CHAPTER XXVII.

A DARK RIDE.

THE woman, still holding her hand, led her to the gates.

"Dear miss," she said at last, "why do you cry? You, at any rate, ought to be very glad, for you have brought me, by your great kindness, what is worth the whole world to me! Why do you cry?"

Again Gertrude could do nothing but pray a silent momentary prayer, to be taught to say the right words.

"I am crying because I am glad for you; because I do not love our blessed Saviour half enough myself for all He has done for me. But I am crying, too, I think, because—because—I want you to tell me the rest about that poor little boy, and because I want you to give him back to his mother."

The woman let go her hand suddenly, and there was a long pause. Their steps carried them through the gates into the dark road outside.

"You have asked a very hard thing," said the woman, slowly.

Gertrude was silent; her heart sank at the altered tone.

"And yet—" the woman went on, "and yet—I see that it will have to come to that; I saw it as I lay with my face on my Johnnie's grave. The moment I had come to Christ to have my sins forgiven, I promised Him that for His great love to me I would show that little bit of love to Him, and do it for His sake. Yes, what I could not do for even Johnnie's sake, I will do for Jesus!"

She clasped Gertrude's hand again, and covered it with kisses; while the poor girl, wholly overcome, sobbed convulsively.

"I will tell you the rest as we go along," whispered the woman.

"Where do you live?" asked Gertrude, when she could speak. "Shall we have a cab? I will drive you home if you will let me."

"It is a long way," said the woman. "I live at Hampstead."

At Hampstead! Gertrude started, and then she said quietly—

"We will go together then, and you will tell me on the way? I know you will be kind now. I too have something to tell you!"

They were quite silent till they were seated in the vehicle and driving down the long road that led from Highgate to Hampstead Heath.

None too long, however, as Gertrude knew, for all she wanted to hear.

The woman began of herself.

"Dear miss," she said, "I have made up my mind; so now there is nothing to do but to carry it out. For His great love, I'm going to have just a little love, and try to do right—at last."

"Tell me about the little boy!" whispered Gertrude.

"Yes, yes, but I must find his mother! That is the next step, no matter what it costs. Do you think she will have me imprisoned?"

"I should hope not—I should think not!" exclaimed Gertrude.

"Well, well, no matter now. I must find her; life is but short, and soon I shall see Jesus and Johnnie! I cannot look at things as I did; it is all new and wonderful. What was very dreadful does not seem so dreadful, and this world seems far-away, and heaven very near."

She looked up into the starry sky, and seemed lost in thought. Gertrude's touch recalled her.

"Yes," she said, as if taking up the thread with an effort, "I must tell you the rest.

"As I said, we tried everything we could possibly think of to bring the poor little dear back to his senses. Oh, it was a cruel, cruel trick, miss; you cannot say it more strongly than I did; but Johnnie did not mean to do harm. Never was a boy more bitterly sorry than my little Johnnie. I don't think he often had a happy moment after, till he died. Oh, tricks are dreadful things! This one has ruined my life, and Johnnie's, and—other lives too."

Again she broke off with a gasp. Gertrude noticed that she could hardly speak of little Lester without it.

"At last, my husband came home and found us hiding, as you may say, in a street in Bermondsey. He was dreadfully cut up about it, and wanted me to give the child back to his mother at once. But fear kept me from doing what was right, and I would not hear of it.

"At last, we decided we could not live where we were. The little one's health grew very poor—" (Gertrude gave a shiver of pain, but she kept silent)—"and so at last we decided to send Johnnie to school, and to take a house near Hampstead, where my husband could employ himself. He used to be head-gardener at a gentleman's place before he went as steward, so that was what he turned his hand to. The little one and I lived at the top of the house, and there he is now."

"Is he ill?" asked Gertrude, in a smothered voice, her heart sinking at what the answer might be.

"Very poorly," answered the woman, in a low tone; "very poorly indeed."

"If you could find his mother, would you let her see him?" asked Gertrude.

"Yes," said the woman slowly.

"May I help you to find her?"

"Ah, miss, that will be a job. You see, it's two years ago, and I only know her name, and the name of the place where she did live once—Camptown."

"I am sure I can help you if you will trust me," said Gertrude, trembling, "but what about my promise not to tell?"

The woman was silent for a moment. Already the cab had crossed the broad Heath, and was rattling down the steep town of Hampstead. They would be home in five minutes.

Then the woman took Gertrude's hand in hers again, and pressing it till it ached, she said, brokenly, "You may tell 'her,' if you can find her."

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