"HULLOA, Melina, where are you going? How is it you aren't at school? You'd best look out or your Granny'll get the attendance officer around her again about you, and then she'll give you what you won't like!"

The scene was the corner of Jubilee Terrace, a row of small red-brick cottages on the outskirts of Hawstock, a large provincial west of England town, on a cold January morning; and the speaker—William Jones—was a tall, well-grown boy of about twelve years of age, comfortably clad, who had that minute emerged from one of the cottages and encountered an ill-tempered-looking little girl, a year or so his junior, to whom he had addressed himself.

"D' you think I'm afraid of the attendance officer?" demanded the little girl, who was called Melina Berryman. She spoke in a high, shrill voice, the voice of a scold, and her manner was argumentative. "And I ain't afraid of Gran either, so there!" she added.

The boy laughed unbelievingly, whilst his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as they travelled over his companion from the crown of her battered hat, decorated with a draggled plume of cocks' feathers, to the tips of her toes, which had worn through her stockings and were peeping out of her shabby boots. He was not really an unkind boy; but Melina Berryman was the butt of all the children who lived in Jubilee Terrace, and he found considerable amusement in teasing her. It was such fun to bait her into an ungovernable passion, to see her thin white countenance distorted with anger and her big eyes flash, and to listen to the volley of abuse which would flow so glibly from her lips when, facing her tormentor, she would look for all the world like a little wild animal, with her lips drawn back from her gleaming white teeth, and her shock of tousled hair.

"I ain't afraid of Gran either," she repeated, and she nodded her head knowingly; "she can't wollop me now." Her tone was triumphant.

"Why not?" asked the boy. "She gave it to you last week. I heard her; and I heard you afterwards—crying. My, how you did go on!"

Melina flushed and bit her lip, then scowled. She and her grandmother, her father's mother, occupied the cottage next door to the one in which William Jones, who was an only child, lived with his parents, a respectable couple who had but little intercourse with old Mrs. Berryman, who—the truth must be told—did not bear a good reputation and was addicted to drink. The inhabitants of Jubilee Terrace were nearly all of the working classes, people who laboured honestly; therefore they had been anything but pleased when old Mrs. Berryman, who it was said earned her livelihood by money-lending to the poorest of the poor, had a year or so previously taken up her abode at No. 2. She was a cross-grained woman who never passed a civil word with anybody, and it was generally thought that she was unkind to Melina, which was indeed a fact.

"You were at it for the best part of an hour, I should think," the boy proceeded, "howling like a good 'un! I wondered how you could keep it up. If you hadn't stopped when you did, mother would have paid Mrs. Berryman a visit; she threatened to, and—"

"Oh, I'm very glad she didn't," interrupted Melina; "if she had, Gran would have served me worse than ever afterwards."

"And yet you say you aren't afraid of your grandmother!"

"Not now. She's ill."

"Ill? Perhaps she'll die."

Melina shook her head; there was hopelessness in the gesture. "No such luck!" she exclaimed callously.

"Oh, Melina, you wicked girl, to speak like that!" William was really shocked, and looked it. "Has she had a doctor?" he inquired.

"No. She says she can't afford one, and wouldn't have one if she could; she says it's a bad cold she's got."

"I dare say it is. I've been home from school several days with a bad cold myself; this is the first time I've been out. I don't stay away from school for no reason, Melina, like you."

Melina regarded her neighbour with a sneer on her face, then deigned to explain that her absence from school to-day was accounted for by the fact of her grandmother's illness.

"I've got to look after Gran," she said; "I'm going to do some errands for her now, so I can't stay here any longer wasting my time with you." And, having spoken thus impolitely, she turned the corner of Jubilee Terrace and disappeared from sight.

In the street adjoining Jubilee Terrace was a small all-sorts shop which was also one of the branch post offices of the town. There it was that Melina made her purchases. For a shilling she bought several packages of groceries—a pennyworth of this, twopennyworth of that, and so on; and then, carrying her packages, she started for home. She was turning the corner into Jubilee Terrace when she came suddenly face to face with William Jones, who deliberately jutted his elbow against her, with the result that she let most of her packages fall. A cry of dismay escaped her lips as she perceived that a screw of paper, which had held two ounces of tea, had broken open, and that the tea was strewn on the muddy pavement.

"Oh, I say, I'm sorry," William was beginning truthfully, for he had not meant to do any real harm, when he was cut short by Melina, who sprang towards him with uplifted hand and dealt him a stinging box on the ear.

"You wicked, wicked boy!" she panted, and was about to hit him again when some one grasped her by the shoulder, and a man's voice said:

"Stop, stop! What is the meaning of this?"

Melina tried to free herself from her captor, but in vain; then she twisted herself around and looked him in the face, her eyes full of angry tears, her usually pale cheeks aflame. She found she was being held by a plain, under-sized man, a stranger to her, who was gazing at her in a nearsighted way through a pair of eyeglasses.

"Let me go!" she cried; "I hate him—ah, how I hate him!"

"Hush, hush!" said the stranger, "I don't think you mean that. Yes, yes, I saw what he did. It was very rough—very clumsy of him. But see, he is picking up your parcels for you; I don't think much damage has been done, except to the tea."

