CHAPTER IX.

THE WORN-OUT COPYING MACHINE.

WHEN Marshall went in, he found Matthew Reardon sitting crouching over the dim fire, with his wife's shawl thrown over his knees to help to keep him warm, and looking greatly changed even in the short time since he had last seen him at the office.

"I am glad you are come," said he, holding out his thin wasted hand. "I was afraid you wouldn't after the very pressing invitation I gave you."

"If I remember rightly, I invited myself," returned Marshall, cheerfully. "At any rate, here I am. But I'm sorry to find you so unwell. Wouldn't he be better in bed, Mrs. Reardon?"

"I wish you could persuade him to think so, Mr. Marshall."

"What's the use of going to bed?" interrupted her husband, impatiently. "It only makes the cough worse. And so you came to look after me?"

"Yes; I was afraid that something was the matter by your staying away."

"What did Mr. Heighington say?" asked Matthew. "Did he think that I had been drinking again?"

"He did not say anything," replied the old clerk.

"Oh! He did not say anything—did not even miss me, I suppose?" continued Matthew, with flushed cheeks, and eyes that glittered strangely. "Mr. Marshall, you know that old copying machine at the office?"

"The copying machine?—Yes, of course I know it. There have been several new ones invented, but it answers our purpose."

"What do they do when it gets wrong and won't work, as I have known it to do several times of late?" asked Matthew.

"Get it repaired and put right again," was the reply.

"And when it is worn-out and not worth repairing?"

"Send it away and get one of the new ones, I suppose," said Marshall, with a puzzled air.

"I thought so!" exclaimed Matthew. "As long as the copying machine suits your purpose—as long as it can be repaired and made to work, it is all very well. But the moment it becomes worn-out, and past mending, you send it away and get a new one. Don't you understand, old friend?" continued he, observing his companion's bewildered look. "Why, you're a copying machine, and I'm a copying machine, and we are both of us pretty near worn-out, I take it?"

"Is he often thus?" asked Marshall, as the sick man leant back exhausted.

"Sometimes, towards evening. I think it must be from want of sleep," answered Mrs. Reardon. "It is best not to take any notice of what he says."

"Has he had any advice?"

The poor wife shook her head.

"What is it?" asked Matthew, quickly. "I don't want a doctor; I don't believe in them; I shall be better soon—quite well, I hope—well enough to come down to the office, at any rate. Or if—if I shouldn't be for a day or two longer, you won't let Mr. Heighington turn me off to get some one else in my place; you'll wait a bit for me, won't you?"

"Yes, yes," answered Marshall, soothingly; "to be sure we'll wait. But it will be of no use if you won't let any one mend you up a bit and set you all right again."

"What if I should be worn-out and past mending?" asked Matthew, in a low voice.

"I hope not, my friend, for their sakes," replied Marshall, glancing at his wife and children. "Otherwise, 'to depart and be with Christ is far better.'"

"It's very well for you to talk like that," said the sick man, with a weary sigh; "but I can't feel as you do."

"It is not to be expected," replied Marshall. "An old man like me, alone in the world. But I am sorry for you, Matthew; indeed I am."

"I believe it," said his companion. "You always spoke kindly to me; but he never did. Do you think he knew that I was going to be ill when he raised my wages?"

"Mr. Heighington. No, how should he?"

"He might have guessed that there was little chance of his being called upon to pay it very long—not even the first quarter, perhaps."

"He won't be hard upon you, I'll answer for that," replied Marshall; "and don't you be hard upon him."

"I don't want to be hard upon any one," said Matthew, wearily. "All I want is to get well and go to work again."

"And you will see the doctor I am going to send?"

"Yes, I'll see him. But I can't pay him; not just yet, at least."

"Never trouble yourself about that," said Marshall, kindly; "he's an old friend of mine, and won't mind waiting."

"Who knows," exclaimed the sick man, "but what this friend of yours may mend me up again, and make me last for years, in spite of Mr. Heighington?"

"Mr. Heighington would be very glad."

"Did he tell you so?"

"No, he never mentioned your name; I don't think he even missed you. Mr. Heighington is a young man, Reardon, and has never known what trouble is; but he has a kind heart, and I verily believe that he'll be one of the Lord's people yet."

"May I ask what makes you think so?"

"Because the Lord Jesus is a prayer-hearing and a prayer-answering God, and I have been praying for young Master Frank ever since he was a child."

"It seems to me," said Matthew, "that you have been kept waiting a long while for the answer."

"His ways are not our ways," replied the old clerk, meekly, "nor His time our time. 'Though it tarry, wait for it, for it will surely come.' The Lord's way is ever the best way, and His time the best time."

"Pray for me, too," said Matthew, after a pause, "will you?"

"Surely—surely I will, my friend."

"Pray that I may be well again soon."

"Or, rather," said the old clerk, "that whether you live or die you may be the Lord's."

"I would not talk any more if I were you, Matthew," interrupted his wife, "if Mr. Marshall will excuse my saying so."

"Certainly," said the old man; "you are quite right. It's time that I was going, only I must just say a word to the children first. I heard them singing their little hymns as I came upstairs."

"Their father likes to hear them."

"It soothes him, I dare say."

"Yes, it sends him to sleep when nothing else will," replied Mrs. Reardon.

Polly and Bessie were very soon quite at home with their new friend, the former sitting close to him, and the latter on his knee, while all three spoke in whispers, for fear of disturbing Matthew Reardon, who had fallen into a troubled sleep, while his wife, as usual, watched and worked by his side.

Bessie was telling him of a wonderful book, which their teacher had been reading to them lately about a certain man called Christian, who left his home and children to go on pilgrimage. She did not understand it very well, she said, or what going on pilgrimage meant, for they were not always able to go to school now that their father was so ill; but the story evidently possessed a strange interest for both the children.

The old clerk told her that he knew it well, and could remember reading it when he was about her age. It was called "The Pilgrim's Progress." He believed he had the book still; if so, he would bring it with him the next time he came, and she might keep it as long as she pleased. And when he added that it was full of pictures, Bessie's joy was complete.

"Polly will read," exclaimed she; "I can't read yet. How happy we shall be!"

"But Polly must have a present too," said the kind old man. "Tell me, my child, what you would like best for me to bring you."

Polly thought for a moment.

"I know what I should like better than anything," said she—"a pair of boots for father. Mother thinks he would not have been so bad as he is if he had not got his feet wet through the last time he was out."

The old clerk bent down and kissed the little wistful face which was raised so earnestly to his.

"You shall have the boots," said he, "and something else besides for thinking, of your poor father. You pray for him, too, I hope?"

"Yes, sir; we both pray for him," answered Polly, with grave simplicity.

"Shall I tell you what we say?" whispered Bessie, folding her little hands together: "'Please, dear Lord Jesus Christ, to bless father and mother; and make father better and keep the wolf from the door.' Is that a good prayer?"

"Yes," answered Marshall, "a very good prayer, my child." But he could not help thinking that it was also a very curious one.

Just then Matthew Reardon woke up and began to cough. And the old clerk hastened to wish him good night lest he should be tempted to talk any more.

"You'll come again, Mr. Marshall?" said the sick man eagerly.

"If the Lord will," was the reply.

He nodded kindly to the children as he went out, and they never saw him any more on earth.

The wind came sweeping and moaning up the wide staircase when the old clerk opened the door. Bessie whispered to her sister that it was the wolves. And truly it did sound as if a whole pack of them were howling without.