Chapter 2

"Sickness and pain are bad enough," he thought, "even when one can feel that it is our good and loving Father who has sent them; but what must they be to him?" And he asked his mother's leave to go to see if he could be of any use to Alick. His mother consented, and resolutely turning his mind from the cricket-match just beginning in the school-yard, George went.

He found the poor boy in a pitiable state. His face was swelled from the effect of the cuts and bruises; one eye was quite closed up, and the other he could only open a little way, for a minute at a time. He could not turn himself in bed,--the sprained arm was bound to his side; he could do nothing to amuse himself; and in that motherless, sisterless home, there was no one to devise amusement for him. His father was kind and anxious about him; but it never occurred to him to sit by his bedside, and try to make the time pass pleasantly; and even if it had occurred to him, he would not have known how to do it. All that money could buy Alick had in abundance; but tenderness and kind companionship were what he most wanted, and these could not be bought.

He seemed pleased to see Georgie, and gladly accepted his offer to sit for a little with him and read to him. Georgie read aloud very well, and with great spirit, and Alick was delighted with an amusement which was quite new to him. The hour Georgie was allowed to give him passed most delightfully, and when Georgie rose to go away, he was eagerly asked to come back the next day.

The next, and the next, and many succeeding afternoons, Georgie spent by Alick's bedside, reading or chatting to him; and when he was able to use his arms, playing with him at chess, draughts, or any such game that Alick liked. That tender pity which God had put into Georgie's heart for the poor wicked boy, he kept fresh and warm from day to day; and Georgie never grudged the time or trouble which he gave to Alick,--never lost patience with him, however fretful and unreasonable he might be, but was ever ready to do what Alick wished, whether he himself liked it or not.

One afternoon they had played for a long time at a favourite game of Alick's, but one which Georgie thought very tiresome.

"Well, that is one of the nicest games in the world," said Alick, stretching himself back upon his pillows when the game was done. "Isn't it? Don't you like it?"

"No," said Georgie, looking up with an amused smile; "I don't like it much."

"Why then did you play so long without saying that you did not like it?" Alick asked, much surprised.

"Because you like it. I wanted you to have what you like," Georgie answered simply; and having put away all the things, he stooped over Alick and asked him very kindly, nay, I may say very lovingly, if he thought he should have a better night, if he thought his pain was less than it had been.

"Yes,--no,--I don't know," Alick said, looking earnestly up into Georgie's eyes. "But, Georgie, I say, why do you care so much?"

"Because I am so very sorry for you," burst from Georgie's very heart.

"You well may," muttered poor Alick, glancing down at his useless, shrunken limbs. But this time there was no anger in his thoughts.

"It is not for that, not at all for that," Georgie cried eagerly, as if guessing that pity for his infirmities might be painful.

"For what then?" Alick asked, looking at him keenly.

"Because you do not know, you do not love God," Georgie answered with deep feeling. "O Alick, how heartless, how dreary it must be!" and the tears rose to his eyes, and ran down his cheeks without his knowing it.

His words, spoken in that tone of intense pity, thrilled Alick to the heart. This was the meaning of all those looks of tender, yearning compassion which Georgie so continually cast upon him. And was it then such a terrible thing not to know God?

Georgie's "how heartless, how dreary!" sounded again in his ears, and seemed to answer the question. He said nothing to Georgie nor to any one; but all night long these words came back and back to his mind. He could not get rid of them. They were pressed down into his heart by the recollection of all that exceeding tender pity which Georgie's eyes had so long expressed for him, and of Georgie's loving, patient kindness, during his illness. And ever deeper and stronger grew the sense that his life was in truth, and ever had been, more heartless and dreary than Georgie could imagine.

Next day, when Georgie came to his bedside, Alick looked him full in the face and said:--

"Georgie, can you teach me to know God?"

You may imagine how Georgie's heart leaped with joy at the question. Often had he longed to speak to Alick of his God and Saviour, but hitherto he had been afraid to do it; not afraid of what Alick might say to or of him, but afraid to hear him speak against the Lord whom he had so often blasphemed. Now his mouth was opened, and in simple, boyish speech, he poured out his heart to Alick, and told him all he knew of Christ's love in taking upon himself the sins of those who were his enemies. And God's Spirit going with the words he taught Georgie to speak, Alick's heart was touched, and the poor boy was brought to take Christ as his Lord and his God.

