Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
SHE STOOD GAZING THROUGH THE SMALL WINDOW.
AUDREY
OR
Children of Light
By
MRS. O. F. WALTON
AUTHOR OF
"CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN," "LITTLE DOT," "OLIVE'S STORY,"
"SAVED AT SEA," "A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES," ETC.
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard, E.C.
STORIES
BY
MRS. O. F. WALTON.
Christie's Old Organ.
A Peep Behind the Scenes.
Winter's Folly.
Olive's Story.
The Wonderful Door; or, Nemo.
My Little Corner.
My Mates and I.
Audrey; or, Children of Light.
Christie, the King's Servant.
Little Faith.
Nobody Loves Me.
Poppy's Presents.
Saved at Sea.
Taken or Left.
The Mysterious House.
Angel's Christmas.
Little Dot.
Doctor Forester.
The Lost Clue.
Scenes in the Life of an Old Arm-Chair.
Was I Right.
The Religious Tract Society
4, Bouverie Street, & 65, St. Paul's Churchyard
CONTENTS
[CHAPTER II. A CURIOUS PLAYGROUND]
[CHAPTER III. A PAIR OF ROBINS]
[CHAPTER IV. FORGOTTEN GRAVES]
[CHAPTER VII. THE MYSTERIOUS LIGHT]
[CHAPTER VIII. CHILDREN OF LIGHT]
[CHAPTER IX. UNDER THE YEW TREE]
Audrey
OR
CHILDREN OF LIGHT
[CHAPTER I]
The Old House
"NOW, Audrey!"
"Yes, Aunt Cordelia?"
"That's the third clean pinafore that you've had this week," said Aunt Cordelia severely, "and it's only Thursday. Now, Audrey!"
And when Aunt Cordelia said, "Now, Audrey!" The little girl who was addressed knew that something was seriously amiss.
She was a pretty little girl, with fair hair and brown eyes, and the warm summer sun had tanned her as brown as the nuts in the window of Aunt Cordelia's shop. She stood in the corner of the little back parlour looking ruefully at her pinafore, which was almost as black as if she had sent it up the chimney for five minutes' change of air.
"Now, Audrey!" repeated Aunt Cordelia more solemnly than before.
The poor child could not bear up against this last terrible appeal, and bursting into tears, she sobbed—
"I wish there weren't such things as pinafores; I do wish there weren't!"
"No such things as pinafores?" said Aunt Cordelia. "Why, what would become of careless little girls' frocks, if there were no nice pinafores to cover them, I should like to know?"
"I hate pinafores," sobbed the child, taking no notice of her aunt's words; "I wish the Queen would say nobody was ever to wear them again!"
"For shame, Audrey," said Aunt Cordelia, "you should never say you hate anything; it's very wicked indeed! Least of all you should never hate pinafores, that keep you nice and clean and tidy."
"But that's just what they don't do," said Audrey. "They will get black and grimy. I can't ever have a bit of fun because of them."
Then, as she dried her tears, a bright thought struck her, and she said, "Couldn't I have a black pinafore, Aunt Cordelia, and then it wouldn't show the dirt, would it now?"
"Well," said her aunt, laughing in spite of herself, "it will come to that one of these days, I expect. Now go and get a clean pinafore at once; and remember that's four this week," she called after her, as the little girl ran upstairs.
It was a quaint old house in which Audrey and her aunt, Miss Palmer, lived. Miss Palmer loved to boast about it to the customers who came to the shop. It was three hundred years old, she told them, and the wainscot was real oak, and the bannisters on the stairs were carved, and there were curious old cupboards with black oak doors, and there was a chimney so wide that none of the sweep's brushes were large enough to sweep it.
But though Miss Palmer was very proud of her old house, which had been in the family for so many years that the family had quite lost count of their number, yet it caused her a great deal of worry and anxiety. There never was such a place for dust as that old house; it collected in every corner, it lay upon the window-sills, and it settled upon the bright dish-covers and pewter jugs in the kitchen.
With this dust Miss Palmer was always waging war. From morning till night—week in and week out—she fought perseveringly with the ever-gathering dust, and tried to make her house as prim and as neat as her tidy soul longed to see it. But just as Audrey's pinafores would get black, so the old house would get dusty, and the two together brought many a line of care into Miss Palmer's forehead.
