CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE HOSPITAL.

Jem came back within the hour. He found his Meg awake and calm. She had had some breakfast, and was now lying with her hand clasped in little Dickie's with a serene smile on her face.

As for the child, he lay on the soft white pillow with his eyes closed from the light, dozing occasionally and then rousing just enough to understand the tender care that surrounded him, and to realize that he need have no fear now.

"Cherry," he said, without moving, hearing Jem's entrance and believing it to be his sister, "is this what ye asked Jesus to send me?"

"Yes," answered Cherry, who was standing on the other side of the bed, "only I didn't know as the Lord Jesus would send anything so very nice as this."

Dickie assented, adding with a little sigh of satisfaction, "I never want to get up no more."

"You shall lie here as long as you like," said Meg assuringly. "Now, Dickie, open your eyes and look at Jem."

"I can't open my eyes," answered Dickie, "'cause they hurt so; but I'm glad fa'ver-Jem has come back."

"Am I to be 'father-Jem'?" asked the man, bending down to look closer into the little face.

"Yes," said Dickie; "if it's 'mo'ver-Meg,' it must be 'fa'ver-Jem.'"

Jem smiled and then sighed. He had hoped for something different from this; but what if His Father's will had arranged it so?

"You do not mind, Jem?" came in Meg's soft voice. "His feeling so has made me very happy."

"So it shall me, sweetheart," he answered, taking the child henceforward right into his big heart.

Then he turned to Cherry.

"Make haste and put on your hat, Cherry," he said to her; "for I want to get your poor father to give you to us to take care of. D'ye think he will?"

Cherry looked doubtful. It was on her lips to say, "Father would do anything for drink," but she felt it would be cruel to even think such a thing now, and she hastily dismissed the thought. And as it went another came--"I'll ask Jesus to help." So when she put on her shabby little hat, and turned down-stairs with Jem, the uppermost thought in her heart came to be, "Oh, if only poor father could love Jesus; I shouldn't mind about being happy myself."

Perhaps Jem's mind was running on the same subject, for he walked along very silently by her side. Once he turned to her to take her little thin hand, and to ask her if he were walking too fast, but after that he scarcely spoke till they stood inside the hospital.

He felt Cherry's hand trembling so much then, that he stooped to her, and spoke in a whisper.

"There's naught to be afraid of, dear," he said; "and if you're thinkin' of your poor father, the best plan as I know on is to tell God about that."

Cherry looked up. Did he guess from her eyes that she had already done so?

They soon found themselves in the accident ward, and in a moment were standing by a bed in which Cherry could recognize her father's form.

"I don't suppose it'ull be much use," said the nurse in a low tone; "he hasn't taken a bit of notice since he was brought in; the only word he says is 'Dickie,' and you don't either of you seem to be him."

Jem shook his head.

"May I speak to him?"

"Oh, yes; but you mustn't be disappointed if he don't notice."

She made a gesture which implied that he had not long to live, and then stood off at a little distance; while Cherry, at a sign from Jem, bent towards the bed and whispered, "Father!"

The suffering man moved uneasily and groaned.

"Father, I'm so sorry as you're hurt. Don't you know your little Cherry?"

"Dickie, Dickie!" said the man despairingly.

"Do you want Dickie?" asked Cherry, trembling.

"No, no, no; only I wish he hadn't been hurt. Dickie, Dickie!"

"Father," said Cherry, gathering courage from Jem's eyes, "father, you know as I and Dickie pray to the Lord Jesus?"

The miserable man seemed to be listening.

"Well, father, we asked Him to find some one to take care of Dickie, and--"

"They'll have him again," broke in the man. "I said as I'd give 'im over to 'em, and they'll hold to 'im. It ain't a bit o' use. Oh, I can't talk to yer. Oh, my dreadful pain! To think Dickie should ever suffer like this; and I took no heed of it when I might."

"But, father," said Cherry, restraining her tears by a violent effort, "there's stronger than them as has Dickie in hand. Don't ye see that Jesus is stronger than them?"

The man only groaned afresh.

"And Jesus has heard me and Dickie askin' Him, and He's found us such a nice home. Father, 'ull you be willin' to give us to those as is so good to us?"

"Who?" asked the man, for the first time opening his eyes.

"To me," said Jem, coming close. "I've taken 'em from old Sairy, and they shan't ever go back, if you'll say as you will let me and Meg be their guardians."

The poor dying eyes were eagerly scanning Jem's face; they returned to Cherry's as if satisfied.

"Their mother was a good woman," he said.

"So Cherry tells me. We'll do our best to teach them to be good too."

The man turned his head away as if he had done with the subject, and indeed with all earthly things. Then, just as Cherry and Jem were looking at each other in dismay, he roused himself once more.

"You may 'ave 'em," he said.

Jem signed to the nurse to draw near.

"Tom Seymour," he said solemnly, "do you make my wife and me guardians of your two children, Cherry and Dickie?"

"Yes," said the man distinctly; "and God grant as you may keep the charge better'n I've done."

"God will help us," said Jem, taking the hand which lay outside the counterpane; "and, my friend, God will help _you_. If you turn to him now He will receive you."

The man drew away his hand with impatient pain.

