YES, it was a tear, and it was not the only tear which John Robinson shed that night. He loved little Faith dearly, quite as much as if she had been his own child. Her poor mother had died in the next attic when Faith was three weeks old. Her husband had deserted her some time before the baby was born, so that when she was gone the poor little thing was left alone in the world. John's wife, Mary, had brought it into their room, crying, cold, and hungry. She had comforted it, warmed it, and fed it, and they had never had the heart to turn it out again.
“Let her bide," Mary had said; "she'll, maybe, bring a blessing with her, poor bairn!"
And little Faith had been nothing but a blessing ever since—at least, so John Robinson thought. She had always loved him, and always been a comfort to him. It was a year now since Mary had died, and Faith had been his little comforter ever since.
But what was to be done with the children whilst he and Faith were out on market days? That was the question to be decided when his wife died. And, in an evil moment, he had accepted the offer of his wife's mother,
Mrs. Gubbins, to come and live with him, and to look after the little ones. He would never have had her if he had known what she was. But she lived in a town many miles away, and neither he nor Mary had seen her for many years. So when her letter came, in which she offered to come and live with him, he was very pleased, and thought it was a way out of his difficulty.
And Mrs. Gubbins came, and, having come, she stayed. And in less than a week, his clean, comfortable room was changed into a pigsty; the children became neglected and disorderly, and all the quiet and peace and rest dropped out of his life.
But John Robinson was a weak man, and he became thoroughly afraid of Mrs. Gubbins. He had not the courage to send her away, and from day to day he endured in silence. He was cowed and unhappy; he longed to turn her out, and dared not. But to-night she had roused his anger as never before. Send little Faith away! He would never allow her to do that! No, as soon, as she woke he would order her out, and have his room in peace again. And with this resolution John Robinson fell asleep.
But Faith was also making a resolution, and she did not go to sleep. She lay awake, listening intently to every sound in the room. Mrs. Gubbins was snoring loudly, and, after a time, John Robinson followed her example.
Faith listened a long time, to be quite sure he was asleep; then she crept from under the blanket and stood upright on the floor. The boards creaked as she did this, and she stood perfectly still for some moments, that she might be sure that the noise had not awakened either the man or the old woman. But the snoring went on as before; so Faith stooped down very, very quietly, and then she groped her way to the door.
It was quite dark, for the fire had gone out, and John Robinson had put out the candle before he went to sleep, and she was very much afraid of stumbling over Mrs. Gubbins, who was lying somewhere in front of the fire. Slowly and cautiously, and yet trembling so much that she could hardly stand, she felt her way to the door.
Oh, how the boards creaked and strained, and oh, how little Faith shook with fear! But no one moved in the room! they did not hear the noise. John Robinson was tired out with his hard day's work, and Mrs. Gubbins was heavy with drink. It would have taken a much louder noise than little Faith's quiet footstep to have wakened either of them.
So Faith reached the door, and quietly unlatched it, and crept out. Then she began to descend the long, rickety staircase. And this was a work of time, for it was almost impossible not to make some noise here, so rotten and broken were the boards. Oh, how thankful she felt when she had passed both the landings, and no one had heard her! And now she cautiously unbolted the street door, and looked out.
It was a pitch-dark night; not a star was in the sky. The rain was falling fast, and by the light of the one dingy gas-light in the street Faith could see that the road and pavement were covered with pools and mud. It was a dark, dismal, dreary night.
Little Faith was about to shut the door behind her and venture out into the darkness when she heard a footstep coming down the street. It came nearer and nearer. It was a man's footstep, and he was stumbling along as if he were drunk. Then he began to scream and to shout, and Faith drew back into the house and shut the door before he came up. She dared not venture into the darkness alone. She had heard that bad people were about at night what if she should meet any of them?
No, she dared not go till the morning. She would sit on the stairs till it was light. So she crept back again, and sat on the lowest step, and leaned her head on her hands. The wind blew through the draughty old house and underneath the badly-fitting door, and made her shiver as she sat there. She was very cold, and very sad, and very tired.
But little Faith had a Friend. Yes, lonely and desolate as she was, she had a Friend to whom she could turn. He had been her Friend for a long time now, and as she sat there, alone in the darkness, she whispered softly to herself some words which Mother Mary, as she always called Mrs. Robinson, had taught her: —
What a Friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear;
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer!
Oh, what peace we often forfeit!
Oh, what needless pain we bear!
All because we do not carry
Everything to God in prayer.
Have we trials and temptations?
Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged,—
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful,
Who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness,—
Take it to the Lord in prayer.
“Yes," she said, when she had finished the hymn, “I’ve never told Him nothing about it. Whatever will He think of me?”
