CHAPTER XXIII.

PICTURES.

LYING still upon the mattress of his garret bed, with only one thin blanket over him, his brown wasted hands clasped across his broad chest, and some flakes of silvery hair straying over the wide sunburnt brow, on which the very peace of God seemed stamped as with God's own signet-stone,—so lay Job Kippis, as he had lain and never yet arisen since the day when "daily bread," but not "daily comfort," had failed him. Ailie sat on the foot of the bed, and Hor had taken up his station near on the broken chair, with his face towards the back, and his chin bent down upon his hands.

"'Tis very well, all that," he said discontentedly, "an' I dare say it's a deal better for her. I don't say 'tisn't; but I says I'd rather ha' kep' her with ourselves, I would."

"Aye, we're selfish mortals, the best among us," said Job. "Talk o' lovin' our friends, an' then when God wants to take 'em home to glory—oh, no, we're all for prayin', an' weepin', an' wantin' to keep them among their troubles an' away from happiness, just as long as we can. It's a selfish love at the best, it is, lad."

"I'm not a-talkin' of dyin'. I'm a-talkin' of Lettie," said Hor.

"And I'm a seein' pictures, lad, as I loves to do. Ain't the world full o' pictures, an' people won't see 'em with their blind eyes? Ain't it all a picture about little Lettie now, if we'll see it?"

Hor made an inarticulate sound, which might have meant anything.

"A pictur' of what, gran'father?" asked Ailie.

"Why, deary, here she was a-livin' in this poor part, all among the mire an' mud as one may say, half-starved, an' ill-clothed, an' knowing nothin' better,—an' never dreamin' she had a happy home awaitin' her, an' them that loved her elsewhere."

"We loved her," said Hor.

"True for you, boy,—an' much your love could do for her! Weren't she half-starved, an' half-frozen, an' a poor little thin object, wantin' all sorts o' things she couldn't get. 'Happy,' was it, you think her,—aye, maybe she was in her blindness, never knowin' what 'twas to be better off. An' then her brother—a lovin' kind elder brother—" Job smiled as he spoke the words,—"comes an' seeks her out, an' hunts for her and finds her at last. He wants to take her off home, where she'll have all she needs,—food, an' dress, an' play, an' learnin', an' love, an' everything. He loves her, and he's good to her, an' she don't like to go with him. Don't like it a bit. Wants to stay all among the rags, and the dirt, and the starvin'. But he won't leave her. He don't carry her off against her will, but he pleads, an' he begs, an' he wins her in love, and at last she goes. Then as they're agoin', he lifts her up in his arms an' carries her, for Mrs. Forsyth says she see him doing it herself. Ah, it's a lovin' elder brother little Lettie's found. But maybe now it seems hard to leave all she's knowed an' loved, and she don't understand how all she's agoin' to have will more than make up for what she 've lost,—ever so much more. Ah, she don't know that yet, Ailie."

"Yes, gran'father," said Ailie, as Job paused.

"Well, now, deary, ain't that a picture,—a beautiful picture o' somethin' else. Don't we read in God's Word of another Brother—a kind lovin' elder Brother,—who comes seekin' an' searchin' after the poor little lost brothers and sisters, living down among the mire of earth. Then when He finds 'em, it's oftentimes they won't go with Him. No, they'd rather stay where they be, an' they can't leave the things they love, an' they're quite content as they are,—poor starvin' souls. An' then He pleads, an' He begs, an' He commands, an' sometimes they'll go at last. An' when He sees how weak they be, an' how the sharp stones cuts the poor feet, He takes 'em right up, an' carries 'em along on their way. It's all a beautiful picture, what's happened to little Lettie—a beautiful picture o' somethin' better an' greater, an' yet like to it. Ain't it now?

"But all the love an' the care she'll get in her new home, is just nothin' at all, beside what the Lord Himself gives to them He seeks an' finds, when they go along with Him. For all things are ours then,—all things in heaven an' earth."

"Seems to me you'd work most everythin' into a pictur'," said Hor.

"And so I would, boy, sure enough. There's meanin' to be worked out o' most things, if we'd see it. Ain't the whole world a lookin' glass, made for nothin' but to reflect God's love, an' power, an' glory? Ain't a lookin' glass full o' pictures, an' all o' them a-changin' too. There's nothin' in the world that don't picture forth God's love, save sin, and that's the one great blemish over everythin'. See ye fight against sin, boy, an' ye'll be doin' work for God. If ye're not workin' for God, ye're pretty sure workin' for Satan. There's only the choice between them two kinds o' work, an' ye must do one or t'other. There ain't no neutral ground in that war,—leastways those who thinks themselves neutral are always found, sooner or later, to be Satan's spies an' secret workers, and it'll be worst of all for them."

He had spoken with growing energy, but he paused here, and lay silent for a while, looking towards the small window, where a gleam of blue sky and wintry sunshine, seen through a smoky atmosphere, were visible. "Will you have some'at to eat, gran'father?" asked Ailie.

"Thank'ee, deary, I don't seem to want it. The cravin's gone now we've a plenty."

For Mrs. Forsyth had shared her gifts of the previous evening with her neighbours, and a good half-loaf and a tiny piece of meat might have been seen on the corner of the mantel-shelf.

"Gran'father, d'ye think we'll see Lettie here again?" asked Ailie presently.

"No," said Hor. "They'll take precious good care she don't come among us poor folk no more."

"Ye're unjust, boy," said Job. "'Twas only yester' mornin' she were taken home. D'ye think she'd ha' come or could ha' come before this?"

"I don't think as she'll come at all," said Hor, doggedly. "I tells mother she's lost to us, she be. An' much the gentlefolk 'll care for what we feels about her."

"Aye, you an' she was mighty close friends. 'Tis hard on ye, boy, to lose her so sudden," said Job. "But 'tis all for her good, an' ye must think o' that. I don't reckon, somehow, ye'll be a loser neither in the end."

"O I don't count, not I, on gentlefolks' gratitude," said Hor. "They've got her now, an' what 'll they care for else?"

"Ye're wrong, boy,—wrong altogether," said Job. "But wait an' see,—that 'll be worth more 'n all I could say to persuade ye."

"I'm sure 'twas a beautiful lot o' things they sent ye all yesterday evening," said Ailie. "An' wasn't Mrs. Forsyth good, gran'father, to be a-givin' us so much!"

"Maybe they thinks a good supper 'll pay back all the five years we've taken charge o' little Lettie," said Hor.

"Maybe they don't think nothin' o' the kind," said Job. "What's come over ye, lad, to be so cantank'rous,—'cept that ye've lost a little sister as you've had awhile, an' she's got a deal happier home than you'd ever ha' give her? Well, well, 'tis hard for ye, but ye'd best take it brave an' patient. Grumblin' don't do nobody any good,—eh?" as he smiled at Ailie.

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