CHAPTER XXV.

FATHERLESS BAIRNS.

DR. ARUNDEL'S carriage rolled swiftly towards Hampstead. In it were the Doctor and Mrs. Arundel and Tom, while Arthur found a seat on the box by the coachman. Nellie had already gone by omnibus with Netta and Isabel. They were all going to pay Christina the much-talked-of visit.

Arthur informed them he was "Prince Arthur" going to open and inspect "The Orphanage," and pretended to be very grand. Christina and he had kept up this little joke whenever she had made her flying visits to No. 8. He had told her that, as he was such an august personage, he must not go till everything was ready; but he had kept away with great difficulty, as the accounts from Nellie and Walter made him long to be able to talk it over and enjoy it with them. They had been backwards and forwards a good deal—Nellie to help in suggesting and arranging, and Walter to hang pictures, move furniture, and assist generally in a most wonderful way, Christina thought; for she had never before met a gentleman who could "use his hands," as she called it.

Walter was invaluable, and Ada, who was chief "aide-de-camp," used to suggest sending for him whenever the least difficulty arose. He looked in, however, on them nearly every day, and Miss Arbuthnot, who was ignorant of the episode of that walk along the shore, heartily wished that the two whom she considered so suitable for each other should find it out. She, too, remembered the past; but she had wisdom enough neither to refer to it nor to make any remark as to the present. She welcomed Walter gladly, and thought the day seemed rather blank which had not brought his pleasant face. Did Christina think so? If so she kept it to herself; for nobody could guess.

As Dr. and Mrs. Arundel drove along Seymour Street on this bright afternoon of their visit to Christina, the carriage was brought to a stand by a crowd collected round some object at the side of the road.

"I wonder what it is?" said Mrs. Arundel, leaning forward anxiously.

"I do not suppose it is much," said Dr. Arundel; "but I will go and see."

He got out, and pressed into the crowd. "What is it?" he asked.

"A woman fainted," was the reply.

"Let me in then," he answered; "I am a doctor."

The by-standers made way for him, and he found himself in a moment by the side of a woman who was lying on the curbstone, her head supported by the friendly knee of an elderly woman who had been passing when she fell. Even in her fainting condition she was clutching an infant, who was crying painfully, in her wasted arms.

Dr. Arundel begged the people to stand further away to give her air, while he dipped his handkerchief in a jug of water which someone had brought, and bathed her face and hands, and then sent a message to his carriage for his wife's smelling-bottle. Gradually the poor creature began to revive; and as she did so, she held her baby tighter to her breast.

"Stay, you will hurt it," said Dr. Arundel tenderly; "no one will take it away; do not press it so."

She instantly desisted, but opened her eyes and gazed at his face in a wild kind of way.

"You are better now," he said soothingly.

"Oh, yes!" she answered, trying to struggle to her feet. "Let me go on."

"Where is your home? You are not fit to be out, my dear," said the kind doctor in his fatherly manner, gently preventing her rising.

"No; I am dying," she said, "dying of starvation!"

The by-standers who could hear this looked appalled, and several hands were put in pockets to draw out some money.

"You are ill, my dear," he said. "Where is your home?"

"I have no home," she answered in a low tone. "I was taking her to the river—when—I can't remember," she said, looking bewildered.

"Were you going to the workhouse?" he asked, not hearing.

"No, no, not there! I was driven to it," she said huskily, "she was so hungry; I had nothing for her—she cried so dreadfully. I had sold everything; I had had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, and I could not see her starve, so I started. But, oh, my baby, it is so hungry!"

She looked down on its wee pinched face, and wrapped her thin tattered shawl closely round it again protectingly, and, oh, so tenderly.

"My poor girl, you are very ill," said the doctor; "but if you will come to a good woman I know of, she will take care both of you and baby; should you like that?"

"Not be separated?" she exclaimed, looking up at him. "Oh, say that again! How can I part with my baby?"

"Yes," he said, "you shall be together. It is not far from here."