"It was two ounces and it costs tuppence," said Melina, in a voice which was tremulous with passion, "and it's all spoilt. If Gran wasn't ill she'd beat me, and he—" shaking her fist at the aggressor— "wouldn't care; she'll keep me without dinner now, I expect."

"If she does, I'll get mother to give you some," William said hastily. He had gathered together her packages, and now gave them to her, but she was not to be easily appeased.

"I'll be even with you yet," she declared, "that I will! You needn't think I'll forget this! You bumped against me on purpose, you know you did!"

The boy did not attempt to deny it. He was feeling glad that none of his friends had been present to witness what had passed, for he would not have liked it to have been known that Melina had boxed his ears; but he admitted to himself that he had done wrong, and, not wishing to prolong the scene, he murmured a few words of apology and turned away. The little girl gazed after him wrathfully till he disappeared within the door of his own home, then, overcome with agitation, her tears broke bounds and ran down her cheeks.

"Oh, don't cry, don't cry!" said the stranger kindly. All this while he had been holding her by the shoulder, but now he released his grasp, and, putting his hand into his pocket, produced two pennies, which he gave her, saying as he did so:

"There, you will be able to buy another two ounces of tea for your grandmother, and then you won't be kept without your dinner, will you?"

"No," she answered, with a brightening face. "Thank you, sir. I didn't want to go without my dinner because I'm—oh, so hungry! I only had a little bit of dry bread for breakfast at eight o'clock."

"And now it is past noon! Do you live alone with your grandmother?"

"Yes," sighed Melina. "My mother died when I was a baby, and father—he was Gran's son—gave me to Gran. I wish he hadn't, I'm sure."

"Your grandmother is very poor?" he questioned.

The little girl's face clouded again, and she hesitated before she answered "I don't know."

He looked at her in puzzled silence, noticing her unkempt appearance. She would have been a pretty child if she had been less painfully thin, but, as it was, she was a mere bag of bones. Whilst he was thus scrutinising her, she was no less attentively observing him. He was a very little gentleman, she thought, but there was something about him which she found attractive—perhaps it was the expression of good will with which he was regarding her. No one had ever looked at her like that before.

"Do you live near here?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir," she replied; "at No. 2 Jubilee Terrace."

"Ah! Then we shall meet again. I have come to live at Hawstock, to be a lay-helper in the parish."

Melina said "Yes, sir," though she had not the least idea what a lay-helper was. She was moving away when the little gentleman detained her.

"I hope you are going to forgive that boy who acted so rudely to you," he remarked; "I think he was ashamed of himself, and he apologised, you know."

"That was only because you were here," Melina said bluntly; "I know William Jones very well, and—" significantly—"he knows me."

Her pale face had flushed again; but, meeting her companion's eyes at that moment, something in them—a look of mingled sorrow and sympathy—caused her lips to quiver suddenly. "I—I am so miserable," she faltered, "everyone—yes, everyone is against me." She brushed a hand hastily across her eyes, then added: "Oh, I must hurry back to the shop for the tea, and get home to Gran!"

But once more the little gentleman detained her.

"You complain that everyone is against you," he said; "won't you tell me what you mean? Is not your grandmother kind to you?"

She shook her head, and, pulling up the loose sleeve of her blouse, exhibited a skinny arm covered with bruises. "That's her doing," she said, with a bitter laugh that sounded strangely from a child's lips; "no, she ain't kind to me—not when she's in drink anyway. When she's sober she lets me be."

"And is she your only relative? Your father—what of him?"

"He went away—I don't know where—years ago, when I was a baby. I don't remember him. Gran's always saying he'll come back some day. I wish he would; p'r'aps he'd be kinder than Gran."

The little gentleman looked at her pityingly. "Poor little girl," he said, "you must let me be your friend, will you?"

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Melina in amazement. "I—oh, you can't mean it! You are a gentleman, and I—" She broke off with an expressive glance at her ragged frock.

"I do mean it," he said, smiling; "I hope to make many friends in this parish before long, and I shall count you as my first. By the way, you have not told me your name?"

"It is Melina Berryman, sir."

"Well, then, Melina, remember that I am your friend, and you will know that there is some one in Hawstock who is not against you—some one who would do you a good turn if he could and will pray for you to our Father in heaven."

"Do you mean God?" asked Melina.

He assented. "'If God be for us, who can be against us?'" he quoted.

The little girl gave him a quick, shrewd glance. "You ain't a parson," she said; "I wonder what makes you talk like that! I don't want to think of God. I'm afraid—" She broke off abruptly.

"Afraid of Him who gave His dear Son to be the Saviour of the world? Oh, surely not! Don't you know that Jesus is your Saviour? Don't you know that He promised 'Him that cometh to Me I will in nowise cast out'? He wants you to go to Him, to trust Him, to give Him your love, and then you will never feel lonely or friendless more. He is the one perfect Friend who never changes, never fails anyone. I can answer for that."

The little gentleman paused, his face glowing with the light of that faith which had been his guiding star for many a long year, and, taking one of Melina's little cold hands, he pressed it kindly.

"Good-bye, little girl," he said, "and God bless you. Before long I hope we shall meet again."

[CHAPTER II]

MELINA AT HOME

WHEN Melina returned to her grandmother she found her sitting up in bed, holding her sides and coughing, looking a miserable object indeed. Mrs. Berryman was an old woman of between seventy and eighty years of age, with a lined face, the skin of which looked like parchment; beady black eyes, exceedingly sharp; and a quantity of coarse white hair.

