CHAPTER XXVI.

THE LAST OF THE OLD GARRET.

AND as the light of dawn came into the garret, which for so many months had formed Job's home,—came resting in dull shades of gray upon the wall, and upon the face that lay so calm in death, and upon the outlines of the old warrior's face, still to be seen over the fireplace,—as the light increased, Leveson rose to leave. He would take little Ailie, twice-orphaned child, home with him. Where else could she go?

But the door creaked slowly open, and a woman stood there,—a haggard faded woman, walking with difficulty, dressed in rags, footsore and poverty-stricken.

"They telled me I'd find her here," she said. "They telled me I'd find Ailie."

And a cry broke from Ailie's lips, ringing through the stillness of the death-chamber, but never disturbing the repose of old Job Kippis, lying in his last long sleep,—a cry of "Mother! Mother!"

"Ailie! Why sure it can't be Ailie," said Mary Carter, almost putting the child from her at first, as she scanned her face with trembling eagerness. "Ailie,—why, so it is, but I scarce knowed ye, child,—ye've that grown an' altered."

"O mother, if you had but come home a little earlier—just a little," sobbed Ailie. "He's dead now—gran'father's dead—an' ye'll never be able to thank him."

"Gran'father!" repeated Mary Carter.

"He made me call him so, an' he was more to me nor any real gran'father. Mother, why did ye never come sooner?"

"I couldn't help it. 'Twas no choice o' mine. Who's took care o' ye all these months?"

"Gran'father—old Job Kippis he was," said Ailie sorrowfully, pointing towards the bed. "He's lyin' there. He ain't dead long. Oh, I wish ye'd come sooner, an' could ha' spoken to him."

"Maybe ye haven't a bit of somethin' to give me. I'm famished."

She looked ready to drop, and Leveson, coming forwards, told her to sit down on the chair, and desired Ailie to bring food from the cupboard. She ate eagerly, holding Ailie all the while, as if fearing to lose her again, and Leveson said, "It must be almost more than you expected, to find your little girl safe in the old house."

"Indeed, sir, an' I've wondered what could ha' become of her, not a soul to look after her, an' her poor father a-dying the night I went." She heaved a sigh at the recollection.

"Have you been in any trouble since leaving jail?" asked Leveson gravely.

She did not answer the question, but flushed with burning shame at the last word, and hung her head heavily. "What Jem would ha' said—I doubt but it helped to kill him. An' my poor mother as brought me up so respectable; but I didn't know what I was a-doin' that day, I didn't."

"It was the first time you ever gave way to such temptation, was it not?"

She gave a mute sign of assent.

"And I trust it may be the last. Poor woman, you have suffered for your sin," he said compassionately. "But there is One—One of purer eyes than to behold iniquity, and One whose law you have broken—who well knows the strength of your temptation. He offers you free pardon for the past, if you will seek it at His feet."

"I dunno much about such things," said Mary Carter despondingly. "An' what I'm to do now, no home, an' no work, an' the child dependin' on me!"

"Mother, we'll be took care of," said Ailie. "Why didn't you come back straight when you was set free?"

"I couldn't, child. I've been in hospital since. I was run over that day, an' 'twas weeks afore I knowed where I was, an' longer afore I could speak sense."

"Run over!" repeated Leveson and Ailie together.

"Aye, 'twas that same day," repeated Mary Carter. "I've but a half remembrance of it all. I was walkin' along, an' looking forward to hear where Ailie was, an' thinkin' to find she'd been sent off to the work'us. I s'pose I wasn't heedin' much where I was goin', an' in crossin' a road, I heard a shriekin', and I see a great 'bus comin' down right upon me, an' somehow my foot slipped. After that I knowed nothin'—for weeks they telled me. I'd a broken leg, an' a blow on the head, as took away all my senses. It's left me that weak now, that I don't scarce know how to walk nor stand, but they says I'm as well as I'm like to be for many a year. I'll never be the same woman again, an' I can't take a needle for half an hour, but I turns giddy. But I'll have to work, for we ain't got nothin' to live on."

"We will not leave you to starve," said Leveson. "I think we shall find some means of helping you. Now, what will you do first? I would rather see you in another room before I go. Is there any vacant in the house, Ailie?"

"Please, sir, next door garret. Mr. Sloane went away yesterday," said Ailie, "an' nobody hasn't took it yet."

"Then I think that had better be your home for a few days, until we can arrange something more definite."

He placed five shillings in Mary Carter's hand as he spoke, and she faltered tearful thanks. There were a few words more about arrangements. Then he walked to the bedside, and stood looking down—not sadly. It was not a sight to look upon sadly—that face of happy rest.

"Fought a good fight, kept the faith, finished the course," he murmured. "Poor old Kippis! Oh, what a change to step from such a spot as this into the infinite glory! Ailie,—" and he laid his hand on the little girl's head,—"never forget all that he taught you. Never forget to pray that your last end may be like his."

And Leveson went home. But all the way he had ringing in his head the words of a hymn, which seemed strangely applicable to old Job:—

"Safe home, safe home in port! Rent cordage, shattered deck, Torn sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck. But oh! the joy upon the shore, To tell our voyage perils o'er.

"The prize, the prize secure, The athlete nearly fell, Bare all he could endure, And bare not always well; But he may smile at troubles gone Who sets the victor garland on."

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