So she knelt down on the step and said in a whisper, “God, I want to tell you, please, all about it. Mrs. Gubbins says I'm a taking the bread out of the bairns’ mouths, so please I’m a-going away, and will you help me to find somebody who wants a little servant? And will you please take care of Tommy, and Fanny, and the baby, and don’t let Mres. Gubbins slap ‘em, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”
Then Faith got up, and felt much happier. She knew her Friend would help her. She had carried it all to the Lord in prayer, and now she must not fret about it anymore. “That was what Mother Mary used to say,” said Faith to herself. “She told me I was to take all my troubles to the Lord and then leave ‘em with Him, and not bother about ‘em no more. She said it was a sin and a shame to doubt Him, and to think He wouldn’t give us anything, if we asked Him, and it was good for us.”
So little Faith tried to forget her sorrow; and by and by she fell asleep. How long she slept she did not know, but when she awoke the grey morning light was creeping under the door, and peeping through the keyhole, and making the dirty dusty walls of the old staircase visible once more.
Faith started up and opened the door, and then went out into the rain and mud. It was still quite early, and she had gone down several streets, and felt as if she were a long way from home before the church clock struck five. The streets were almost empty. No one passed her except a solitary policeman, a doctor returning from a patient who had sent for him in the night, and a workman whose work lay at a great distance from his home.
But presently, as time went on, and it got near six o'clock, the streets were nearly filled with working men, in their white jackets, hurrying along to their work. Then shutters began to be opened, and fires to be lighted, and smoke to come out of the chimneys.
Still Faith walked on. She wanted to get to quite a different part of that large town, where nobody knew her, and where she would never meet Mrs. Gubbins. She was very faint and hungry, for she had had no supper the night before. She had one penny in her pocket, which Mother Mary had given her long ago, and which she had kept for her sake. Faith had almost thought of giving it to her father, as she called John Robinson, the night before, when he was so unhappy about having taken so little money. But it would not have made much difference, and she was glad now that she had kept it, for it would buy her some breakfast. And then she must begin to look for a little place where she could be servant.
But, first, she must make herself tidy. No one would take an untidy little girl, she thought. For this purpose she went down an alley, where was a pump in the middle of the square, and washed her hands and her face. Then she took a comb from her pocket, which had belonged to the stall, but which her father had given her the day before, because it was broken, and could not be sold. With this she combed her hair, and plaited it neatly up again. Mary Robinson had taught her to be very clean and tidy, and her little frock, though it was full of patches and darns, had not a single hole in it. Since Mother Mary had died, Faith had mended it for herself. She looked a very clean, tidy child when she came out of the alley, and set out in search of a shop at which to spend her penny.
She found a baker's shop at last, but it was not open; the baker and his family had overslept themselves. Faith was thinking of going on to look for another shop. But she turned so faint and sick that she was obliged to sit down on the baker's step. She felt she could walk no further until she had had something to eat.
At last the door was opened, and a boy came out and took down the shutters. Then Faith walked into the shop.
“Well, what's wanted?" said the baker's daughter, as Faith held out the penny.
“Please," said Faith, in a faint voice, “I want the biggest cake you've got for a halfpenny."
“You look half hungered," said the girl, as she handed her a tea-cake. “Sit you down on that chair and eat it. Mother, come you here “she called, in a louder voice.
A fat, rosy, good-tempered-looking woman answered the call.
“She wanted the biggest cake we've got for a halfpenny," said the girl. “Look at her; she's nigh hungered!”
“Where are you off to?” said the baker's wife to Faith, as she sat eating her cake.
“Please, ma'am," said little Faith,” I'm looking for a place. I'm going to be a little servant somewhere. Do you know of anybody as wants a little girl?”
“Why, now," said the woman to her daughter,” doesn't Miss Benson want one?"
“Ay," said the girl, “so they say; but maybe she wouldn't take such as her."
“There’s no harm in asking her, anyhow," said the baker's wife. “Take the child across to her, Maggie."
So Faith followed Maggie across the road ; but, before she went, the good baker's wife gave her two more large tea-cakes, and gave her the halfpenny back again which her daughter had taken.
“Jesus made her do that, I'm sure," said Faith to herself.
Miss Benson was not up, and they had to wait for some time to see her, and then when she did come downstairs she seemed quite angry with Faith for coming, and with the baker's daughter for having brought her.
“Want a servant? Yes, she did want a servant; but a proper, respectable sort of servant, not a little, weakly, sickly child. She should have thought they would have known that, without needing to be told“; and, so saying, she showed them out.
The baker's daughter took a kind leave of the child, but said she was afraid she did not know of anyone else.
So little Faith went on alone, very sorrowfully.