"You've been dawdling," she said in a harsh voice, as soon as her fit of coughing was over and she could find breath to speak; "you'd catch it if I was up and about, you lazy baggage, you! Get me a cup of tea, do you hear, and be quick about it!" She sank back on her pillow, and Melina heard her mutter to herself: "I don't know what's taken to me! I'm as weak as a cat!"

The little girl went downstairs, and, ten minutes later, came back with the tea. Her grandmother tasted it and made a wry face, but subsequently drank it.

"How do you feel, Gran?" Melina inquired, with more curiosity than sympathy in her tone.

"Bad," answered the old woman curtly.

"Don't you think you ought to have a doctor?"

"A doctor? No. I don't believe in doctors. I've told you so before."

Keeping a safe distance from the bed, Melina surveyed her grandmother meditatively. "What'll become of you if you get worse?" she asked presently; "you may die, you know."

"Die!" Mrs. Berryman shrieked forth the word with an angry glance at her granddaughter.

"Yes," nodded Melina, "and then you'd have to be buried, of course. I was wondering—would it have to be a parish funeral, with the workhouse hearse, and—"

"You wicked, cruel girl!" broke in Mrs. Berryman. "How dare you talk like this to me! I'm not going to die—not now, at any rate; but if I did, what do you think would become of you?"

Melina reflected for a minute, then replied: "I suppose I should go to the workhouse—I don't know that I'd altogether mind. Mrs. Jones said the other day that I should be better off in the workhouse."

"The impertinent, interfering creature! And you—oh, you are an ungrateful girl! After all I 'ye done for you, to talk like that! Haven't I given you shelter and food for more than ten years, and yet I don't believe you'd care if I was dead and buried!"

"No," admitted Melina frankly, "I don't believe I should. You've never been kind to me, Gran; often you've beaten me something cruel, you know you have! Why, my back and arms are sore and covered with bruises now from the beating you gave me last week!"

"I'm a bit heavy-handed, perhaps," Mrs. Berryman admitted hastily, "but you're enough to aggravate a saint sometimes, Melina. When I beat you, it's for your good—to make you a better child."

"But it doesn't make me better," Melina said. For once in her life she felt she had the advantage of her grandmother, and she was taking a naughty pleasure in the fact; she could say what she liked, for the old woman was too ill and weak to touch her. "The more you beat me the worse I am," she declared, "and I hate you—oh, you don't know how I hate you for being so cruel!" Her eyes flashed with indignation, and her thin frame trembled.

Astonishment kept Mrs. Berryman silent for a minute, then she said in a tone which was very mild for her:

"That's a nice way to talk to your grandmother! Don't stand there staring at me like that! Here, take my keys and get your dinner—you'll find some bacon in the corner cupboard; and don't let me see you again till I call for you. I'm going to try to get a nap, for I feel just worn out."

From under her pillow the old woman drew a bunch of keys, which she extended to her granddaughter, who took it in silence and went downstairs into the kitchen. The little girl knew which key fitted the lock of the corner cupboard, and, having unlocked the cupboard, she took therefrom a lump of fat bacon and a very stale loaf. She cut herself some bread and bacon, and, being very hungry, made an excellent meal; having done which she locked away the remains of her repast and the groceries she had purchased, and slipped the bunch of keys into her pocket.

It was cold in the kitchen, for the fire had burnt low; so Melina, making as little noise as possible, fetched some fuel from a cupboard under the stairs and made up the fire afresh. Soon she was warming herself before a fine blaze.

"I may as well make myself comfortable now Gran's out of the way," she reflected; "I wonder what she'd say if she saw how much coal I've used!"

A smile flickered across her face, but it was not a pleasant smile; for it was full of bitterness, and made her look old beyond her years. The expression of her countenance changed a few minutes later, however, as she thought of the little gentleman and recalled how kindly he had spoken to her, and her eyes—clear, changeful, hazel eyes they were—grew wonderfully gentle and soft.

"Fancy his wanting to be my friend!" she mused. "I can't understand why he should! And he said 'God bless you'! I shall never forget it—never, as long as I live! Oh, I do hope I shall see him again!"

Melina was unaccustomed to kindness, and, hitherto, she had felt at war with all the world. She was a sadly neglected little girl, and, it must be admitted, a very naughty one, disobedient to those in authority over her, and impatient of control. Frequently she would stay away from school for days, and pass her time in wandering about the streets gazing into the shop windows, or in taking long tramps in the country; and on several occasions the attendance officer had brought complaints to her grandmother: the last time he had called he had warned Mrs. Berryman that she would be summoned to appear before the magistrates if she did not see that her grandchild went properly to school. That had been the previous week; and, subsequently, Mrs. Berryman, who had been drinking, had given Melina the unmerciful beating which, though it had left her sore and bruised in body, had not broken her spirit in the least.

Presently Melina heard a rap at the back door, and went to see who was there. It was William Jones.

"I say, Melina," he began, "here's tuppence for the tea—I asked father for it when he came home to dinner. I—"

"Keep your tuppence!" interposed Melina, waving aside his extended hand and scowling at him in a vindictive manner; "I don't want it. I bought some more tea."

