CHAPTER XVII.

CHERRY'S APOLOGY.

That night, when Cherry had gone up to bed in Mrs. Seymour's room, and Dickie was fast asleep, Meg and Jem found themselves alone by their own fireside.

"My girl," he said, when she turned her face towards him after a long look in the fire, "this is a funny change as has come across our life."

"I hope it isn't a disappointment to you, Jem," she said. "I mean about Cherry and Dickie."

"No, my dear, no," he answered heartily. "If I had the choice over again I'd do the same."

"So would I," said Meg, "a hundred times over. I did not know all the joy it would bring. I never thought of it at first as anything but a care, that we did for our Lord's sake. I never guessed it would turn into a blessing."

"That's how the Lord's way mostly is," said Jem, thoughtfully; "but this about poor little Dickie is a sad thing, Meg, and will make him a great care. Not that I grudge it--but as far as we can look ahead, it 'ull be more difficult nor if he could see."

Meg could not speak of it yet without tears, and she leant her head against Jem's shoulder in silence. Soon after this Mrs. Seymour came in, and Jem put her into her chair, saying--

"Mother, I was just thinking about you; for I want to ask your advice. I don't like to see this pale face. I want to send my Meg down to the country for a week or two."

Meg turned and was going to speak, but Jem put up his hand playfully, and went on--

"Mrs. MacDonald wants some more repairs done, and I'm to be sent there next week. Now what could be better'n Meg's goin' too?"

"Beautiful," said Mrs. Seymour. "Cherry will help me nicely, and we'll manage to take care of Dickie while she is away. Wouldn't you like it, my dear?"

"I was only going to say," said Meg, "that the doctor told me this afternoon that it would be the very best thing for Dickie. Jem, might I take him?"

Jem stroked her cheek, which had flushed with eagerness, and he said, turning to Mrs. Seymour and smiling a little sadly--

"Mother, she's like a hen with one chick; nobody can't take care of Dickie but her."

"Oh, Jem!" exclaimed Meg.

"No, more they can't, half as well," he went on. "Nobody who has seen my Meg for the last few weeks, but knows as she has the true motherly heart. I'd thought as our Father above was goin' to give her one of her own to see after, but He's seen as it 'ud be nice for her to have two instead o' one. Ah! Meg, my girl, I've seen the meanin' of those words, 'as one whom his mother comforteth' since I've watched you."

Meg did not answer; she was thinking of the tiny white-robed form that had lain unresponsively in her arms. For a moment she felt very desolate.

"But it would be very nice indeed for Dickie to go with her," remarked Mrs. Seymour; "I am glad it's been proposed."

Then they explained as well as they could what had happened that evening, with the sad certainty which had come upon them, that the cruelty which had been practised on Dickie had made him quite blind.

"Now I can understand what made Cherry so dumpy," said Mrs. Seymour. "She came up-stairs as quiet as anything, and crept into bed with hardly a word. I've heard her sniffin' and that, for ever so long; indeed, that was partly why I came down to ask you if anythin' was the matter."

"Poor child," said Jem, "I could see as she felt it very much. There, mother, we've had mercies and trials both mixed up, as you may say. Here's my Meg about again, as is the greatest joy I've had for a long time, and here's this trouble about poor little Dickie. Then Cherry's got a nice beginnin' of somethin' to do, and she too has got to hear, as her little brother, what she's loved so tenderly, is blind."

"Well, my dear," answered Mrs. Seymour, "I'm gettin' to learn, a step at a time, as God leads His people along in the _best_ way. He knows just how to send the sunshine and cloud so as to make the fruits of the earth come to ripen; and it's so with us: if we was to have all sunshine we'd be dried up, and should not bear fruit for Him, and if we was to have all cloud and rain, we'd be so damp and mildewy that I doubt if we should do much good. So He sends both, just as He sees best, to make us what He would have us be."

"Yes, mother," answered Jem, thoughtfully; "I dare say as you're quite right."

"You see, Jem," she added, as she rose to go back to her own room, "I have a lot o' time to think, as I stand washin' and ironin', and where I used to think of other folks and a hundred things, now says I to myself, 'What can I do better than think on the Lord, and all His ways?' So I put up a large-print Bible I've got, where my eyes can light upon a word here and there, without stoppin' in my work, and you'd be surprised what a deal o' comfort I get."

Jem kissed her for good night very tenderly.

"Ah, mother!" he said, "I see another way of gettin' to bear fruit; and that is to spread your roots deep in the soil as the great Gardener has got ready for us; I see that now, and I'll remember it."

She bade Meg good-bye, and went up-stairs again.

"Cherry, child," she began, coming close to the bed, "give grannie a kiss, and let's tell the Lord all about it."

Poor Cherry broke into sobs, as she raised her face to meet that of her friend.

"Child, there are many things to comfort you. He'll not be unhappy, my dear, even if he is blind. People will be kind to him, and he'll not miss it as much as you fear. But, whether or not, the best thing we can do is to come to the bottom at once. The Lord knows, and the Lord _loves_. Cherry, He loves Dickie more than you and Meg do, and that's saying a great deal."

Then she knelt down, and taking Cherry's hand in hers, she prayed that they might all be able to trust Him who loved them, both when He sent cloud and when He sent sunshine. And then Cherry, yielding herself to submit to the cloud, suddenly remembered the flash of sunshine which had been sent her that day, and cheered up and took courage.

