The Boy Artist Part 11

The children received her with delight, telling her, immediately upon her entrance, that Mr. Smith came from the country, and could tell beautiful stories. Mrs. Shipton thanked him gratefully for being so kind to her little ones, and began to feel more comfortable about the expediency of having admitted him into their family circle.

It was soon time for the children to go to bed; but before he left the room, little Maurice knelt down beside his mother and said his evening prayer. Mr. Smith watched the child with curious attention as he prayed, and once or twice with a sudden abruptness he cleared his throat and crossed and uncrossed his legs.

Maurice never raised his head, but went on with the simple words, "Bless dear mother, and Nellie, and Janet; and take care of Alan out on the sea this night, and bring him safe home; and bless grandfather, and take care of him now that he is an old man. For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

Why did the lodger start? Why did he so hastily dash his hand across his eyes, then stand up and go to his own room? When there, why did the old man let the bitter scalding tears run down his cheeks? why did those broken, mournful words come from his lips,--

"Alan! Alan! my son; would G.o.d I had died for thee, Alan, my son!" He paused, then went on more sorrowfully:--"Why, why did you leave me, if you loved me? Oh, my boy! why did you break my heart, Alan?--Dead! dead!

and I am alone now; yet you taught your children to pray for the lonely old man. Bless you, my boy--too late--too late--my blessing would have made you happy in life, but now it can do nothing for you."

Then the old man put his head outside the door, and called to Ellen, who was pa.s.sing, to say that he was going to bed.

But it was long before sleep came to him, for he lay thinking of the old days, long ago, when children had loved him, when life had been sunny and warm,--why had it grown so chill and cold of late? Ah, Farmer Shipton, there is but one thing which can make life full of warmth and sunshine, and that is the love of G.o.d.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER II.

TRANSPLANTED DAISIES.

A month soon pa.s.sed away, and old Mr. Smith had become quite one of the household. He was very kind in his manner to the children, though sometimes blunt and abrupt, but he seemed constantly to be watching their mother, with a suspicion which she could not understand. However, he was out a great deal, and she did not find him at all in the way, and she was glad the children had made friends with him.

"Mother, I like Mr. Smith; he's very good to us; but isn't he a funny man?" said Ellen one evening, and she looked up from her work as she spoke.

"I think he's very kind to you, my dear, and you are quite right to like him," replied Mrs. Shipton slowly, for there was something about her lodger which she could not understand; and she was not quite sure whether she liked him or not.

"He goes out to see London, doesn't he, mother?"

"Yes; he has never been here before, and there is plenty for a stranger to see."

"But, mother."

"Well, Ellen?"

"I think he's very kind, and all that; but I don't think he's happy: often and often when I look up, I see him looking at me with his eyes full of tears. Isn't it odd and queer for a man to cry. Father never cried."

Mrs. Shipton did not answer; why should the child know of all the bitter tears which her father had shed?

"Perhaps Mr. Smith has some trouble that we do not know of, dear."

"I think he has, mother; but wasn't it kind of him to get that bottle of wine for Maurice?"

"Yes; poor little Maurice! Ellen, I sometimes think--," and the mother's voice trembled.

"What, mother?"

"I think he's going from me too;" and the poor woman put down her work, and bowed her head in her hands.

Little Ellen came up close to her mother, and slipping her arm round her neck, laid her face close to hers, and whispered, "Mother, mother, don't cry--G.o.d will take care of Maurice; he won't let him die."

"I think sometimes that he will, he is so like poor father, and he seems so delicate and weakly, and I have no means of getting him the strengthening things he needs."

"But, mother, he is better than he was."

"Not much, dear; he has never got over that illness, and sometimes I think that he will not live much longer; but I cannot let him go--my boy--my youngest--my little Maurice."

"Mother, we will pray to G.o.d to make him well; and you say G.o.d always hears us when we pray."

"Yes, dear, yes, he does; pray to him, dear Nellie; we will all pray to him to spare little Maurice."

The mother and daughter had not perceived that Mr. Smith had entered the room, and was standing opposite to them.

"What's the matter, eh? what's the matter?" said the old man, as Ellen looked up, and he caught sight of the tears on her cheeks. Mrs. Shipton got up quickly and hurried out of the room; and Ellen dried her eyes, and busied herself in putting the work away.

Just then Janet came in with Maurice, and they eagerly claimed a story from Mr. Smith. The old man looked earnestly at them for a minute, and then said, "I don't know any story to-night, little ones."

"Then tell us something about the country," said Maurice.

"You should see a corn-field, children; that's the sight," said Mr.

Smith. "Oh, how you'd like to see them binding up the sheaves, and how quickly the sickles cut down the ripe grain!"

"But don't the men cut down beautiful flowers at the same time?" said Janet. "Father used to tell us about the flowers."

The old man was silent for a moment, and then said quickly, "Flowers--ah! poor children, you don't know what flowers are here, in your smoky, dirty town."

"What kind of flowers grow in the country?" said Ellen.

"Why, there's primroses, and violets, and roses, and honeysuckle, and poppies, and a hundred things."

"Well, we've got flowers in the town too," said Janet.

"Indeed," said Mr. Smith incredulously. "I haven't discovered them yet, except a few things, stunted and withered, and all boxed up in smoky gardens."

Janet smiled to herself, and determined that she would show the country stranger the truth of her words.

The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Smith went to the nearest church with Ellen and Janet, while Mrs. Shipton stayed at home with Maurice.

Janet did not return with the others, but when they had been in a few minutes, her bounding footstep was heard on the stairs, and she entered with a whole handful of daisies, which she held out triumphantly to Mr.

Smith.

"There!" she cried, "there are flowers in the town!"

Mr. Smith laughed. "Where did these come from, little one?"