"Oh, did you? I didn't think you had any money. But, I say, you may as well take the tuppence—that'll be fair."

Melina hesitated—not about taking it, but whether or not she should explain that it had not been her own money which had replaced the tea; she decided against doing so. Thereupon, without answering the boy, she shut the door in his face, and returned to her former position in front of the fire.

By and by there came another knock at the back door. This time the visitor proved to be William Jones' mother, a neat-looking woman with a fresh-complexioned face, and blue eyes like her son's.

"Good afternoon, Melina," she said, as she met the little girl's glance of inquiry; "I'm sorry to hear that your grandmother's ill; I've made her a custard, thinking she may fancy it."

She held out a little basket, covered with a snowy cloth, which Melina took with a few murmured words of thanks, feeling very surprised, for as a rule Mrs. Berryman's neighbours refrained from having anything to do with her.

"I heard your grandmother coughing dreadfully in the night," Mrs. Jones remarked; "it sounded to me as though she had a very bad cold. She's wise to stop in bed, I'm thinking. You get her to eat that custard, and, if she enjoys it, I'll make her another. And oh, by the way, you'll find a bit of cake in the basket—that's for you, for your tea."

"Thank you," said Melina, moving aside the cloth and peeping into the basket. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "what a big bit of cake it is, Mrs. Jones, and how good it looks!"

"Well, I hope you'll find it tastes good," replied Mrs. Jones, smiling; "and, Melina, if you want any help whilst your grandmother's laid up, you just speak to me and I'll come in. I don't suppose there's more to be done than a girl of your age can do about the house; but if Mrs. Berryman should get worse, or you should require assistance in any way—well, you'll know who to call upon.' And with a nod she took her departure.

"Mel—lina! Mel—lina!" called a hoarse voice from above.

"Coming, Gran!" Melina answered, as she shut the back door. She took the custard in its glass dish out of the basket, and carried it, with a spoon, upstairs. "Look what Mrs. Jones has brought you," she said, as she entered her grandmother's room; "she made it on purpose for you, because you're bad."

"Mrs. Jones? Humph! How did she know I was bad?"

"She heard you coughing in the night," Melina replied, refraining from mentioning her conversation with William, who had doubtless carried the news of her grandmother's illness to his mother, lest she should be accused of gossiping. "Will you have the custard now?" she inquired.

Mrs. Berryman assented. She sat up in bed and commenced to eat it; but she appeared to have very little appetite, and, after swallowing a few spoonfuls of the dainty, she told her granddaughter to take the remainder away.

"I'll finish it to-morrow," she said; "it's very nice, made with eggs I taste, but somehow I can't relish it." Then, with a suspicious glance at Melina, she demanded: "Where are my keys?"

"Here," the little girl answered, putting her hand in her pocket and producing them.

"Give them to me."

Melina did so. The old woman placed the keys under her pillow, and lay back in bed with a deep-drawn sigh.

"If I'm not better to-morrow I'll have a doctor," she remarked, adding: "Mind, child, you're not to leave the house."

"All right, Gran; I won't."

Melina was quite content to remain indoors, for it had commenced to rain. She kept up a beautiful fire in the kitchen, and sat by it.

"It is so nice to be warm all through," she said to herself, as she enjoyed the pleasant heat; "Gran says she can't afford to keep in a fire all day, but I don't believe her—I don't believe she's as poor as she pretends."

By and by she fell to thinking of the little gentleman again, and mused on all he had said to her about Him he had called the one perfect Friend. She knew very little of God, and always thought of Him as a stern, merciless judge who took delight in punishing wrongdoers, never as a loving father, and, sad to tell, she never prayed. Mrs. Berryman kept her door shut against clergymen and ministers, and, as she never went to any place of worship, her granddaughter did not go either, the consequence being that the child had had no religious teaching except the little she had received at school, which had made scarcely any impression upon her.

"The little gentleman said he should pray for me," thought Melina; "I wonder if he's praying for me now, and, if so, what he's asking God to do for me—I should very much like to know."

[CHAPTER III]

MRS. BERRYMAN'S HOARD

THE little gentleman, whose name was Raymond Blackmore, had taken a house called South View, in Hawstock, a pretty detached villa surrounded by a garden; he had been in residence there only a week. Some months previously he had returned to England from India, where he had spent many years in the employ of a firm of colonial merchants, and, subsequently, he had paid the Vicar of Hawstock, the Reverend Paul Wise, who was an old friend of his, a visit, during which he had discovered that his friend was greatly overworked, and that he could not afford to pay for a curate out of his meagre stipend. Mr. Blackmore had not remarked upon these facts at the time; but, after he had left, he had written to the vicar, and suggested returning to Hawstock as a lay-helper.

"I want work," he had written; "I know you can find me plenty. Let me come."

He had come; and now, on the morning following the one on which he had made the acquaintance of Melina Berryman, he stood at his garden gate, after breakfast, watching the passers-by, most of whom were children on their way to the board schools. A great many of the children were bright-faced little people, warmly dressed, who were talking and laughing merrily; but some were scantily clad, and looked pinched and miserable, for the rain had ceased during the night, and early morning had brought a sharp frost, so that the air was now searching and cold.