"That's past for me," he said between his teeth.

"No, it isn't, father," exclaimed Cherry. "If Jesus 'as been so good to you as to take Dickie away from old Sairy, don't ye think as He can be kind enough as to take you from Satan?"

"I'm too bad, Cherry; it ain't no use talkin'. You've tried, my girl, a score o' times. And so did yer mother; it ain't a bit o' good. Leave me to die now. If Dickie's all right, I can't 'elp the rest."

Cherry's eyes looked despairingly at Jem, but he encouraged her to try again, himself only praying silently that some word, winged by the power of the Mighty Spirit, might enter that hard heart.

"Ain't you goin' to _thank_ Jesus, then?" asked poor little Cherry. "He's been awful kind to Dickie, father."

The man was silent; but Cherry thought he heard her nevertheless.

"You did love Dickie, father?"

"And I _do_," flashed the man angrily; "howsoever cruel I've been, I do love the little 'un."

"And Dickie loves Jesus," pursued Cherry, soothingly; "and if you was to ask Dickie which he'd rather you'd love, he'd say as he'd like you to love _Jesus_. I know he would."

"It ain't no good now," said her father hopelessly.

"Why ain't it, dear father?"

"'Cause I've sinned till--it ain't no good now."

"But Jesus is sorry, and He'll forgive if you'll ask Him. Father--I _know_ He will. He says somethin' about 'Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.'"

"Ah! that's them as can be washed."

And then Jem said earnestly--

"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'"

"It's because Jesus died instead of us, father," added Cherry, weeping. "Oh, father, why don't ye come to Him?"

The man did not answer her. Wearied out with pain and emotion, he lay exhausted; nor would the nurse allow any more talking.

"You can come again this evening," she said, looking into Cherry's woe-begone face. "He may live till then."

With this they were forced to be satisfied, and Cherry turned away with a sad heart.

Slowly they made their way home again, while Cherry's halting steps seemed to drag more wearily than they had done while hope beat in her bosom. Tear after tear coursed down her cheeks, and it was with difficulty that she could guide herself in the crowded thoroughfare.

At last Jem, seeing this, took her hand again, and sought for words of comfort.

"You mustn't doubt God, child," he said kindly; "we're all apt to think as He can't do nothin' without us. But 'tis oftentimes when we have done all as is in our power, and yet have failed, that He can work best. Me and Meg was readin' yesterday--why, it was only yesterday!" he exclaimed, stopping to interrupt himself,--"we was readin' afore I went to my work some such words as these: 'Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit, saith the Lord.' And, Cherry, it seems to me as it ain't when we can do most, but when we'll let _Him_ do most, as He can work best."

Cherry listened and took courage, and though she did not say a word, she thanked Jem from the bottom of her little heart.

When they presented themselves at the hospital again that evening, and asked to be allowed to see Tom Seymour, the answer came like a knell to them both:

"He died at three o'clock."

"Dead?" asked Cherry; and no one knew the depths of that crippled orphan's heart at that moment. No one but God; but He knew, and pitied.

Dead! and no messages of God's love, no assurances of forgiveness, no pardoning grace could reach him now. He had sunk into the grave, in spite of all her efforts, all her prayers, unsaved!

A hand touched her arm. It was the nurse's who had stood by them that morning.

"Come in here," she said, leading the way to a little comfortless room where people waited. It was empty now, and the nurse closed the door. She held out to Jem the piece of paper he had left with her that morning, containing his address in case of his being wanted.

Under his name was written, in the doctor's hand, "I, Tom Seymour, leave my children to his care," and then there was a weak straggling cross, and the doctor's signature as witness.

"When you were gone," explained the nurse, "he never spoke for an hour or so, and we didn't disturb him, because we knew he couldn't recover. You see the accident went hard with him, because he drank so. Well, after an hour or two he woke up, and he called as before, 'Dickie!'

"I went to him to quiet him, and he asked 'if the carpenter (meaning you, I suppose, Mr. Seymour) was there, and Cherry?'

"I told him that you were coming again, and asked if he wanted you to be fetched.

"'I don't know where he lives,' he said; 'but it don't matter. Ask the doctor to write it down.'

"The doctor was going his rounds, and when he had done with his patient I asked him to come, and he wrote at the poor fellow's request those words on that paper, to which he managed to put his cross. After that he was terribly bad for ever so long; it had hurt him so to move. I knew he wouldn't last long, and I offered to send for the little girl, but he only shook his head.

"'She wouldn't be here in time,' he said; 'but when she comes, tell her as the last word as her poor father said was, 'Wash me, and I shall be----'

"He couldn't finish it; so I said the end of it to him, 'whiter than snow.'

"'Yes, "whiter than snow," sins like crimson, "wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."'

"He didn't speak again, but after a bit I looked at him, and he tried to reach my hand. Though I don't understand that sort of talk myself, thinking to please him, I took his in mine, and said again, 'Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow,' and he gave one look at me, and then one long look up, and so passed away."

Cherry took the nurse's kind hand and covered it with kisses and tears; she tried to utter her thanks, but was choked.

And when she and Jem turned homewards once more, though her tears were pouring, they were far more grateful than sad, as the words seemed to ring in her ears:

"Not by might, but by My Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts."