CLICK! click! went the sharp, bright little needle, and that was the only sound heard in the room, save the occasional falling together of burning logs across the glowing embers in the deep grate. Outside, the wind was sighing round the house, but warm, heavy curtains shut out the noise of the storm, and everything seemed bright and cheerful in that old-fashioned housekeeper's room.
It was easy to see that this was the worthy dame's special apartment; the corner cupboard, with its cups and saucers, and queer Chinese teapots; the chiffonier with its tea-caddy and row of cookery books on the top; the linen presses and store closets which flanked one side of the room, all bespoke her peculiar domain; and in the center stood a quaintly carved oak table.
Work of every kind lay scattered on it, and the huge work box, which was standing open, was evidently intended more for use than ornament. It was a pleasant room to be sitting in on that cold December night, at least so thought Mary Keats, the poor work girl, as she sat at the table intent on finishing her appointed task.
But though her busy fingers plied so diligently, her thoughts had wandered off to the two small and poorly furnished rooms which she called "Home." A picture rose vividly before her of an infirm and anxious mother sitting watching for her return, and from Mary's heart came a prayer that God would shield and comfort the aged one, but praises and thanksgivings rose to her lips as she thought of the unlooked for blessings which had been showered on them lately.
“The Lord is mindful of His own," was the beautiful thought that came into her mind, and its sweetness caused her pale, wan face to light up with a sunny smile.
The door of the room stood partly open, and the crimson carpeted corridor outside was brilliantly lighted.
Mary knew that the room exactly opposite was the nursery, though she had never ventured in. But as she looked across, she could see the fire behind the high green fender, and the bath and rocking chair standing before it. All was silent on that upper landing, but from the great hall below ascended sounds of mirth and revelry.
Footsteps were hurrying to and fro, amid the din of voices, and rattle of glass and china, while every now and then a strain of gay music would burst on the ear as doors opened and closed again.,
The finishing stitches were being put into the work, when a slight noise caused Mary to look up.
In the doorway stood a golden-haired child of about five years old, her large brown eyes fixed on Mary.
Her natural curls fell in loose disorder over her snowy nightdress, and she was pushing back the stray locks from her face with both her hands.
Half reluctantly the tiny bare feet advanced into the room, but something in Mary's face seemed to give encouragement, and she drew nearer and nearer. Now, Mary loved children dearly, and during the few days she had been working in the house had often heard of little Geraldine, and had longed to see the one of whom all spoke so lovingly.
One day, when Lady L'Estrange entered the room to speak about some work, Mary caught a glimpse of that rosy baby face, peeping from the folds of her mother's dress, too shy to venture further. This evening she had seen the little beauty, in white frock and blue sash, carried past the door in nurse's arms, on the way down to dessert; so, with a smile of recognition, the work-girl rose gently to meet the little one, who, trembling, sprang into her arms.
“I'm so frightened," said the child. "Nurse has gone downstairs and left me all alone. Don't tell any one I came in here.”
“And why are you frightened, my darling? Don't you know God is able to take care of you in the dark as well as in the light?” answered Mary.
But tear-drops were shining in the bright eyes, so Mary added, "Have you heard about Jesus, the Good Shepherd, Who watches over His little lambs?”
A wondering look and shake of the head were the only response to this, so Mary went on:“Would you like to hear about Jesus, and be one of His little lambs?”
“Yes," said the child, eagerly, "tell me about Him.”
So the poor work girl told the sweet story of old to the little one on her knee, in simple, homely words, but all the more easily understood; how Jesus, the Lord of Glory, came down to earth, and was laid in a manger a helpless babe; and how, after His wondrous childhood, He grew up, and was crucified, that He might wash all His little lambs in His own blood, and so make them fit to live with Him forever in heaven.
Then she repeated this text over and over again: "Jesus said, Suffer little children to come unto me," adding the following verse:
"Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless Thy little lamb to-night;
Through the darkness be Thou near me-
Keep me safe till morning light.”
Geraldine listened, and then, as she tried to repeat the words after Mary, a feeling of rest and safety crept over her.
The lamp had died out and left the room in dreamy darkness; shadows from the fire-light flickered up and down the wall, and Mary's voice had a lulling effect. Soon the little head drooped heavily, and the child had drifted away into dreamland.
A few more glances at the dear little face, and an earnest prayer on her behalf, then Mary carried her burden across to the nursery, and depositing it in the blue-canopied cot, stole back to her work.
The clock soon striking nine warned her that she had already stayed long beyond her time; so, folding up the finished work, and putting everything neatly away, she prepared to depart.
While she was tying on her bonnet, Mrs. Gordon, the housekeeper, entered the room, saying, “Oh! Keats, I thought you had gone long ago, but I have been too busy downstairs to come up and see how you were getting on. But I see you have done a good day's work," added she, glancing at the folded pile on the table; "and I suppose you will be glad of your money for the four days you have been working here.”
So saying, she drew from her pocket a strong-looking leather purse, and counted out the shillings, adding, “I shall be glad if you can come again next week, as my lady has a great deal more work to be done.”
“I am very pleased, ma'am," answered Mary, "to have given satisfaction, and shall be most thankful to come again as often as you require me." And courtesying a respectful good-night, she took her leave.
No one noticed her quiet form as it glided noiselessly through the servants' hall, which was filled with strangers belonging to the guests upstairs, but a shudder came across her as she recognized Geraldine's nurse amongst the foremost in the revelry.