Mr. Blackmore had a very soft place in his heart for all children, for the sake of two little ones of his own, who, with their mother, had fallen victims to cholera in India, in the early days of his residence there, more than twenty years previously; and his sympathy was aroused for the poor little shivering mortals hurrying by.

"It's easy to pick out those who have good parents," he muttered to himself. The vicar had told him that most of the want and misery in the place was caused by betting and drink; for employment was rarely scarce in Hawstock, even in wintertime, as there were several potteries and brick-works in the neighbourhood, and clay fields where men who were able and willing to labour could generally find work. "Ah, here comes the little girl I had the talk with yesterday! Dear me, how very cross she looks!"

Melina was coming along with her eyes cast down, her expression sulky in the extreme. Mrs. Berryman had declared herself better this morning, and had insisted that her granddaughter should go to school. This had not pleased Melina; but, being in fear of another visit from the attendance officer, she deemed it wise to go. Now, as she neared South View she became aware that there was a figure at the garden gate, and glanced up. Immediately she gave a start of surprise, and coloured with pleasure. She had not expected to see the little gentleman again so soon.

"Good morning, Melina," said he cheerily, with a friendly nod.

"Good morning, sir," she answered, the shadow of ill-temper passing suddenly from her face to give way to a smile which was as pleasant to see as a gleam of sunshine on a winter's day.

"I suppose you are going to school?" he questioned.

"Yes, sir. I didn't go yesterday because Gran was ill, and I had to stay at home to look after her; but she's better to-day—leastways she says so."

"Don't you think she is?"

Melina shook her head. "She looks bad enough," she said, "and she's not going to get up."

"Not going to get up! But you have not left her in the house alone, surely?"

"Oh yes! She'll be all right. I've locked her in, and I've got the door-key in my pocket; she said she'd feel safer if she was locked in—she's always afraid of being robbed." The little girl laughed, apparently amused at the idea.

"It hardly seems right that she should be left alone if she's ill," Mr. Blackmore remarked. Then, after a brief pause, he said: "I have had you continually in my mind since we met yesterday, Melina; did you think over our conversation afterwards?"

"Yes, sir," Melina answered. "Did you—please don't mind my asking, and never mind if you forgot—did you pray for me, sir?"

"I did," was the response.

"Oh!" The child's eyes were full of eagerness and curiosity. "I should like so much to know what you said—I've been wondering—" She broke off in some embarrassment, fearing that the little gentleman might consider her inquisitive.

He was silent for a minute, during which he took off his eyeglasses, wiped them with his pocket-handkerchief, and put them on again. When he spoke his voice sounded very gentle, very earnest.

"I said, 'O God, remember my new friend, the little girl I met this morning, and teach her to know Thy love, which passeth knowledge, for Jesus Christ's sake,'" he told her. "Do you pray for yourself, Melina?"

"No, sir; never."

"Then for those you love? Surely—" He stopped abruptly, for a smile he did not understand, half-bitter, half-amused, had flickered across her face.

"I don't love anybody," she said.

"Oh, my dear, that is very sad."

The hazel eyes softened suddenly, and grew misty with tears. She could not recollect that anyone had ever called her "my dear" before, and it touched her that the little gentleman had done so.

"I don't say any prayers," she explained; "what would be the use? God wouldn't listen to me."

"Oh yes, He would! Why do you think He would not?"

"Because I ain't good. Gran says I'm about as bad a girl as she ever knew. Oh no, God wouldn't listen to me!"

"You are mistaken, indeed you are. God loves you. You are His child—a very naughty child, I dare say, who often grieves Him; nevertheless you must not doubt that He loves you, and you must never imagine that He will not listen to your prayers. I suppose I must not detain you longer now, or you will be late for school; but some day I will call at your home, and—"

"Oh, I think you'd better not!" Melina interposed; "Gran would be sure to be rude to you if you did. She slammed the door in the vicar's face once; she won't let you come into the house. Oh please, please don't call, sir!" Her face was full of distress.

"Very well," he agreed, after a brief consideration. Melina drew a deep breath of relief, and then they exchanged good mornings, and she went on to school, her thoughts all about the little gentleman. She wondered what he was called, and if he had a wife and children—she thought that very likely he had.

"I expect he is very good and kind to them," she reflected; "it must be nice to have a father; I wish mine would come back!"

When Melina came out of school at midday she did not dawdle about the streets as usual, but went straight home. Thinking her grandmother might be asleep, she entered the house as noiselessly as possible, and went quickly upstairs. She pushed open the door of her grandmother's room and peeped in, with difficulty repressing a cry of astonishment the next moment at the scene which met her view. Mrs. Berryman was out of bed and kneeling before the fireplace, her back to the door, and on the hearthstone were several piles of gold and silver coins, which she had evidently been counting. Whilst Melina stood staring at her, struck dumb with amazement, the old woman took the money, pile by pile, and packed it into a small tin box, which, subsequently, she thrust into the chimney, behind the damper.

"Thirty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence," she muttered, as she essayed to rise from her knees; "oh, my poor joints! I'm that stiff I declare I can hardly get up!"

Melina did not wait to assist her. Acting on the impulse of the moment, she retreated quickly before her grandmother could turn round and see her, and stole downstairs as cautiously as she had come up. Then she opened and shut the front door noisily, and went into the kitchen.