The crowd had begun to disperse. Several small coins had been placed in the doctor's hands for the woman's relief, and he looked round now at the shops near. A chemist's was close, and next door to it a second-rate coffee-house. He told the poor creature he would be back in a moment, and hastened in and asked for a cup of coffee. The woman who was serving had seen the commotion, and quickly poured out some, asking, as was natural, "What is the matter, sir?"

"Dying of consumption and starvation," he answered.

"Oh, sir!" said the woman.

"Too true; there is many a respectable woman who goes down, and down, and down, and dies at last, sooner than ask for help."

He took the cup, and returned to the dying woman. He poured a little in the saucer, and put it to her lips.

"My baby first," she said faintly, drawing back.

"Not coffee for her; get some milk," he said, looking up at the coffee-house keeper, who had followed him out.

She hastened back, and soon came with some in a teacup.

Meanwhile the sick mother had with difficulty raised herself from the still-supporting knee, and had settled her babe in her lap, so that when the milk came she might be ready for it. Then she stretched out her wasted hand for the coffee, and drank it eagerly.

When the milk arrived, the young mother took the spoon and poured a little into the poor little mouth. The child stopped crying, and swallowed it; but before she could get ready the next spoonful it began again.

"When was it last fed?" asked Dr. Arundel.

"I had nothing for it," she answered, "so I spent my last halfpenny last night for a hap'orth of milk, and it had the rest of that early this morning."

"Poor little baby," he said pityingly. "Now while you give it a few more spoonfuls, I will go and get a cab, and will take you where I promised."

He went to his wife, who had been anxiously looking out of the carriage window, but could not leave little Tom.

"Starvation!" he said sadly. "Poor things. I cannot go with you, love; I must take her to Cromer Street. What a mercy our little hospital room has a bed vacant!"

"It is indeed; but cannot you come?"

"No; I am so very sorry; but it will be a wonder if she pulls through the next few hours. She is revived now, and we must get her to bed as fast as possible; she is in the last stage of consumption."

"Oh, poor, poor creature!"

"Yes; and I want to speak to her of Christ, so good-bye. Ask Christina if she can attempt a baby three or four months old; for there will be very shortly another little orphan cast on the world."

"I will tell her. Poor mother! Poor baby!"

"Drive on now, love; you can do no good to her; and I shall call a cab at once."

He gave the signal to the coachman, and the carriage once more proceeded on its way.

Tom was very silent. He had heard enough to understand, and he held his mother's hand tightly, but did not like to ask her any questions; for she seemed sad, and Tom kissed her hand softly over and over again, without getting more than a loving pressure in return.

"Poor creature!" she said at last.

"Will she die?" asked Tom, speaking for the first time.

"I fear so. Oh, Tom, what must it be to leave a baby behind on the cold world."

Tom kissed her hand again, and then said softly, "You often say, mamma, we must trust everything to Jesus; I suppose, if she loved Him—"

"Yes, my dear," she answered, rousing herself; "that is the only way. 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee.'"

She bent down and kissed his pale little face.

"So Tom has turned comforter," she said, smiling softly, and looking at him.

"When shall we get there?" asked Tom presently.

"Very soon; we are just up the second hill, and soon we shall have a third. That shows how high it is, Tom."

"Here is the Heath," exclaimed his mother; "and here are the donkeys Christina so dislikes! And now we turn down to the left, and shall be there in a moment."

As she spoke they drew up at Sunnyside. There at the gate stood Christina and Ada, while just inside the garden they could see Nellie, Isabel, and Netta, who had already arrived. Walter came forward when he heard the carriage, for he had been specially invited for the grand occasion.

"Where is Dr. Arundel?" said Christina, looking astonished when he did not appear.

"He was prevented at the last moment; we must tell you about it," said Mrs. Arundel.

"What a pity," exclaimed Ada.

"He was so sorry, and so was I. He sent you a message, which I must give you presently."