THE SIXPENNY CALICO.

One day a new scholar appeared in school, and as usual was the mark of public gaze. She was gentle and modest-looking, and never ventured to lift her eyes from her books. At recess, to the inquiries, "Who is she?" "What's her name?" nobody could satisfactorily answer. None of us ever saw or heard of her before.

"I know she's not much," said one of the girls.

"Poorly off," said I.

"Do you see her dress? Why, I believe it is nothing but a sixpenny calico."

"Poor thing, she must be cold."

"I can't imagine how a person can wear calico in winter," said another, whose rich plaid was the admiration of the school.

"I must say I like to see a person dressed according to the season," remarked another; "that is, if people can afford it," she added, in a manner plainly enough indicating that _her_ father could.

Such was recess talk. None of us went to take the stranger by the hand and welcome her as the companion of our studies and our play. We stood aloof, and stared at her with cold and unfeeling curiosity. The teacher called her Abby. When she first came to her place for recitation, she took a seat beside the rich plaid. The plaid drew haughtily away, as if the sixpenny calico might dim the beauty of its colours. A slight colour flushed Abby's cheek, but her quiet remained the same. It was some time before she ventured on the play-ground, and then it was only to stand aside, and look on, for we were slow in asking her to join us.

On one occasion we had a harder arithmetic lesson than usual, completely baffling our small brains. Upon comparing notes at recess, none of us had mastered it.

"I'll ask Abby of her success," said one of my intimate associates.

"It is quite unlikely she has," I replied; "do stay here; besides, what if she has?"

"I _will_ go," she answered.

Away she went, and as it appeared, Abby and she were the only members of the class ready for recitation. Abby had been more successful than the rest of us, and kindly helped my friend to scale the difficulties of the lesson.

"Shall we ask Abby to join the sleigh-ride?" asked one of the girls, who was getting a subscription for a famous New Year's ride.

"Judging from her dress," I said, "if she goes, we must _give_ her the ride."

"But how will it do to leave her out?" they asked.

"She does not of course expect to be asked to ride with us," I said; "she is evidently of a poor family."

As a sort of leader in school, my words were influential, and poor Abby was left out. How often did I contrast my white hands and warm gloves with the purple fingers and cheap mittens of my neighbour Abby. How miserable I should be with such working hands and no gloves.

By-and-by I took to patronizing her. "She is really a very nice creature, and ought to join us more in our plays," we said. So we used to make her "one of us" in the play-ground. In fact, I began to thaw towards her very considerably. There was something in Abby which called out our respect.

One Saturday afternoon, as I was looking out of the window, wishing for something to do, my mother asked me to join her in a little walk. On went my new cloak, warm furs, and pink hat, and in a trice I was ready. We went first to the stores, where I was very glad to be met by several acquaintances in my handsome winter dress. At last I found my mother turning off into less frequented thoroughfares.

"Where, mother," I asked, "in this vulgar part of the town?"

"Not vulgar, my dear," she said. "A very respectable and industrious part of our population live here."

"Not fashionable, certainly," I added.

"And not vulgar because not fashionable, by any means," she said; for you may be sure my false and often foolish notions were not gained from her. She stopped before a humble-looking house, and entered the front door.

"Where are you going?" I asked with much curiosity.

She gently opened a side door, and hesitated a moment on the threshold.

"Caroline, come in," said a voice from within. "I am very happy to see you."

"Pray, don't rise, dear," said my mother, going forward and affectionately kissing a sick lady who sat in a rocking chair. "You look better than when I saw you before. Do not exert yourself."

I was introduced, and I fancied the invalid looked at me with a sort of admiring surprise as she took my hand and hoped I should prove worthy of such a mother. Then, while my mother and she were talking, I sat down and took notes with my eyes of everything in the room. It looked beautifully neat, and the furniture evidently had seen better days. By-and-by mother asked for her daughter.

"Gone out on some errands," said the sick lady. "The dear child is an inexpressible blessing to me," and tears filled her eyes.

"A mother might well be thankful for such a daughter. She is a pattern _my_ child might safely imitate."

I thought I should be exceedingly glad to see the person my mother was so willing I should copy.

