CHAPTER XII.

GOING HOME.

WEEKS passed away, and old Peter Marshall was still alive. The doctors had consented to his being removed from the hospital to his own home, where Mr. Heighington, assisted by a faithful and attached domestic, nursed and watched over him with tender care.

Many of the patients wept when he was taken away. Unconsciously to himself, he had delivered his Master's message; and the memory of it remained long after the pale lips that uttered it were silent for ever.

The old man spoke but little after they brought him home. He did not appear to suffer, but grew weaker and weaker day by day. His labour of love was ended; and he waited only for the Master's summons—"Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."

Mr. Heighington never left him for long together. And thus it name to pass in that hushed and quiet chamber, where the silent watcher sat with clasped hands and bowed head, with the open Bible before him, a gentle wind arose—that same wind of which we are told that "it bloweth where it listeth, and no man heareth the sound thereof, or is able to tell whence it cometh, or whither it goeth." The blessed teaching of the Holy Spirit wrought out a great and marvellous work at which the angels in the presence of God wondered and rejoiced.

The old man's prayer was answered at last. If he could only have known it! One would almost imagine that he did by the smile on his pale face.

One evening, upon returning after a short absence from the sick room. Mr. Heighington saw a young girl, whom our readers will recognise as Kate Donaldson, standing in the passage and weeping bitterly. She held the card which Marshall had given her in her hand. She had only just heard of his accident and subsequent illness.

A few kind and sympathetic words soon elicited her sad and touching history. She should not have ventured to come, she said, although he had asked her to do so; but a friend of his, residing in the same house as she did, was very ill, and in great distress, and she had sought him on his account.

Mr. Heighington inquired the name of the person to whom she referred as being a friend of Mr. Marshall's. But he was too much occupied with his own thoughts to remember Matthew Reardon.

"You can tell Mr. Reardon," said he, "that his friend has met with an accident, and is not expected to live; but that I will endeavour to call round and see him myself the first opportunity."

"No," replied Kate, shaking her head, "I can't tell. I have never spoken to him in my life. He doesn't even know that I have come. But you won't be long, sir, for he's about as bad as he can be."

"Not longer than I can help," answered Mr. Heighington, as he took down the address on the back of poor Marshall's card. "Is there nothing else I can do for you?"

"Nothing, sir, thank you," replied the girl—"only I should like to have seen him, if I might. I should like to have told him it was all true he said to me that night about the love of Christ to poor sinners, even the chief—and about His not casting them away. If I could only have told him, and thanked him—and I think that he would be glad too."

"It would be of no use seeing him," answered Mr. Heighington, sadly. "He would not know you. He does not know any one. But he will know all in that day when 'they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever and ever.'"

It was raining fast when Mr. Heighington opened the street door to let her out.

"What will you do?" asked he, with a compassionate glance at her thin faded garments. "You will be wet through."

"I don't mind, sir. I'm used to it."

"Can you not ride—a part of the way, at least?"

"I dare say I could," replied Kate, "if I was rich enough. Oh, sir! I did not mean that!" added she, hastily, as Mr. Heighington slipped a piece of money into her hand. "I'm sorry I spoke as I did—and yet if you could spare it, it would make me very happy!"

"All right," replied Mr. Heighington, kindly. "I give it to you for his sake."

"For his sake," repeated Kate, softly. "Indeed, sir, I would not take it for myself. I'm earning my own living now—an honest living—but nothing over, try and stint as I will, and I want money badly just now. Good night, sir, and thank you kindly."

The old servant shook her head as she stood a moment at the door watching the slight, figure of the young girl as she passed with rapid steps through the cold wet streets, and then shut it hastily to keep out the driving rain.

"She'll never ride," exclaimed the woman. "It was a pity, begging your pardon, sir, that you let her have the money."

"Not if it made her happy," was the reply.

"It would have been much better to have given her a decent shawl instead of the trumpery thing she had on—although to be sure she might have pawned it. She looked one of that sort!"

"I don't believe that there is any harm in the girl," said Mr. Heighington.

"I suppose not, sir. But I should just like to see what she is going to do with the money in such a hurry."

It was well, perhaps, that the woman could not see Kate Donaldson, after making a few purchases of tea and other groceries, enter a fruiterer's shop, and singling out one of the most tempting bunches of grapes which she could find, pay the price demanded for it without a murmur.

Even the owner of the shop could not help regarding her with some curiosity, after carefully examining the money.

"It's a dear time for grapes just now," said he.

"Is it! But then how fine they are!" replied Kate, holding them up admiringly.

"Poor thing!" exclaimed the woman, as she went out, carrying them carefully in her hand into the pitiless rain. "I hardly liked taking the money. She looks as if a meal's victuals would have done her more good."

"I don't see that it's any concern of ours," replied her husband, dropping the change into the till as he spoke. "If she wanted a meal's victuals, why didn't she get it instead of a bunch of hothouse grapes fit only for her betters?"

Mr. Heighington did not forgot his promise, but somehow it unfortunately happened that he lost the card upon which Matthew Reardon's address was written, and after a long and vain search was obliged to give up all hope of being able to find the place.

It was strange how old Peter Marshall lingered on from day to day. The hospital doctors, who had taken an interest in the case, and continued to visit him, said smilingly to each other—for they could smile, being used to such things—that they thought that "Death must have forgotten the old man." But he came at last, one cold grey morning just before the dawn. A ray of consciousness stole back to the dim shadowy eyes, and stretching out his hand as one feeling in the dark, he asked in a feeble voice for "Master Frank," just as if he had known that he had been watching over him all the time.

No one knew what passed between them in that brief and solemn interview. By-and-bye the household stir, the business of human life, recommenced; but the old clerk had entered into his rest—"the rest that remaineth for the people of God."