CHAPTER X

Old Joe

MR. ROBIN climbed out of the window, and taking Audrey's hand in his, he told her to guide him to the place where she had heard the voice. She led him in and out amongst the tombstones; as far as the east window of the church. Then, when they were sheltered from the wind and the rain under the church wall, he lighted his candle, and they went round the corner to the north side of the old building.

There, on the grass under the yew tree, lay an old man, so small, so thin, so shrivelled, that he looked no bigger than a boy twelve years old. His hat had fallen from his head, and his untidy grey hair hung upon his shoulders, and round his neck was a board on which was written the one word—"Blind."

The old man's eyes were closed, and he took no notice of them as they bent over him. Mr. Robin took hold of his hand, and it was cold as ice; then he felt his threadbare clothes, and these were wet through with the rain, and so was his old red scarf, which he had untied, and which was lying beside him on the grass.

"I think he is dying, Audrey," said Mr. Robin gravely.

But just then the old man opened his eyes, and said in a trembling voice—

"Don't tell of me—don't let them lock me up! I didn't do no harm to nobody."

"We'll take him to the fire," said Mr. Robin. "Go and get Stephen's father to help me, Audrey; he'll be in by now."

Very gently the two men carried him through the churchyard, whilst Audrey went before them with the candle. They took him into Mr. Robin's house, and put him in Granny Robin's arm-chair before a blazing fire. Then Audrey went to tell Aunt Cordelia, and to ask her to come and help them.

The kettle was soon boiled, and they gave him some hot tea, and then the colour came back a little into his ashen face, and he said—

"Thank you. I'm better now. You won't tell of me—will you?"

"What is there to tell?" asked Mr. Robin.

"You won't tell of me sleeping in the old church. I don't do no hurt to anybody."

Mr. Robin and Stephen's father looked at each other.

"So you sleep in the old church, do you?" said Mr. Robin.

"Yes," said the old man. "I've slept there about a year now. You won't tell of me, will you? I've nowhere else to go but to the house, and I don't do a bit of harm—not a bit I don't."

"How do you get in?" asked Granny Robin.

"Through the vestry-window," he said. "It hasn't a lock on it. But I couldn't climb up this afternoon; I turned faint and dizzy-like. I fell down quite stupid, and when I came to my senses it was raining fast; I thought I was going to die—I did indeed."

"Then that was the light we saw in the church—me and Stephen!" cried Audrey.

"Did you see it?" said the old man piteously. "Don't tell of me—don't!"

"How do you get your living?" asked Granny Robin.

"I sit under the railway-bridge and play my fiddle," said the old man. "I must have dropped my fiddle, I think," he said, as he felt for it with his trembling hands. "It'll be on the grass outside somewhere; and I get a few coppers—a very few coppers indeed. They buy me a bit of food, but I've none left for lodgings—not a penny, I haven't."

"So you sleep in the old church! Isn't it very damp?" asked Aunt Cordelia.

"Not in the pulpit," said the old man. "I curl away in the pulpit, and put my head on an old cushion—it's snug up in the pulpit. Don't tell of me—now don't, there's good folks!"

"But what do you want a light for?" said Mr. Robin gravely.

"Just to eat my supper by," he said. "It's so dark in there. I feel lonesome when I'm eating my supper. I put it out as soon as ever I've done."

"Then you're not blind!" said Stephen's father, holding up the board which had been hanging round his neck.

"No," he said; "I wear that because they give me more coppers if I do. I haven't very good sight; it's dim-like, but I'm not so blind as all that."

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said Mr. Robin. "This is a very sad story."

"Don't tell of me—" said the old man, whimpering like a child, "don't tell of me!"

"We must think what's to be done," said Granny Robin; "we'll talk it over to-night."

"And you may sleep on this sofa till morning," added Mr. Robin. "We are trusting you very much by letting you stay under our roof; but we can't turn you out in the rain. You won't disappoint our trust, will you?"

"No, I won't, sir," said old Joe; "and thank you kindly, sir!"

He turned so faint after this, that they were obliged to lift him on the sofa and to cover him with a thick shawl. And then, when the others were gone, and Mr. and Mrs. Robin were alone, they talked long and earnestly together about what was to be done with old Joe. He was evidently a poor, ignorant old man, with no idea of right or wrong, and as dark in his soul as a heathen in Africa. Yet perhaps God had sent him to them that they might lead him into the Kingdom of Light, and if so, they ought not to send him away.

So in the morning, after they had given him some breakfast, they talked to him about it.

"We have an empty room at the top of the house," said Mr. Robin, "where you may sleep, and we'll put a mattress for you to lie on, if you'll do two things to please us, and if you'll keep your word about them. First, you must promise me you'll never go into the old church again—if you do, we shall feel it our duty to tell of you; and next, you must let me put that lying board of yours at the back of the fire. If you'll do those two things, old Joe, we'll give you a shelter and welcome."

"And you'll not tell of me?" said the old man.

"Not as long as you keep your word," said Mr. Robin.

So old Joe stayed on. His illness seemed to have been brought on by exposure and by want, and after a few days' quiet, he seemed almost himself again. Then he was never to be seen in the daytime, for wet or fine, he went to play under the railway-bridge; and he found that he received quite as many pence as he had done when he had that lying board round his neck.

But in the evening, just as it was growing dark, he climbed over the wall on the opposite side of the churchyard, and came creeping through the graves up to Granny Robin's window. Here he rapped three times, and when they had let him in, they took him to the kitchen fire, that he might warm himself before going up to bed.

Audrey and Stephen would often come in to talk to him, as he sat holding his thin, wrinkled hands to the blaze. Audrey felt him her special charge, and often said that Old Joe belonged to her, for she had found him first.

"How was it we only saw your light on Sunday?" she asked him one day.

"Because I was in earlier that night," he said. "I came later on week nights; I was afraid of folks seeing me; but I didn't think as anybody would be about the old church of a Sunday night."

"I'm so sorry for you, old Joe," said little Stephen, laying his small hand on the shrivelled one of the old man. "I wonder if you are one of the Children of Light?"

"I'm afraid he's not," said Audrey gravely.

"Oh, but you must be!" said little Stephen. "You'll be so happy if you are."

"I never heard tell of them," said old Joe.

"They are the people who belong to Jesus," said Stephen; "and He will make you one of them if you ask Him. Will you ask Him, old Joe?"

"I've been a bad, wicked old man," said Joe. "I don't suppose He would have anything to do with such as me."

"But He loves you," said little Stephen—"doesn't He, Audrey? And He died for you, old Joe. Won't you ask Him to take you into the Kingdom of Light?"

"I haven't said a prayer since I was a little lad and went to Sunday-school," said old Joe—"not for sixty years or more. It's too late for me to begin now."

"No, it isn't too late," said Audrey. "It's never too late to begin to pray."

"You must begin to-night, old Joe," said Stephen. "Put your hands together—so—now say after me, 'O Lord, take my sin away, and make me a Child of Light. Amen.' You can remember that prayer—can't you, old Joe?"

"I think I can," said the old man.

"And you can say it when you're out under the railway-bridge, can't you?" asked Audrey.

"I think so; I'll try," said the old man humbly.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said little Stephen. "'I do so want you to be one of the Children of Light."