CHAPTER IV.

Battle in the Nursery.

SUSAN felt shy of speaking to Giles about writing a letter for her, and sending the stamps. She would far rather not have told her little secret to the man-servant, who, she feared, would laugh at her plan. But Giles, on the contrary, was pleased as well as amused at the idea of sending dinners to Exeter Hall.

"I don't mind putting up a third dozen stamps of my own," said the butler, as he pulled out his brown leather purse to give change for Jessy's crown-piece. "I like this notion of giving dinners, and I've often an odd shilling to spare that I never should miss. I was one of twelve children myself, and know what a struggle it costs even a man in good work to fill so many hungry mouths; I can't think how the orphans get fed at all. I'm going to the town to-morrow, so I'll get an envelope ready in the morning, and I'll mention the matter to cook—dinners are just in her line; I should not wonder if she, too, pulled out her shilling."

There are thousands of households in our land where kind hearts and generous hands would be ready to aid in such works of love, if so simple a way of doing good were suggested. In the servants' hall as well as in the drawing-room "cheerful givers" would be found. Well would it be, if in every rich man's kitchen, where the fire roars up the chimney, and the joint turns round on the spit, and the place is filled with the scent of steaming soups and savoury dishes, a little collecting-box were kept for "Destitute Children's Dinner Society," into which those who never themselves know want might sometimes drop in a penny unseen, to help friendless little ones, faint and pining with hunger.

Susan was delighted at her unexpected success. "How good does come out of evil!" thought she. "But for this fear of conveying infection by writing the letter myself while nursing my little patients, I should never have dreamed of mentioning the matter to Giles. I should quietly have dropped my letter into the post-box, and my fellow-servants would have known nothing about it. My poor little shilling is likely to grow into four, and this is not the best part of the business: three persons may begin from to-day to take a pleasure in feeding the poor, and who can tell how many meals to the hungry, and what rich blessings to those who care for them, may spring from so tiny a seed as my mentioning that good society to little Miss Jessy to-day?"

Susan was returning upstairs with a very light heart, when the sounds which reached her ear from the nursery made her quicken her steps to a run. There were screams either of passion or of pain, and when Susan opened the door she saw Tom, scarlet with rage, holding Jessy's doll by the feet, and banging its head against the fender, while the little girl was vainly struggling to rescue her toy from his hands.

In another minute, Mrs. Fairley's pretty gift would have been battered to pieces, had not Susan darted forwards, wrenched it away from the hold of the boy, and put the doll on the top of the cupboard, beyond the reach of the furious child.

Tom's passion was instantly turned upon her who had dared thus to interfere between him and his sister. He flew like a wild cat on Susan, struck her with violence, and then actually bit her on the arm, then flung himself on the carpet, kicking and roaring with passionate fury.

Thus cruelly attacked by a cowardly bully, Susan felt at first anger as well as pain. Had her master been in the house, she would have complained to him, and Master Tom might for once have met with the punishment which he so richly deserved.

But poor Susan had no one to appeal to, and she had been given no authority to inflict chastisement herself. She must bear and forbear, and by patience endeavour to overcome evil by good.

"Oh! The bad, bad boy—how he has hurt you!" cried Jessy, indignantly, as Susan drew up her sleeve, and showed the marks left by his cruel teeth on her arm. "I wish I could beat him—I do!"

"When Master Tommy thinks quietly over his conduct, I am sure that he will be sorry that he has hurt his poor nurse," observed Susan, in a tone of gentle reproof.

This was all which she trusted herself to say on the subject.

She occupied herself in quieting and comforting Jessy. The hair of the doll, rudely torn from its head, was picked up by Susan, smoothed, and replaced; a few stitches repaired the doll's dress, which had been rent in the struggle. Jessy was soon made happy again, and then listened with interest to the account given by Susan of her conversation with John. The young nursery-maid forgot her pain when seeing the pleasure caused by the news that sixteen guests instead of eight were likely to be invited to share the hot Irish stew.

Susan, for the rest of the day, took no outward notice of Tom, except by attending to all his wants. It would not be wise or right to treat him as if nothing had happened, until he should ask forgiveness; this would be to make him think lightly of his sin.

Susan's silence towards him was more distressing to the boy than would have been the passionate chiding or even slap which he would have had from Betsy, had he treated her half as ill as he had treated Susan. Tom tried indeed to show that he did not care for being in disgrace, and for the first half-hour made as much noise as he could, spinning his crown-piece, drumming with his feet, and singing snatches of rude songs to make-believe that he was happy. But Tom could not keep up this show for long; Susan's patience tired out his passion. The boy became silent, sulky, and sad; Susan could not help thinking that Tom was ashamed of himself, though too proud to own that he was so.

In the meantime, the young maid made Jessy as happy as possible, playing with or reading to her in a soft low tone, to which Tom could listen if he would, as he sat with his back turned towards her, pulling an old basket to pieces, and scattering the bits on the floor.

When the children's bedtime drew near, Susan, remembering the careless way in which Jessy had said the Lord's Prayer, thought that she could not better employ a few minutes than in giving her charge a short and simple explanation of the holy words, which had so often passed her lips without her mind having an idea of their meaning. Susan took Jessy upon her knee, and explained as well as she could how great and holy is the Being who permits us to call Him "Father," and how the bright, happy angels do His will in the glorious Heaven above. It was sweet to Susan thus to feed her Lord's little lamb.

When Susan came to the fourth petition in the Lord's Prayer, Jessy looked pleasantly into her face and observed, "God always gives me daily bread, and meat, and nice things besides; won't God be pleased that I am going to give some to the poor little hungry children?"

Susan kissed the child, and replied, "The Lord is always pleased when we try to do His will, by being kind to His poor."

When the fifth petition in the prayer was explained, again Jessy looked full into the eyes of her nurse. "Can you forgive Tom out and out?" asked the child.

"I can—I do," replied Susan.

"I can't, and I don't," cried Jessy.

"Oh, dear Missie, we must pray for the spirit of forgiveness, for without it we dare not hope to be forgiven by God. The Lord has taught us mercy and love to those who have wronged us; not only by His words, but by His blessed example."

And then to her quiet, attentive hearer Susan told that touching story of prayer even for murderers, which, while it is a lofty theme for angels, falls sweetly on the ear of a child.

Susan did not speak long, for she feared to weary Jessy. The servant did not know what force her own gentleness and kindness gave to her words. Jessy felt that Susan, who thought and talked about holy things, was a very different person in her conduct and ways from what Betsy had been—she who never cared for religion. Even a child could draw the conclusion that what made Susan good must be good—that what made Susan happy would be likely to make herself happy; and a wish arose in Jessy's heart that she might grow more like Susan. The tiny night-light was already casting its radiance around.

After Jessy had laid her little head on her pillow, Susan put Master Tommy to bed. The little boy still seemed sulky, neither attempted to say his prayers, nor bade good-night to his nurse. He carried his money with him to his bed, and thrust it under his pillow.

"Master Tom," said Susan, gently, as she bent over the child, "I could not bear to go to sleep till I had asked forgiveness of God, and of any one whom I might have treated unkindly."

Tom made no reply, but pulled his coverlet over his head, and turned his face to the wall.

The boy was struggling against the better feelings which were rising up in his heart. The teaching and example of Susan had made quite as deep an impression upon Tow as upon his sister, but pride and temper were strong within him. Tom fell asleep muttering to himself that he was not sorry, he did not care! As for begging pardon—that was a thing which he had never done in his life, except when he had been in immediate fear of a flogging from his father.