CHAPTER IX.

JOHN'S ADVICE.

AILIE gave a sharp cry, and slipped down on the ground close to Job Kippis, clinging to his coat, as if for protection.

"Good mornin'," said Job, nodding. "Got the little gal here, you see, all right."

"What are ye thinkin' of doin' with her?" asked John, putting the oft asked and, as yet, unanswered question.

A twitch of Job's coat spoke plainly enough as to Ailie's state of mind, even without the imploring:

"Oh, please—"

"What d'ye advise?" asked Job.

"Work'us," said John.

"Please," sobbed Ailie, with another stronger twitch.

"There, there, wait a bit, deary," said Job soothingly; and, returning to his stitching, he remarked, "She don't seem over-willin' to go."

"A scrap of a child like that! Don't know nothin' about it," said John tersely. "Send her off, and she'll do, never fear."

"Poor little deary!" murmured Job. "It's hard, ain't it, for her?"

"Look ye here," said Forsyth. "I've a wife an' five children o' my own, an' one not my own, as I took up an' 'dopted five years since, when I wasn't in my present circumstances. So long as I've a crumb to spare, I ain't a-going to cast her off. But I ain't a-going to 'dopt a second, I can tell ye. Six is enough for a man, who's been nigh upon three months out o' work."

"Out o' work still?" asked Job.

"I've found a job as 'll last a week; just serve to keep us on where we be. It'll pay up some o' the back rent, an' do little enough beside."

"'Tis hard lines for ye," said Job compassionately. "Don't ye think I was a-wishin' you to do anythin'. No, no I you've enough, as you say, wi' your own."

John Forsyth nodded, and said, "She can't look to live on the neighbours, neither. There's nothin' left but the work'us."

Another sob from Ailie.

"Poor little un," said Job. "And it's two months to when her mother comes out?"

"Two months nigh. And she with nothin' to live on then, neither, comin' out a widow, an' the little she had left gone to pay her rent."

"Poor thing—yes," said Job.

"So you'd best let me take the child off to the work'us this mornin'," pursued John. "I'll go to work this afternoon, an' 'twill be some days, likely, afore I'll be free again to walk so far."

"Don't think I'll be in such a hurry," said Job.

"You're not thinkin' o' keepin' the child yourself!"

"Maybe, for two or three days," said Job cautiously, adjusting his work. "There's a many things I'd like to say to her."

"Ye'll be drawn into doin' more. Tell ye, it won't answer. She'll mind goin' then more than now."

"Maybe I'll mind partin' with her too!"

"And you'll let me take her off!"

"Thank'ee—not such a hurry."

"'Tain't as if you was a young man," expostulated Forsyth. "It's only fair you should think o' yourself afore others."

But this remark worked differently from the way in which John intended that it should.

"It wasn't the Master's way, somehow, to think o' Himself afore others," said Job.

"Eh?" said John.

"'Twasn't the Master's way," repeated Job, laying two folds of scarlet cloth together. "I think He'd maybe have me help the poor stray lamb, as nobody else can help—maybe He'd wish I should do it for His sake."

"Don't know nothin' about that," said John. "A man must act with common prudence, I says."

"So says I," responded Job. "There ain't a more prudent transaction, I can tell ye, than that o' lendin' to the Master. It's hundred per cent interest that He gives back."

"You're gettin' out o' my depth," said John, with some impatience. "Poor folks like us, livin' from hand to mouth, haven't no time for religion—and livin' in dirty holes, with a crowd o' yelling children round, ain't the way to practise it, neither."

"Ain't a man in the world that needs religion more than such a one," said Job quietly. "Don't ye want help in gettin' your daily bread, and in takin' care o' your children?"

"I wants a deal o' things I'll never get," said John curtly. "What'll ye do about the child?"

"Keep her a bit. She'll sleep in my closet—an' maybe—"

"Hope you won't have cause to repent it," said John, getting up, with some annoyance at the rejection of his advice. "Good mornin' t' ye."