Mrs. Arundel turned to superintend the lifting out of her invalid; but Arthur and Walter were accustomed to moving him, and now did it very cleverly, so that without a shake, he was laid on the drawing room sofa.

"We got here ever so long before you," said Isabel, bounding in through the French window; "what made you so long?"

Mrs. Arundel explained all about it to a very interested audience, and then gave Dr. Arundel's message to Christina, who looked very grave for a moment when she heard the age of the baby.

"Do you think I could?" she asked Mrs. Arundel.

"I do not see any insuperable objection as you have Margaret Fenton, but if you had not, it would be another thing. It will, however, fill her hands and yours in a wonderful way; you will begin work in earnest then."

"Just what I should delight in," said Nellie; "but, oh, we are forgetting the poor young mother!"

The sad story rather sobered the happy party, and it was some little time before they could turn their thoughts away from it.

"Is not this a nice room, mamma?" said Ada presently.

"Oh," said Christina, "this is not the part you will care about! When Tom is able, we must go into the other room."

Tom soon said he should like to go, so Arthur and Walter carried him between them, while Christina led the way.

The "other room" was "the play-room." The name "nursery" had been discarded, because Ada said, "There might be children of all ages."

Like the drawing room, it had windows to the ground, with a south-west aspect, looking over the garden, the Heath, and the Surrey hills.

The floor was covered with a bright-coloured kamptulicon, while a very ample hearthrug was laid at the fireplace, which had a large wide-barred guard.

The walls were decorated with tasteful pictures, several really good engravings, and half a dozen plainly illuminated texts, which had been Walter's gift. The pictures were all Scripture subjects; for, as Christina said, earliest impressions last the longest.

On one side of the large room three small tables, hardly two feet high, were standing, and near them were six or eight tempting little wooden chairs, of various shapes, which would just suit the tables and the little occupants of the play-room.

Ada sprang forward when her mamma was looking at these. "Now these are my especial pets," she exclaimed; "they are the dearest little tables and chairs. Christina, let me fetch Alfy!"

"Very well," said Christina, smiling.

Ada opened a door at the end of the room, and called, "Alfy! Maggie!"

The little ones, who were with Margaret Fenton in the dining room, came rushing in. And though Maggie was very shy, Alfy feeling he was with old friends, calmly walked to the little table nearest him, and took his seat in a small arm-chair.

He proceeded to open a box of toys which stood conveniently there, and took no further notice of the guests. Maggie, however, kept close to Ada; for her mother had wisely closed the door, and disappeared.

"It is delightful," said Mrs. Arundel; "a most lovely room!"

Near the window were two rocking-chairs and a medium-sized table, the rest of the floor was left unoccupied, except by a few chairs against the wall.

Two large cupboards had been fixed on either side of the fireplace. On the door of one of these was painted in neat letters, "No fresh toy to be taken out till the last one is put away." This had been Nellie's suggestion; for though the children could not read perhaps, the nurse could read it to them.

On the other cupboard was painted likewise, "Each toy to be put neatly into its own box when done with."

Arthur laughed heartily at this, and said, pinching her soft pink cheek, "That's exactly like our Nell—as practical and as tidy as can be."

"Now for the dining room," said Ada.

This was somewhat like other dining rooms, but was also covered with kamptulicon, and a good many high chairs stood round the wall; while Christina's long dining table, sideboard, and handsome chairs gave an air of comfort to the room.

"Shall you have dinner with the children or not?" asked Arthur.

"Sometimes, perhaps; but I have my aunt to think of too; and I fancy we shall perhaps make our lunch when the children have dinner, and then dine alone at six o'clock."

"I am sure that would be wise," said Mrs. Arundel.

The kitchen was next inspected, and there they found the new cook, and Ellen, who looked delighted to see them all again.

"You must see Mrs. Fenton's cottage presently," said Christina.

Next came the bedrooms. There were six—Miss Arbuthnot's, Christina's, a spare room, and a servants' room, while two of the largest had been reserved for the children.

