CHAPTER XXV.

JOHNNIE'S JOKE.

"WOULD it help you to tell 'me'?" asked Gertrude, bending over the woman as she still knelt with her head buried in her lap.

She laid a tender hand on her head, and stroked her hair softly, wondering at herself that she could, and yet feeling an overwhelming pity in her heart. Was not she a sinner too, and did she not know that the seeds of all sorts of evil lurked in her own heart?

"A sinner saved!" she thought. And then she said aloud, "I have learned what it is to be forgiven myself, you know, and so I can sympathize."

"You have never done what I have," murmured the woman. "But—I do not know why, yet I trust you! I will, if I can, tell you about it. You will see then that I shall never be able to keep this promise."

"You will, if you believe that the dear God is able to help you. Oh, if only you would, from your heart, ask Him to forgive you—whatever it is—I am sure, after that you would be able to keep your promise."

The woman trembled, and after a minute or two's silence, she said in a low tone—

"I never meant to—not at first. But before I say a word more, you will promise me that you will never tell 'any one'?"

"No," said Gertrude; "I will keep your secret faithfully."

Then the woman went on almost beneath her breath—

"It was two years ago. I never meant to do it! I was as honest and straightforward a woman as you would find.

"We lived—no matter where. My husband was a steward on board one of the steamers going to and from China, and was not at home then. I settled down in a seaside place, and hired a house and furniture, and set up lodging-keeping.

"I had nobody but my Johnnie with me, and we were enough for each other.

"By and by there came a lady and a little boy—a dear little fellow."

She caught her breath for a moment with a sobbing sigh, and then went on in a low almost inaudible tone—

"His mother was obliged to go away to Scotland, and I took care of him while she was gone. One afternoon I was called into a neighbour's to help with some one who had got a bad scald, and the time ran away, and I was gone longer than I had ought to have been. I know that—I'd no business to have left him so long."

The woman wound her shawl round her face and wept bitterly.

Gertrude's heart was beating so fast that she felt choked, while she breathlessly listened to the tale which matched—yes, yes it did!—that dreadful one of her sister's.

Then a blank despair fell upon her. Why had she given that reckless promise not to tell any one? Ought she to hear the rest of the story and remain silent? And if she interrupted now, the secret might be gone for ever!

In this terrible crisis, Gertrude could but breathe in her heart a swift prayer for guidance and help to her unseen but ever-present Friend. Afterwards, she knew that it had been given, but now she could only trust.

Could this be indeed the clue to Rose's mystery? She knew not what to do, so she waited.

"When I came back," the woman went on at last, though her words were choked and broken, "Johnnie—my Johnnie—met me in the passage full of excitement.

"'I've had such a lark,' he said, in his cheerful little way.

"I went into the parlour (we had no lodgers just then) with my mind full of the scalded girl, and I said—

"'Where's the little one, Johnnie? I did not mean to be gone so long.'

"'Come up and see,' he said. And he led me up-stairs and opened one of the bedroom doors.

"I gave a great scream—I remember it all as if it had happened yesterday—for there before me was a great monster which Johnnie had dressed up for fun, with a big mask on and a candle behind it, shining out of the eyes. Of course it was only for a moment I was frightened, and I turned round to scold Johnnie about it, when I saw close to it the figure of the little boy I was taking care of, standing with his finger touching it.

"He was such a wonderfully timid child that my heart gave a great jump when I saw him first. But after all, I thought, he was less scared than I was.

"'Come along, dear,' I said, 'we will go down-stairs.'

"But the little fellow did not move. He went on touching the great monster that Johnnie had made, and took not the slightest notice of me.

"I went up to him and looked in his face.

"'Ain't you tired of this ugly thing?' I said. 'Johnnie hadn't ought to have done it. Come along, dear!'

"But though I took him up in my arms, he still looked with those startled big eyes, until I got him safe down into our parlour.

"When I got there, I expected him to 'come to,' and perhaps have a little cry. But oh, miss! How can I tell you my feelings when he just sat where I put him, or stood where I stood him, without taking any more notice than a doll.

"'Johnnie!' I said. 'What did you do?'

"Johnnie was terrified enough. 'I only told him to go up-stairs and see something pretty in your room,' he said.

"'And did he go?'

"'He was mighty afraid at first, and then he ran up all at once, very brave-like, and I thought there was no harm!' said Johnnie.

"And no more he did, miss; he loved the little fellow as much as I did. Only Johnnie was always one for those jokes; that's what it was."

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