"I knew she wasn't as poor as she made out, but I didn't know she was rich like that," thought the little girl; for the money she had seen seemed to her quite a fortune. "No wonder she is afraid of thieves! And oh, how wicked—how cruel of her—to pretend to be poor and not to give me warm clothes and proper food! Thirty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence! I must mind not to let her guess that I know where it is! Oh, I do wonder where she got it all!"

Melina was in total ignorance of her grandmother's present means of support. Some years before Mrs. Berryman had been an old clothes dealer and had kept a tiny shop in a squalid back street of the town, but she had given up that business when she had come to live in Jubilee Terrace. People called to see her "on business" now frequently, very poor people they seemed to be, and it was always a puzzle to Melina what they wanted; but she had never been able to find out, for her grandmother interviewed her visitors alone in the front downstairs room of the cottage, and if she ventured to question her about them she was invariably snubbed.

"Mel—lina! Mel—lina!"

Mrs. Berryman had heard the front door open and shut, as Melina had intended she should, and was now calling to her granddaughter.

"Yes, Gran," Melina answered; and again went upstairs to her grandmother's room.

"You're back from school earlier than usual," remarked Mrs. Berryman, who by this time was in bed; "how's that?"

"Because I ran nearly all the way home," the little girl replied.

"What made you run?"

"I thought you might want me, Gran."

This was the truth, but Mrs. Berryman did not look as though she believed it. "I don't want you," she said ungraciously; "you can have your dinner and go again. I'm better and shall get up. I'm expecting some one here this afternoon to see me on business. Here, get your dinner!"

She produced her keys from under her pillow as she spoke. Her granddaughter took them, but did not move.

"Get your dinner!" Mrs. Berryman repeated sharply; "do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear," Melina answered, the expression of her countenance mutinous and sullen; "but I'm tired of cold bacon, and—"

"Tired of cold bacon! Oh, indeed! Well, you won't have anything else!"

"Give me a penny to buy a bun, Gran—do."

"What next? I shall do nothing of the kind. If you're not content with what's in the house, you can go without."

"Then I'll go without!" the child declared passionately, and, flinging the keys on the bed, she turned away and left the room.

She kept her word, and, hungry though she was, went dinnerless to school that afternoon. On her way home after four o'clock she was standing looking longingly into the window of a confectioner's shop when some one touched her on the arm, and, turning around, she saw William Jones.

"Hulloa, Melina," he was beginning, but something in her look caught his attention, and he paused to stare at her, then asked: "I say, are you hungry?"

"Awfully," she admitted.

"Oh, that's too bad!" he exclaimed. "Here, do take that tuppence—"

"No," she interposed stubbornly, "I won't."

"Then let me buy you some buns—"

"I wouldn't touch them if you did."

"Don't say that, Melina. I'm sorry for you—sorry you should be hungry, I mean—"

The little girl interrupted him again, her heart full of resentment and bitterness.

"You mind your own business, William Jones," she said; "I don't believe you're sorry—more likely you're glad."

[CHAPTER IV]

GOING TO SUNDAY SCHOOL

IT was a Saturday morning, and Mrs. Jones was in the midst of the important business of ironing one of her husband's shirts when there came a knock at the back door, and, glancing out of the window, she saw her little neighbour, Melina Berryman.

"Come in, child!" she called out. "Oh, you've come to return my dish, I see," she said, as Melina entered the kitchen and laid the article in question on the table.

"Yes," assented Melina; "and Gran said I was to thank you for the custard, please, ma'am."

"I hope your grandmother is better?"

"Yes, thank you, ma'am."

"She hasn't lost her cough, though, I hear. Sit down, child, and talk to me whilst I finish this shirt."

Melina took a chair, secretly very gratified, for she had never been inside her neighbour's house before. What a comfortable kitchen it was, she thought, as she looked about her. The walls were colour-washed a pretty blue; there was linoleum on the floor; and the tins on the mantelpiece shone like silver. Everything was as clean and fresh as a new pin.

"I always cook on Saturdays," explained Mrs. Jones, as she put down her iron for a minute to peep into the oven, in which there was a shelf of little cakes. "I don't hold with cooking on Sundays if one can help it; besides, my husband and I like to go to church together, and we couldn't do that if there was a hot meal to be cooked. If you'll wait a few minutes, you shall have one of these rock-cakes for your lunch."

"Oh, thank you so much!" Melina said, feeling grateful, but puzzled too, for Mrs. Jones had hitherto had but little to say or do with her. "What a nice room this is!" she exclaimed a moment later, in an admiring tone.

"It's the same size as you grandmother's, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it's very different; it looks so comfortable and is so beautifully clean."

From this remark Mrs. Jones judged that the kitchen next door was not beautifully clean. She had resumed her ironing, and for a few minutes she was silent, thinking, whilst every now and again she glanced at her companion. At length she said:

"Some one was speaking to me about you yesterday, Melina; guess who it was."

"William?" suggested Melina hesitatingly, after a brief consideration.

"No. Mr. Blackmore, a friend of our vicar's, who's come to be a lay-helper—"

"Oh!" interposed Melina, "the little gentleman! I did not know what he was called before! What is a lay-helper, Mrs. Jones?"