Unheeding their noisy mirth, she passed on through the passages, and the great door closed heavily upon her as she stepped out into the cold and almost deserted street.
Raw and keen was the wind that drove the chilling rain-drops against her face, but she drew her shawl round her and hurried bravely on. The flare of the gas lamps was reflected in every puddle, and each footfall sounded cheerless on the hard and shining pavement.
The stately and sombre-looking squares of the rich were soon passed, and she emerged into the more crowded thoroughfare, with its gay and well-lighted shops.
The grocers' windows had an especial attraction for her, and she stopped irresistibly before one in which were arrayed tempting piles of goods.
“Mother shall have a nice cup of tea for her supper," thought Mary; and, taking one of the hardly-earned shillings from her pocket, in another instant she was standing before the counter, watching with satisfaction the fragrant tea being tied up into a neat packet.
A few more turnings and windings through narrow streets and alleys brought her to the little court in which her humble dwelling stood. A cheerful light gleamed from the casement, while a child's voice rang out a welcome as she reached the door, and Willie, the little orphan nephew, who shared her home, ran out to meet her.
With a kiss for the child and a smile for her mother, Mary entered the room.
The small, round deal table was already set for the simple supper, and Mary, having laid aside her wet cloak, applied herself, with the aid of the bellows, to surround the kettle with a flame.
“Why, Willie, you are almost asleep," said she, as the curly-headed boy leant wearily on her shoulder.
“Yes, I am late," she answered to her mother's queries; "but I was obliged to finish some work.”
And then, over the cheering cup of tea, she told them of little Geraldine, for the child had already twined herself so closely round her heart that she felt the other members of her home must share her interest.
Let us now go back, and take another peep into Geraldine's nursery.
The great house in Albert Square is comparatively quiet now, for all the guests have rolled away in their grand carriages, and Lady L'Estrange has found her way into the quiet nursery. Tall, stately and beautiful, she stood by the little cot in sweeping folds of black velvet and rich lace.
The diamonds on her neck and arms flashed in the firelight, and gleamed from the coronet in her dark hair.
It was a sad, sweet face to look upon, though the light of youth still dwelt on her brow.
To the world she only appeared as a gay and bright votary of fashion, and people envied her beauty and winning ways.
But within each heart there is a hidden cell, the veil of which is seldom raised; the inner life which none outside may look into; it is a sealed book, full of thoughts and motives and dear recollections, lying sacred and apart.
Drawing aside the blue curtain, she stooped to kiss her child, its cheeks flushed with childhood's rosy slumber, the parted lips pressing the pillow, while on the satin coverlid lay one little hand.
The look, the kiss, brought tears into the mother's eyes, for while she watched the little sleeper a tide of thought and mingled memories rose up and filled her heart.
Bright pictures of a home left long ago, and early childhood stood out in sunny outline, and she again saw herself a little child at her mother's knee, and recalling her sweet parting words.
And now a void is in her heart, which she feels no earthly pleasure, however dearly bought, can ever fill.
Geraldine half opened her eyes, but did not awake. Lady L'Estrange caught the sound of words, and bent eagerly to listen.
“Jesus-Shepherd-bless thy little lamb," murmured the child, and then all was quiet again.
At this moment the nurse entered, heartily vexed that her mistress should have found her absent from the nursery.
“Nurse," said Lady L'Estrange, "the child looks feverish, and seems restless.”
“Oh! I think not, my lady," replied she, without the slightest hesitation; "she has been sleeping quietly ever since I put her to bed. I only left her two minutes ago to fetch something.”
But only half satisfied, the mother quitted the room.
Glory, Glory, Glory
THERE was a little, lovely child,
As merry as the birds,
And bounding gaily o'er the ground,
She loved to sing the words,
“I'm glad I ever saw the day-
Sing glory, glory, glory-
When first I learned to read and pray,
And sing of glory, glory.”
The Savior said, "Let little ones
Come, and my blessing claim;”
And He will in His bosom bear
The tender little lamb.
“I'm glad I ever saw the day-
Sing glory, glory, glory-
When first I learned to read and pray,
And sing of glory, glory.”
That babe had heard the tale of love,
Which Jesus came to tell;
She knew that He had died on earth,
To save from sin and hell,
And 'twas this love that made her sing
Of glory, glory, glory,
And to the Savior praises bring
In glory, glory, glory.
Ere long upon her dying bed
She lay in feverish pain;
In broken accents sweetly still
She raised the joyous strain:
“I hope to praise Him when I die,
In glory, glory, glory,
And shout salvation as I fly
To glory, glory, glory.
Her little, burning hands were clasped,
Unconsciously she smiled,
And looking upward to the sky,
Renewed her measure wild
“'Tis glory's foretaste makes me sing
Of glory, glory, glory,
And praise Him who is King of kings,
Like those that sing in glory.”
And when the fever's rage was spent
Upon her helpless frame,
She smiled upon her weeping friends,
Who round her pillow came,
And softly lisped her fav'rite lay,
And murmured, "Glory, glory;
I'm glad I ever saw the day,
Sing glory, glory, glory.
“The Savior said, ‘Let little ones
Come, and My blessing claim!'
And He will in His bosom bear
The tender little lamb"-
She spoke, and closed her eyes in night;
The soul had fled to glory!
Forever in that world of light
To sing of glory, glory.
And now, what lesson should be learned
From this sweet infant's story?
To follow in her steps along
The narrow path to glory.
There's room enough in that blest place
Where Jesus dwells in glory,
For God has freely offered grace,
And glory, glory, glory.