing everything safe?" asked Giles again.

"Well, yes," said his father, smiling, "though I own I hadn't that in my mind when I spoke." Then changing his tone, he added, "You will do this for me, Edgar?"

The boy made no audible reply, but his grave, earnest face, and the serious look in his eyes as he met his father's, said more plainly than words that he would do his best.

"Dora," went on Mr. Grainger, "as the oldest daughter, must be her mother's right hand."

"And what shall I do, father?" asked Katie.

"Be her help and comfort, dear, also," replied Mr. Grainger; "I am afraid I cannot tell you the special way in which you can each strive to fulfil my trust. But you can all try to lighten her cares by sharing them, and cheer her by rendering loving little services."

"Now I'm nine I shall be able to do lots of things for mother," observed Olive, with great satisfaction.

"That's right, my darling," and at her father's words, Olive looked up with a sunny smile. "Children," he went on, "you know what our first golden rule has always been!"

"Obedience," was the quick reply.

The flickering flame of the fire was the only light in the room, and just at that moment the corner where Robert sat was in shadow, so no one saw the crimson flush that rose in his cheeks as the question was asked and answered.

"And remember that now when your mother speaks, she will be speaking for me as well as for herself," went on Mr. Grainger. "You may be quite sure her wishes would be mine."

Again there was a silence, and again Mr. Grainger broke it.

"This, too, is part of the trust," he said. "I want you to promise to be loving and kind to each other; you elder ones being gentle and patient with the younger, and the younger submitting themselves to the elder. I want you to promise that you will struggle bravely in the battle which all God's children must fight against selfishness, discontent, bad temper, and, in fact, everything that you know to be unlovely in God's eight. All of you, down to little Lottie there, have your besetting sins to fight against, and, with God's help, to overcome. My dear children, will you so act that when I return you may each tell me you have tried to keep this promise?"

"Yes," again came from all the children, and very gravely now was the answer given.

"But you cannot do it in your own strength. Shall we kneel down together, and ask God that the Holy Spirit may help you?"

All excepting Lancie, who lay on his sofa, knelt down, and from that room ascended an earnest prayer that God would help each member of the family to keep the solemn promise that had been made, and that He would let them all meet again in health and safety. When they had risen from their knees, Mr. Grainger kissed his children one by one. Lancie's turn came last, and bending over him, his father took his thin white hand in his.

"Oh, father! How I shall want you."

"My poor little Lancie!"

There was the sound of a smothered sob, and then—

"Is there nothing I can do?"

"'They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten," said Lancie, and a smile lighted up his pale face. "And you think God will be as pleased with that as if—as if I could do as the others can?"

"I know He will," said Mr. Grainger, tenderly; "and remember He takes note of every pain you suffer. That He has given you so much to bear, Lancie, only shows His great love for you. He wants to make you 'perfect through suffering.'"

"Thank you, you have comforted me so, father." Then, after a momentary pause, "I shall be awake when you come to give me a last kiss before you go."

And his eyes were wide open when, in the early winter morning, Mr. Grainger stepped quietly into the room adjoining his own to say good-bye to his little crippled son. But with the exception of Edgar, who was to accompany him to the station, all the other children were sound asleep when he left the house from which he would be absent a whole long year.

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