CHAPTER I.

THE DWELLERS IN THE OLD HOUSE.

NOT many years ago, in the vicinity of Lincoln's Inn Fields, stood an old house, which has only recently been swept away, together with several others, in order to make room for a block of modern buildings which have since been erected on its site. It was said, and there appears to be little doubt of the fact, that it had once been a noble and princely mansion; but at the time of which we write, it was let out in separate tenements to the poor of the surrounding district. And thus it came to pass that up and down that wide staircase, where silken robes were wont to sweep and rustle, pale scantily-clad men and women might be seen passing to and fro to their various rooms, or homes, as they called them, gathered together under that spacious roof. It is of one of these homes that we are about to write.

Matthew Reardon had been at one time engaged on a daily newspaper, but at the period to which we refer, he was endeavouring to earn a precarious livelihood by copying law papers, or any other writing he could manage to procure.

He was a tall, pale, gaunt-looking man, with thin cheeks, and long thin hands, and large hollow eyes, and hair that seemed to have grown grey less from age than trouble; a man who had evidently seen better days, but so long ago that he had well-nigh forgotten them.

It was hard work, writing as he did from morning till evening, and often far into the night; but it would have been harder still if he had not had the writing to do, in which case, he and his family must have starved. As it was, the weary "bread winner," with all his toil, could often earn barely sufficient for their maintenance. It seems strange that knowing this, and with the cares of life pressing so heavily upon him, the old familiar Christ-taught prayer, "Give us this day our daily bread," should have remained unuttered by him. From generation to generation, for eighteen hundred years, this has been the cry of God's children in all ages to their Heavenly Father: but he knew it not.

Mrs. Reardon was several years younger than her husband. Like him, she was always employed. She was a clever needle-woman, and worked for a baby-linen warehouse in the City. The delicate children's garments which she made formed a striking contrast with the coarse although neatly-mended clothes of her own little girls, who used to regard them with profound admiration, sometimes longing to be old enough to help her, and pricking their tiny fingers in the vain attempt; and, at others, wondering what the children were like who were destined to wear these beautiful things, and where they lived, and what they did all day long. Little Bessie, the youngest, used to dream about them as clothed in fine linen, with crowns on their heads, and each carrying in her hand a small golden harp.

If Mrs. Reardon was less silent than her husband, it was not because she had any more heart for conversation, but in the hope of cheering him; and because she remembered what a dull life it must be for those two neglected little children, with no one to talk to or play with them, and nowhere to play but that one room: for she never permitted them to associate with the other children in the house, and had no time to take them out for a walk.

Once or twice during the summer months they had gone with her to the Gray's Inn Gardens, she taking her needlework, and sewing while they wandered about beneath the green trees to their great delight. The children called it "going into the country." But somehow the delicate work got soiled and their mother did not venture again.

It was at Mrs. Reardon's suggestion that Polly and little Bessie regularly attended a Sunday school which had been established in the neighbourhood. It would be a change for the poor children, she said, and might help to amuse and give them something to think and talk of. She liked hearing them repeat their hymns and texts, just as she used to do at their age, although she had forgotten them all long since. But oftentimes of late, they seemed to come echoing back like a pleasant tune learned years ago. More particularly upon one occasion, when she heard little Bessie singing softly to herself:

"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds!"

She remembered how sweet it had seemed to her in the happy days gone by, before sin and sorrow, and neglect of that blessed Saviour, had dimmed the brightness of her first love. While her thoughts still wandered in the past, Bessie had finished her hymn and begun another, the words of which sounded strangely appropriate:

"What peaceful hours I once enjoyed, How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill."

Too well did Mrs. Reardon know the weary feeling of that "aching void."

The neighbours mistook her reserve for pride. She was, as we have said, a quiet woman, keeping herself to herself, and neither associating or suffering her children to associate with the people of the house. Even the district visitor, as she went to and fro on her labour of love, failed to gain admission.

Upon one occasion, Mrs. Reardon came to the door herself in answer to her gentle knock, and, holding it half-closed in her hand, respectfully declined to receive the offered tract.

"Thank you," said she, "but neither my husband nor myself have got any time for reading."

"On Sunday, perhaps," quietly suggested the visitor.

"On Sunday we are too tired. You had better take the book away, ma'am, if you please. It will save you the trouble of calling again."

"It is no trouble to me," said the lady, with a smile; "I like coming."

"But it is a trouble to me to open the door," replied Mrs. Reardon. "To poor people like us, time is money."

"Forgive me," said her visitor, gently; "I will not detain you any longer. You will allow me to leave the book; I shall not want it."

"Neither do we, thank you all the same," replied Mrs. Reardon. And wishing the lady "Good morning," she quietly shut the door, thereby shutting out one who would have been a kind friend in the hour of trial.

"Mother," said little Bessie, "I wish you had taken the lady's book; I wanted to look at the pictures."

"Poor child!" replied her mother. "I wish now that I had, for your sake."