"Some one—not a clergyman—who helps in the parish," explained Mrs. Jones. "Yes, Mr. Blackmore called to see me yesterday," she went on, "and a very nice little gentleman he seems to be, so pleasant and cheerful; and yet it appears he has known a lot of trouble. He told me he lost his wife and two children years ago, and that he hadn't a near relation in the world."

"Then does he live alone at South View?" Melina inquired.

"Alone, except for servants. There, that shirt's finished; I'll put it in front of the fire to air. And now I should think those cakes are ready."

Whilst Melina was eating the cake which had been promised her, Mrs. Jones continued to talk of Mr. Blackmore, and by and by she said:

"He's very interested in you, child; he told me so. He asked me to try and persuade your grandmother to send you to Sunday school, but I said I couldn't interfere; do you think she'd let you go?"

"I dare say she would, but I don't want to go, Mrs. Jones."

"Why not, Melina?"

The little girl glanced expressively over her shabby frock. "I've nothing fit to wear," she admitted in a low voice, her cheeks flushing; "I haven't any Sunday clothes. If I went to Sunday school just as I am now the other children would laugh at me, and I hate being laughed at."

"But is it necessary for you to go just as you are now?" asked Mrs. Jones. "Your frock's a good deal the worse for wear certainly, but you might darn that rent in the skirt and sponge those spots out of the bodice; and I suppose you could comb your hair and make it a bit tidy, couldn't you? You have such pretty hair, Melina—that is, it would be if you kept it in better condition," she added.

Melina made no response, but the colour in her cheeks deepened.

"It is not your fault that you have to wear shabby clothes," Mrs. Jones proceeded, "but it certainly is your fault if you're untidy and dirty. Now, do try what soap and water will do towards improving your appearance, and don't take it amiss my speaking like this. I think maybe I ought to have done so before. I really felt ashamed of myself when I had to admit to Mr. Blackmore that you and your grandmother had lived next door to me for years and how little I knew about you; it came across me that I must be a poor sort of Christian, and that I'd neglected my duty towards my neighbours."

"Do you think it would please Mr. Blackmore if I went to Sunday school?" Melina asked abruptly.

"Yes, I am sure it would," was the confident response.

"Then I'll go. I'll go whether Gran's willing to let me or not."

"No, no," said Mrs. Jones hastily; "Mr. Blackmore would not wish you to go if Mrs. Berryman forbade you to, but I don't expect she'll do that."

"No," the little girl agreed after a brief reflexion, "I don't expect she will; I'll speak to her about it to-night."

"That's right."

Having finished her cake, Melina rose to leave; but at that minute heavy footsteps were heard in the yard outside the back door, and a few seconds later a big, powerful-looking man, wearing clay-stained garments, appeared upon the scene. This was Mrs. Jones' husband. He worked as a clay cutter, often in the pits underground, and earned good wages. He was a quiet, easy-going man, and he smiled very kindly at Melina, as he generally did when he saw her, which was not often.

"Why, 'tis the little maid next door!" he said in some surprise; "now, don't you go because I've come. Why, bless me, Mary!" he exclaimed, addressing his wife, "she's growing the very image of her father!"

"Did you know my father, Mr. Jones?" questioned Melina eagerly.

"To be sure I did," was the response.

"I wish you'd tell me about him," said the little girl; "Gran never will. Did you know him well?"

"Yes," assented Mr. Jones, "at one time. He and I went to school together, and we started work, I remember, on the same day; but he didn't stick to the clay work long, and then he went to London—to better himself, he said. I never saw him after he left Hawstock."

"Do you know where he is now?" Melina inquired. Then, as Mr. Jones shook his head, she added wistfully, "I do wish he'd come back. Did you know my mother too, Mr. Jones?"

"No," he replied, "I never saw her; she was a Londoner, I've heard."

"She died when I was born," said Melina sadly; "Gran told me that. Oh dear, there's Gran calling me in our yard. I must go!" And with a hurried "Good morning" to husband and wife she hastened away.

That evening Melina asked and received her grandmother's permission to attend Sunday school; but she did not go the next day, because she had some preparations to make. During the ensuing week she darned and cleaned her frock, and washed and combed her hair. She found great difficulty in getting the tangles out of her curls, but she succeeded at last; and the afternoon of the following Sunday found her starting for Sunday school, if not well dressed, at any rate tidy and clean.

She had nearly reached her destination when she heard light, hurrying footsteps behind her, and a minute later she was joined by a little girl of about her own age called Agnes Brown, a schoolfellow of hers. Agnes was a nice-looking child, not pretty, but the owner of a pair of honest grey eyes and a bright smile; she was always well clad, and to-day she was wearing a pretty dark-blue jacket which covered her all over, and a dark-blue felt hat to match.

"Where are you going?" she inquired, as she walked on by her schoolfellow's side.

"To Sunday school," Melina answered, adding with a sudden burst of confidence: "I've never been before and I don't want to go now; I'm only going to please some one who's been kind to me."

"Well, you can come with me," said Agnes; "I'll ask my teacher to have you in her class, and then you can sit next me, you know."

Thus it was arranged. Melina had not had much intercourse with Agnes Brown previously, but Agnes had never laughed at her or teased her like many of her schoolfellows were in the habit of doing, and therefore she was pleased to sit next to her in school, and quite enjoyed the afternoon; for their teacher, a pretty young lady called Miss Seymour, possessed the power of chaining her pupils' attention, and Melina, like the rest, listened to her with the greatest interest.

