CHAPTER XIII.

WAITING.

THE two months' imprisonment was over at last, and Ailie knew that on the evening of this frosty November day, with its slippery pavements and misty air, she might expect to meet her mother once more.

She had divided feelings on the subject. She wanted to see her mother again, but she did not want to leave her adopted grandfather. The one would bring about the other, and whether to be most glad or most sorry was a puzzle to Ailie. She wavered to and fro between the two feelings, but as evening drew near the sorrow rather predominated. It was very cold, and Job Kippis had lighted a good fire. Little Lettie had crept up there for warmth, knowing herself to be welcome, for the Forsyths had almost no fire that day, and as Ailie crouched down by the small grate with her tiny companion, she wondered much, in the thoughtful fashion of a child who has seen little of careless childhood, where she would be at that time on the morrow, for "mother" would be penniless and friendless, without work and without a home. What was to become of them she did not know.

"'Tis a bitter night for her, ain't it?" said old Job presently, breaking a long silence. He was working hard by the waning light, and a candle stood beside him ready for use when necessary, for Ailie's presence had indented on his little savings, and made needful harder toil than usual on his part. "The frost in the streets is that bad, ye can't hardly get along. We'll give her supper, an' warm her up, Ailie?"

"Where'll she sleep, gran'father?" asked Ailie.

"Mother said somebody 'd lend her a bed for one night," said Lettie. "Don't you think she'll live here, Ailie?"

"I dunno one bit," said Ailie; "'cause mother hadn't no work for ever so long, an' she'd ha' moved, she said, if father hadn't been too ill. Dunno where she'll go, though."

"All big London afore her, an' ne'er a home for her, poor thing," sighed Job. "It's a great babel of a place, ain't it? To think o' thousands o' houses, an' not a spot as she can call her own. Ah me, if she had but a Home above, it'd matter little then."

"Gran'father, I'll tell to mother all you've teached me," said Ailie, looking up at him, "an' I'll say my texes every day, an' 'Our Father' too, an' 'Please wash away my sins for Jesus Christ's sake.' Will that do?"

"Sure, deary, if you says it from your heart," said Job, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. "It's sorely I'll miss ye; but sure I'm glad I didn't send ye off to the work'us."

"'Cause you wouldn't ha' been my gran'father then," said Ailie. "An' mother 'd ha' come, an' found nobody waitin' for her. Will she go to the old place first, gran'father, down in the cellar?"

"Maybe not. More like she'd know well enough ye couldn't have lived on alone, an' she'd ask what's become of ye, an' the neighbours 'd tell, 'Up with old Job Kippis,' an' she'd come an' tap an' walk in. Sure isn't that a noise outside now?"

Ailie sprang to open it, but a rush of cold air was all that entered, and she shut it again.

"'Tisn't nobody, gran'father. I wonders when she'll come."

"What'll I tell ye, to make the time go faster?" asked Job. "I'll have to stop work soon; my old eyes don't stand it by this light, as if they was young."

"Tell us about when you used to wear a coat all o' scarlet," said Ailie. "Was it ever so bright a red, gran'father?"

"That it was, deary, just this colour."

"An' did ye like wearing it?" asked Ailie.

"Just think I did!" said old Job emphatically. "Didn't I march along wi' my comrades, as proud as proud could be, an' the band a-playin' away in front."

"I'd like to hear it," said Ailie. "And how did ye get hurt, gran'father."

"'Twas a musket-ball wounded me, in the middle o' the battle. The French and English was fightin', deary, 'cause there was a man as we called Boney-party, who wanted for to rule all over Europe like, an' nobody wasn't to do nothin' without his leave. A reg'lar tyrant he was, an' the English couldn't let that be at all, so the Duke goes to meet him, an' 'twas a long battle. But we got the day, for sure the Duke never knowed what it was to turn his back, nor his men didn't neither. That's the sort o' soldier I'd have you be, Ailie, under the great Captain; never to know what 'tis to be beaten, nor runnin' away, but always a' lookin' at your Captain, an' obeyin' His orders."

"Did you used to be lookin' at the Duke, gran'father?" asked Ailie.

"Sure an' I did, deary, an' if anybody was a bit down, or afraid, only let the Duke come ridin' up, with his face as brave an' quiet as if he was sittin' in his chair in his home, an' we was all up in a moment, an' ready for anythin'. Afraid when the Duke was by! Never such a thing for a moment."

"An' when he wasn't by?" asked Ailie.

"Why, then we all knowed he wasn't far, an' we was obeyin' his orders, an' we knowed he was seein' or hearin' all as went on. He was certain sure to come just when he was most wanted."

Job smiled to himself as he made mental application of these ideas to another warfare and another Captain.

"An' 'twas enough to see his face. We didn't want nothin' else, to make us feel like as if no power on earth 'd be able to conquer us. All we needed, deary, was just to know we was obeyin' his orders, an' doin' what'd please him, an' then 'twas sure to be right. I wasn't but only a young soldier then, an' hadn't but just listed six months afore; but there was some old soldiers as had gone through all the war with him, and if you'd seen what they thought o' him! It wasn't no wonder I caught it from them, an' felt the same. As for bein' beaten under the Duke, wouldn't they have called 'un a coward, only to speak o' such a thing?"

"Was he like that picture?" asked Lettie, and old Job made his involuntary salute, with raised hand, in memory of his chief.

"Sure enough, deary, so he was, when he was old, ye know. I see him once ridin' through the streets, an' everybody a-lookin' after him. He didn't know me, poor old Job Kippis livin' up in a garret, but I knowed him, an' it did my heart good to look on him too, it just did."

"I do wonder mother don't come," said Ailie.

"So do I, deary; but mayhap she's loitered somewhere, an' it's a good way she has to walk, an' there's the fog hinderin' of her. It'll be hard to pick her way through it."

The twilight deepened, and the evening waned, and Ailie's mother did not come. No tap at the door; no sound of approaching footsteps, save those passing to other rooms. Ailie wondered and waited, and waited and wondered, and grew somewhat sad in her suspense; for that forlorn and tempted woman had been a tender mother to her in the past.

"Maybe she's ashamed to show her face," murmured Job. "Fresh out of jail—no wonder. I'll go an' take a look for her."

Telling the children to remain where they were, he went down the staircase, and out into the street. It was almost deserted. Job peered about through the darkness, walked up and down the pavement once or twice, and made inquiries as to whether aught had been seen or heard of Mrs. Carter; but it was all in vain. He went up-stairs again, and told Ailie her mother had not come, nor was she likely now to do so before next day.

"Maybe some'at has hindered her," said Ailie hopefully. "I dare say we'll see her in the mornin'."

The morning was fine, and wonderfully clear for November; but no mother came. All through the long day Ailie watched, and waited, and vainly hoped; but still no Mrs. Carter made her appearance.

They could not think what might be the reason. Job in his anxiety went to the Forsyths,' and John Forsyth, having a day unhappily free from work, as was too often the case now, went off to the prison itself, undertaking the long walk out of simple kindness. He learnt there that she had been set free at the time expected, and one person, who had spoken some kind words to her on her leaving, believed she had talked of returning to her old quarters, to inquire after the whereabouts of her child. Beyond that, John Forsyth failed to meet with any traces of the poor woman's movements.

All the next day they did not give up hope; but that day passed, and the next also, and others after, and she did not come. Job Kippis and John Forsyth ceased to hope for news of her. Whatever was the cause of her absence, and whether it were through choice or compulsion, they had no means of learning any more. To all intents and purposes, little Ailie was an orphan, cast adrift upon the wide world, utterly dependent upon charity.

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