"She will return soon," said the invalid. "She has gone to carry some work which she has contrived to do in her leisure moments. The self-sacrifice of the child is wonderful. She seems to desire nothing that other girls of her age generally want. A little while ago, an early friend who had found me out and befriended me as you have done"--tears came into the speaker's eyes--"sent her a handsome winter dress. 'O mother,' she said, 'this is too expensive for me, when you want some warm flannel so.' I told her it was just what she needed. A few days afterwards she went out and came home with a roll of flannel and a calico dress. 'See, mother,' she said, 'I shall enjoy this calico a hundred times more than the finest dress in the world, when you can have your flannel.' Excuse me for telling it, but you know a mother's heart. There is her step; she is coming."

The outer door opened. How I longed to see the comer! "A perfect angel," I thought, "so generous, so disinterested, so good; I should love her." The latch was lifted. A young girl entered, and my school-fellow Abby stood before me! I could have sunk into the earth for very shame. How wicked my pride! how false and foolish my judgments! Oh, how mean did my fine winter dress appear before the plain _sixpenny calico_!

I was almost sure my mother had managed all this, for she had a way of making me see my faults, and making me desire to cure them, without ever saying much directly herself. This, however, had not come about by her intervention; God taught me by his providence.

As we walked home, my mother gave me an account of Mrs. G----, an early friend who made an imprudent marriage. But that story is no matter here. I will only add, my judgment of people was formed ever after according to a better standard than the dress they wore, and that Abby and I became intimate friends.

A WESTMORELAND STORY.

Who among my little readers are not older than ten years? Come and I shall tell you a story of what happened to six poor children, all under that age, about fifty years ago. It will be a good lesson for us all, to see what God helped one brave little girl to do.

Agnes Green was nine years old, and had five brothers and sisters younger than herself. Their father was a respectable working man, and they all lived in a small cottage in a wild valley of the mountains of Westmoreland. If you take a good map of England, and look in the north for Westmoreland, you may see Grasmere marked. It is the name of a beautiful valley and also of a lake and a village in it. Beyond this is a smaller valley called Easdale, quite surrounded by high hills, with just one narrow opening into Grasmere. Here, in a lonely cottage, the Greens lived. In fair weather the older children could go to the Grasmere school. Their mother did all she could to keep them neat and comfortable; but she could not afford to have a servant, and so little Agnes was taught to do many more things than are common at her age. She was a very good and clever child, and learned to milk the cow, mend the fire, cook the dinner, nurse the little ones--do all that was possible for her age and strength. Which of you is at all like her? You may say, perhaps, that there is no need for _you_ to learn such things. But you cannot begin too soon to be useful. Had poor Agnes been as helpless as some of you, she and her brothers and sisters must have died of cold and hunger in the sad time I am going to tell you of.

One winter day, Mr. and Mrs. Green had business which made them very anxious to go to a farm-house at some distance from Easdale. There was snow on the ground, but the morning was fine; and to save a long road round by Grasmere, they determined to take a short cut right over the mountains, which they had sometimes done before. So Mrs. Green made everything straight for the day, bidding Agnes take good care of the little ones, and expect her and their father back in the evening before dark; and then both parents kissed the children, and set out on the journey, from which they were never to return. They got safe to the farm, where a number of people were assembled at a sale, did their business, and said they would go home by the same way, although many of their friends advised them not to attempt it, for more snow was evidently coming on.

Evening came, and Agnes made a bright peat fire, which all the children gathered round, expecting every minute to hear their parents' voices at the door. But it began to get dark and late, and still they did not come. Agnes had often heard of the dangers of snow among the hills, and she soon got uneasy. Her little brothers were afraid too, though they hardly knew for what. They listened to every sound of the wind; they started at times, thinking it was their father's step; but all in vain. At last Agnes said they must go to bed; and as they had all been well trained to be obedient, they came and said their prayers at her knees, and then went to rest with fearful hearts.

Next morning, when Agnes looked out, she saw there had been a heavy fall of snow, so that the cottage was almost shut up, and it would be impossible for them even to reach the nearest neighbours. And, oh! there was no sign of their dear father and mother's return. She had a lingering hope that they might have been detained all night at Grasmere; but her fears were far greater. It was, indeed, a terrible situation for six little children to be left in, and her mind being advanced beyond her years, she felt all the danger. But she knew where to look for help; and He who is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever, heard the cry of this forsaken child, and gave her wisdom and ability for her time of need, as truly as he gave to Solomon on the throne of Israel, long ages before.