When Mrs. Seymour rose, she put up her face once more.

"Oh, grannie!--may I call you grannie?--how good you are to me. Indeed, I will try to be a good girl to you and mother-Meg."

"I'm sure you will, child."

"And I'll not fret about Dickie anymore. I felt so sorry, so--angry--but I've asked Jesus to forgive me. Good night, grannie dear."

So Mrs. Seymour, though she only kissed the little girl in silence, had her bit of comfort too that evening.

"Grannie," she thought; "I believe the child will be a true grandchild to me in time, and cheer up my old age when I can't so well help myself."

Early the next morning Cherry was up betimes. She dressed herself as neatly as her poor little mended clothes would allow, and, without being asked, proceeded to light Mrs. Seymour's fire before she went out.

She had often watched the thrifty woman take two or three pieces of coal, which she placed along the back of her stove, so as to form an arch for her sticks from the front bar. Then she would lay eight or ten sticks evenly from back to front across this, and eight or ten more from side to side, putting her paper lightly under the arch, and her cinders lightly over it.

"There, my dear," the old woman would say, "if you lay it like that, and your sticks are dry, you never need fear that if you turn your back your fire will be out. Those cinders will burn up hot before you have washed your hands."

All this Cherry remembered, and followed as implicitly as she could. When she had done she stood spell-bound, watching the effect. Mrs. Seymour, roused by the crackling of the sticks, opened her eyes, and startled her by calling out--

"Halloa! my dear, are you up already, and the fire lighted too?"

"Yes," said Cherry, coming forward; "I thought as you'd be glad to have it done, grannie."

"So I should, child. But look here, I've found a small apron of mine as 'ull do nicely for you to go to the doctor's with. Mind, Cherry, you never take it dirty, my dear. There it is on that chair."

Cherry found a clean, neatly-folded apron ready for her, and to her thinking it added to her appearance just the one thing she wanted.

She thanked Mrs. Seymour very gratefully, and ran down-stairs.

Many had been Meg's instructions the evening before as to how she was to clean the steps of the doctor's house, and Jem's hearth had been cleaned three times over, in order that Cherry should know properly how to do it.

As she hurried along the two or three streets which intervened between their house and the doctor's, she thought over all Meg had said, and hoped she should do it right.

It was a very nervous little girl who rang at the area bell, as the church clock near struck seven.

"Who are you?" asked the cook. "Ah, I know. Well, my dear, here's the pail and things; do it from outside, and I'll open the front door for you to begin on the top step. Here's the mat to kneel on. Don't you leave it out there, nor the broom, or they'll be walked off with."

Cherry promised, and waited while the cook went up-stairs to unfasten the door.

"Please," said Cherry, looking up with her candid eyes, "I'm not very used to making stones white, but mother-Meg says I shall do it much better in a day or two."

"All right; and if you don't quite know anythink, you just come to me, and I'll tell you."

Cherry began sweeping, and the cook went back to prepare her master's breakfast.

"Poor little thing," she said compassionately, when the housemaid came down to put away her brushes, "she don't look strong. I wonder master chose such a child."

"How old is she, then?"

"She looks fifteen, but she's that small and thin. She limps, and one of her shoulders is all crooked, but I never see a prettier face in my life. Her eyes is soft and large, and altogether----"

But Jane could not stay to hear, for the busy doctor must have everything punctual, so cook finished her sentence to herself.

When Cherry came back with the pail and broom, cook went to inspect her work in a very kindly spirit.

"It don't look quite _clear_, my dear, but as your mother says, you'll improve if you take pains. You've done it very well considering. Hasn't she, Jane? Come and see."

This was to give Jane, who was passing through the hall at the moment, an opportunity of agreeing with cook's verdict on Cherry's eyes.

"I haven't a mother, please," answered Cherry, timidly.

"Oh, I thought you said mother, my dear; I beg your pardon."

Cherry turned homewards, and the two comfortable servants went down-stairs again.

"It 'ud be a charity to alter one of my dresses for her, that it would," said Jane; "no wonder, if she ain't got no mother. But how her poor things was patched and mended; and how white her apron was. They're clean people who belong to her, if they are poor."

And so it came to pass, when Cherry had done her steps the next morning, the cook asked her to step into the kitchen with a very pleased look.

Cherry entered wondering, and then Jane ran down-stairs in a great bustle, and said she couldn't stay, but did nevertheless, while they produced her print dress, which cook explained had shrunk in the wash, and which they had together altered to Cherry's size.

"There!" said Jane, "we were up till I don't know what time doing it, and I believe it 'ull fit splendid."

Cherry, for thanks, burst into tears, at which both the kind-hearted girls looked very concerned. But when she could look up again, she said gently--

"Please, you mustn't think as those belongin' to me wouldn't give me clothes; but there's been illness and death in the house, and they took me and my little brother when we was in the greatest want. They're _ever_ so kind to us, only mother-Meg has not been strong enough to see about anything yet."

The pathetic eyes of the child, begging for indulgence, lest her best friends should be blamed for her poverty, quite struck the two well-to-do young women, and the cook answered quickly--

"I quite believe it, my dear; don't have any fear of us. Take your dress home, and tell--who is it, dear?"

"Mother-Meg----"

"Tell her that you've been a very good girl, and have done your steps very nicely to-day. I'll come and see her one of these days."