"You'll come again next Sunday, won't you?" Agnes said, as, school over, she and Melina left together; but at that minute another girl joined them, and whispered to her just loud enough for Melina to hear:

"Come with me, Agnes. You surely don't mean to be seen walking with Melina Berryman? Let her go on alone."

Melina did not hear Agnes' response, but she had heard enough, and, quickening her footsteps, she hastened to get ahead of the others. She had not gone far, however, before Agnes overtook her.

"Don't be in such a hurry," Agnes said; "you know my way is the same as yours for a bit, and I want to talk to you."

"I'd rather be by myself, thank you," Melina replied untruthfully; "I'm not going to walk with you to—to disgrace you." This was said with an air of pride, not humility.

"What nonsense!" Agnes cried, flushing, and looking embarrassed.

"It's not nonsense! I know I'm dreadfully shabby, and—" Melina paused, with quivering lips and a lump in her throat.

Agnes could not contradict her, but she was a tactful little girl with a very kind heart, so she said:

"I was thinking just now how nice you had made yourself look—I was indeed. I had no idea before to-day that you had such lovely hair; what have you done to it? How fine and glossy it looks! Does it curl like that naturally?"

"Yes," Melina answered, a slow pleased smile creeping over her face. "I haven't done anything but wash and comb it," she explained; "I never used to take any trouble with it."

After that they went on together amicably, and Agnes suggested that they should meet on their way to Sunday school on the following Sunday afternoon, which Melina agreed to do, and when they separated they were on the best of terms with each other.

"Well, and how did you like Sunday school?" Mrs. Berryman said when her granddaughter reached home. She was seated by the kitchen fire—a mere handful of coals—looking most ill-tempered.

"Very well," Melina answered shortly.

"Who was your teacher?" the old woman inquired.

"Miss Seymour—such a pretty young lady, Gran! She talked to us so nicely." Melina's face brightened at the remembrance.

"Oh, she talked nicely, did she? What about?"

"About Jesus—how He came upon earth to save sinners—"

"Oh, I've heard all that before!" interrupted Mrs. Berryman.

"It's very wonderful, isn't it?" Melina said thoughtfully.

"What's wonderful?"

"That He should have died for sinners. Miss Seymour said He prayed even for His enemies—people who had served Him badly and insulted Him. Only fancy that!"

Receiving no response to this remark, the little girl went upstairs to take off her hat and jacket, humming the tune of the hymn she had heard sung at the Sunday school that afternoon. It had been "There is a green hill far away," and it had made a deep impression upon her. One verse she remembered word for word, and she thought she would try to sing it, which she accordingly did.

"There was no other good enough

To pay the price of sin;

He only could unlock the gate

Of heaven, and let us in."

So sang Melina. Her grandmother heard her with surprise, and muttered to herself:

"What's taken to the child? I never knew her sing before."

[CHAPTER V]

MRS. BROWN'S INVITATION

"MOTHER," said Agnes Brown one fine spring afternoon on her return from school, "I wish you would let me ask Melina Berryman to tea next Saturday. I'm sure she'd like to come."

"Very well," Mrs. Brown agreed, "I shall be very pleased to see her, poor little girl."

Mother and daughter were together in the comfortable parlour of their home, which was a small house in a side street of the town, a street called Gladstone Street. The Brown family comprised father, mother, and three children, the eldest of whom was Agnes, the other two being boys. Mr. Brown was a junior clerk employed in the booking-office at the railway station; and his wife before her marriage had been a dressmaker, so that she was able to make all her own and Agnes' clothing, which allowed them to be better dressed than they could otherwise have been. The Browns had only been living in Hawstock since the previous autumn, when Mr. Brown had been shifted from a town some distance away to his present post; consequently they had few acquaintances in the place. Mrs. Brown had never yet seen Melina, but she had heard from her little daughter that she lived with an old grandmother who was anything but kind to her.

"Thank you, mother," Agnes said. She hesitated, then proceeded: "I wonder what you will think of Melina and if you will like her. You will say she is very shabby, I know. She's grown out of her winter jacket, and it's so tight for her that she can hardly fasten it; and she wears such a dreadful old hat."

"No doubt her grandmother is very poor and cannot afford her good clothes," remarked Mrs. Brown; "you have never been to her home, have you?"

Agnes shook her head. "No," she replied, "and I'm sure I don't want to, because they say at school that Mrs. Berryman is a wicked old woman."

"Wicked!" Mrs. Brown looked rather startled. "What do you mean, Agnes?" she inquired.

"I hardly know," the little girl admitted, "but I believe she drinks—"

"Oh dear, dear!" broke in Mrs. Brown.

"Melina can't help it if she does, mother," Agnes cried hastily.

"No, poor child, of course not. If this is true I am very, very sorry for her, but, on second thoughts, perhaps before you ask her here to tea I had better make some inquiries about her grandmother. I'll speak to your father, and ask him to find out what is known about her."

The Little Gentleman

A BUNCH OF FLOWERS FOR MELINA.

THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF

"COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS," "ROBIN OF SUN COURT,"

"GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY E. R. MARQUAND

LONDON

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY

19 GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W.

NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE

1910

(All rights reserved)

CONTENTS