Ailie never moved till he was gone, and then, standing up, she asked, with dilated eyes—

"Ain't I going, really?"

"No, deary, not to-day."

"Nor to-morrow?" asked Ailie.

"Nor to-morrow, deary."

"Nor next day?"

"Maybe not next day, neither."

"Nor till mother comes?"

"We'll see," said Job soothingly. "I'll keep ye on a while, if I can."

"I won't be hungry," said Ailie. "I'll eat ever so little—an' I'll be so useful—and—and—I do like you ever so much."

"I'd like you to love me," said Job. "Maybe ye'll call me gran'father—eh?"

Ailie's face brightened yet more at this suggestion, and she gave vent to her feelings in a wild gambol round the room, which rather startled Job at the moment, though he took it placidly.

"She's so happy she don't know what to do," he murmured. "It'll be cheery for me, too, won't it? So long since I've had a little 'un about me."

"I'd like to go an' tell Lettie, gran'father," said Ailie, luxuriating in the new title, but before she had time to decide on going down, the door opened slightly, and Lettie's small voice said—

"Please may I come in?"

"Come in, deary," said Job. "Why it's quite lively, it is, to hear the little voices," muttered the old man, as he stitched away. "I've been lonesome at times, an' it's mighty pleasant."

"Lettie, ain't it beautiful?" cried Ailie. "I've been a-sleepin' in the cupboard, under the beautifullest thick coverin', an' had a breakfast o' real tea an' bread an' butter. And he says I'm to call him gran'father, and I means to do it always, 'cause he's as good as a real gran'father; an' I'm not going to the work'us to-morrow, nor next day, nor p'raps not at all."

This was jumping at conclusions more readily than Job Kippis had calculated upon; but he could not resolve to check her happy words, and he quieted himself with the remembrance that he had made no promises.

Lettie's pleasure almost equalled Ailie's own. And in a few minutes, the latter's excitement cooled down so far as to allow her to climb up into the window-seat with Lettie, where they sat watching Job, and wondering much at the steady progress of his work.

"Ain't it a bright red?" said Lettie.

"I'd sooner it wasn't so bright, for the sake o' my old eyes," said Job. "But I loves the old colour too."

"What old colour, gran'father?" asked Ailie.

"Why the old scarlet, deary—same as I once wore when I was a soldier, d'ye see?"

"Was you a soldier?" asked Lettie. "I'll tell Hor that, 'cause he wants to be a sailor, an' that's sumthin' like, isn't it?"

"Sailors wears blue, and soldiers red," said Ailie, doubtful of her own information, though she spoke confidently.

"An' they both fights for the country," said Job. "One on land, and t'other on water. That's pretty nigh all the likeness betwixt 'em. Yes, I was a soldier once, but 'twas long ago. I was wounded in a battle, fought long afore you was born—battle of Waterloo," and Job looked round proudly at the picture over the mantel-shelf, with a movement of his hand to his head, a half-salute in memory of old days. "Fought it under him, ye know."

"Do 'ee make him tell Hor all about it," whispered Lettie to Ailie. "'Cause Hor's out after work now, and can't hear."

"So I will, too," said Job, overhearing her, and nodding his head. "And, maybe, I'll want ye all to be soldiers."

"Hor's goin' to be a sailor, he says, an' we can't be soldiers," said Ailie. "Can we, gran'father?"

"Not wearin' a red coat an' carrying a musket nor rifle," said Job Kippis. "Different sort o' soldiers, deary. There's a deal we all have to fight with; but I've got to make ye understand all that. Maybe that's why you was sent to me—because the Master wanted you to learn it," added Job, thoughtfully.

"I shouldn't wonder—I shouldn't."

"There's a deal o' fightin' down in the court," said Ailie.

"Ah! 'Tisn't that sort o' fightin', neither," said Job, with a half-sigh. "Fightin' for their own way—different sort o' thing that from fightin' in the Master's Service. But I'll tell ye all about it some time."

[Illustration]