The walls of these were painted a pale green, and "could be washed," as Ada explained. The little beds and cribs were covered by snowy counterpanes, and were so arranged that a single strip of green carpet could be put down the middle of each room. The blinds were green, and the window-hangings, which were devised to take down and put up "with no trouble," were white. The china was also green and white, and everything looked fresh, and countrified, and peaceful.

Tom was deposited in some convenient place in each room in turn, and took a keen interest in it all.

"It is beautiful," said Mrs. Arundel, pleased.

"And here is a bath-room," said Ada, opening a door close by, "with hot and cold water laid on."

Christina opened a drawer in one of the chests, and asked them to look. They all gathered round, and as they peeped in they saw neatly arranged a complete suit of clothes for a little child of about Maggie's size.

"These are all Ada's work," said Christina proudly; "every stitch! and I can assure you she has been industrious to get it done, besides all the other things she has been doing for me from morning till night, and her school too."

Mrs. Arundel was delighted, and could not forbear giving her daughter a loving kiss.

Ada blushed deeply at the praise, but said softly, "It was very little to do after all the goodness and love—"

"Ah!" said her mother, understanding the unfinished sentence. "But He accepts the least thing done for His sake, dear."

"Here is another contribution," said Nellie, for Netta had been squeezing her hand during the last few minutes, and now brought forward a little parcel which she and Isabel had conveyed to Hampstead with the greatest care and pride.

"Why what is it?" asked Christina, bending down and taking it from them.

On being undone, the parcel was found to contain two nicely-made little petticoats, and two list bodies, lined with unbleached calico, which looked as if they would wear for ever.

"Who are these from?" said Christina, looking kindly in the two little faces.

"From us," answered Isabel, "for the little orphans."

They were delighted with the loving thanks which they received, and with seeing their work placed cosily by the side of Ada's.

Walter, who was standing close behind holding Tom's frame safely on one of the little beds, now said to Christina, "Did you hear the sound of a tea-bell?"

She smiled, and said, "I think I did; but they must go round the garden first, or it will be dark. What a beautiful October day it is!"

For it was the first of October, the month that was the last of Walter's holiday.

They then went round the pretty garden and visited Mrs. Fenton's cottage, where Mrs. Arundel would have liked to stay to have a chat with the dear old woman; but Christina stood beckoning to them, and they had to cut their wanderings short.

"Buttered toast is not nice cold," she said, "so let us begin, dear friends."

They had a very happy tea-time; and there was plenty to talk of, and many questions to ask Christina about what she would do, and how she would arrange, while Miss Arbuthnot sat next to her niece, and looked very happy and contented.

"Aunt Mary likes my orphanage better than she expected," she said, laying her hand on her aunt's.

"Yes, my dear, I do; and I feel pleased to try and help in any way. I have no doubt when Christina gets more children, our hands will be very full."

"No fear of there being plenty of children when once you are ready," said Walter.

"But what is this 'hospital room' you were mentioning, where that poor creature is gone?" asked Christina. "I have never heard of it."

"That is one of papa's little quiet bits of 'work for the King,'" answered Mrs. Arundel. "He rents two rooms in Cromer Street, near us, where he has put a sort of Bible-woman nurse, who lives in one of them, and undertakes to nurse and care for any special sick one whom papa may send to her. She is able also to visit a few very poor invalids, who are without the means to pay for even a little attention, and to these her periodical visits are the greatest boon. She settles her own patients comfortably, and then goes out for an hour about eleven o'clock, and again later in the day, to make a bed for someone here, or a little gruel for someone there, and then home again almost before she is missed. We have had several very interesting cases, and the gratitude of the sick for a little kindly nursing is most touching."

"It is a beautiful plan," said Christina warmly, "and so very simple and natural."

"There is the carriage come for us," said Arthur, "and 'the Prince' has been so very interested in everything that he has forgotten to be as grand as he intended! What a pity; but he has enjoyed himself extremely notwithstanding."

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