She wound up the clock, dressed the infants, and made the older children come and say their prayers as usual. She knew that their greatest danger would be that of starvation, should the storm last long. Their mother had left plenty of milk in the house, and Agnes scalded it carefully, to prevent it turning sour. Then she examined the meal-chest, and finding there was not much in it, she put all except the babies (these were little twins) on a short allowance of porridge, but baked some flour cakes as a kind of treat. Then, as the day went on, she took courage to open the door, and with her brothers got as far as the peat-stack at the cottage side, and among them they managed to carry within doors as many peats as would keep up the fire for a week. She examined the potatoes, which were buried among withered ferns; but as there were not many, only brought in enough for a day, afraid of heat spoiling them.

Then she thought of the cow, and made her way to the byre. She milked the poor animal, but got very little from her, and had great difficulty in pulling down hay out of the loft for her to eat; besides, it was getting dark, and poor Agnes felt very frightened and unhappy. So she was thankful to get into the cottage again, and, barring the door, she put the infants comfortably to bed, and allowed the others to sit up with her until midnight, in the faint hope that some token of their dear parents not being lost might reach them before then. It was a wild night of wind and snow, and though the little watchers sometimes fancied they heard voices in the stormy blast, when the lull came, all was silence. Agnes did what she could to keep the snow from drifting in below the door or through a chink of the window, and also to make sure that the fire would not go out, and then they sadly went to bed.

Next morning the snow-drifts were higher than ever! There was no possibility of going out; but the brave little mother--for so we may call her--still kept her family quiet and comfortable--never omitting the morning and evening prayers, and struggling hard against her own fears and sorrows.

At last, either on the third or fourth day, I am not sure which, the snow-drifts had changed in such a way that Agnes thought it might be possible to try the road to Grasmere. Her brothers went with her part of the way, till they saw she was safe, and then went back to the little ones, and Agnes went to the nearest cottage. When the poor weeping child told her sad story, the good people were overcome with astonishment, distress, and sympathy. The news spread like lightning through Grasmere, that Mr. and Mrs. Green had not been seen by their children since the day of the sale at Langdale. Before an hour had passed, all the men in the parish gathered together, arranged the best plans for a search, and then dispersed over the mountains. In the state of the weather, it was a dangerous duty, and great was the anxiety of their wives and mothers left at home. The men returned at night, without any success, and this went on for several days. They willingly gave up all other work, and morning after morning set out on their toilsome, sorrowful pilgrimage, while the poor orphans, of course, were most tenderly cared for now. At length some one thought of taking sagacious dogs up the hills to help the search; and on the fifth day, about noon, a loud shout, echoed by the rocks, and repeated from one band of men to another, told the women in the valley that the bodies were found. Poor John Green lay at the foot of a precipice, over which he had fallen; his wife, whom he had wrapped in his own greatcoat, was found above. They had wandered far out of the right course, and must have died in the darkness of that first stormy night, while their children were watching for them round the fire at home.

They had been such respectable, worthy people, that their loss was greatly lamented, and rich and poor were alike desirous to help and care for the orphans. You will ask what became of Agnes afterwards. I cannot tell you. If she is alive now, she must be an old woman; but she can never have forgotten the story of her parents' death, and I trust she has never forgotten how the Father of the fatherless was then her helper and protector.

Let me point out only two lessons from this sad tale. One is, that if God be with us, we need fear no evil. Can you think of anything more dreadful than to be left shut up in the snow-storm, as these children were, with their parents dying on the wild hills above? Yet God did not forsake them. He sent no angel, he wrought no miracle for their deliverance; but he gave wisdom and courage to the little girl, in her time of sore distress and danger. And so every one of you, if you trust in Him, may be sure of finding the promise fulfilled--"As thy days, so shall thy strength be."

Another lesson is, the happiness of being loving towards one another, and obedient to those older than yourselves. Had these children been like many others, quarrelsome and unruly, what a sad difference it would have made! But they obeyed their young sister as if she had been their mother; and so the days of captivity were far less hard to bear for all.

Think of these things when you remember the story of little Agnes Green, and pray and try to be like her.

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Old Castle and Other Stories, by Anonymous