Audrey had lived with her aunt since she was a fortnight old. Her father was a baker in a town two hundred miles away. She had never seen him, and he had never seen her since her aunt had carried her off, a tiny, sickly baby, nearly eight years ago. Audrey's mother had died soon after she was born, and her father had sent a piteous letter to his sister Cordelia, telling her he did not know what would become of him and of his nine motherless children, now Alice was gone.
On receipt of that letter, Miss Palmer had at once put up her shop-shutters, packed a small carpetbag, locked up her old house, and had set off for the town, two hundred miles away, where her brother lived. She had only remained one night, for her business could not be neglected; but she had brought the baby back with her, having adopted it as her own.
A curious little thing Audrey looked, as Miss Palmer rolled her in a warm shawl before starting on her homeward journey, for even then she had a quantity of hair, which made her little face look, if possible, smaller and more fragile. But Miss Palmer, although she was an old maid, had had some experience with babies, having at one time been nurse in a respectable family. So the little one had every care and attention bestowed upon her, and had grown up a healthy, hearty child, always untidy, and never clean for half an hour together, but yet with cheeks like roses, and as plump and strong as even Miss Palmer's heart could wish.
She was very fond of the little girl, although she did not often show it. And though she sometimes rebuked her and said, "Now, Audrey!" in a voice which made her tremble, she was not unkind to her, and did not mean to be harsh.
"It was all for Audrey's good," she said to herself.
Thus Audrey, in spite of her pinafores, did not lead at all an unhappy life. She went to a private school in the next street, where an old woman tried to keep order amongst thirty or forty children, and, at such times as she succeeded in making her voice heard, to teach them reading, writing, and a few sums.
Audrey was a quick child, and learnt well all that it was possible to learn in such a place. She could read easily and distinctly, and would have been praised for her writing, had she not covered both herself and her copybook with blots. But the sums were her delight, and she was fast coming to the end of all the arithmetic which Miss Tapper was able to impart.
But there was one thing which Audrey had never been taught, either at school or at home, and that was the power of the love of Jesus. Her aunt made her say a prayer night and morning, but she never talked to her of the dear Lord who died instead of her, and who longed for her to be His loving and obedient child. If Audrey was good she was praised, if she was naughty she was blamed; but no one taught her who alone could make her good, or could teach her not to be naughty.
She was like a little ship beaten about by the waves, driven first one way and then another by the storm of temper on the wind of wilfulness. She had not yet learnt whose hand must be on the helm if she was to sail onward, and to reach the harbour in safety.
When Audrey appeared downstairs in her clean pinafore, she stood at the shop-door watching her aunt, who was weighing out a pound of tea for a customer—a stout, rosy woman with a basket on her arm.
"Aunt Cordelia," began the child; but the customer's tongue was going so fast that her aunt did not hear her.
"Aunt Cordelia," said the child again, as the woman, having finished her long story, took up her parcels, put them in her basket, and departed.
"Well, Audrey?"
"May I go out and play, Aunt Cordelia?"
"Go out and play? No, indeed!" said her aunt indignantly. "Go out and dirty another clean pinafore? Not if I know it! Take your doll and play with it in the window-seat, and keep yourself clean for five minutes, if you can do such a thing."
Audrey obeyed without a word, for she had been taught to do as she was told. She went into the parlour and took up her poor old wooden doll Olivia, who had lost all the colour from her cheeks and all the hair from her head. Audrey did not play with her; she stood with her in her arms gazing through the small square diamond-paned window into her playground outside.
[CHAPTER II]
A Curious Playground
AUDREY stood a long time looking out of that window. It opened like a door, and the ground outside was only two feet below it. Audrey could get into her playground in a moment by jumping through the window; and oh, how she longed to be there!
It was a strange place in which to play, for it was a very old and long-disused churchyard. A great tombstone stood close to the window, and shut out much of Audrey's view. A green, moss-grown, dirty old tombstone it looked; but it was only like all the other stones in that melancholy and deserted place.
They had all been put up to the memory of people long since dead—long since forgotten. No loving hands ever brought flowers or wreaths to lay on those old graves, for the ones who loved them and cared for them had themselves been long since numbered with the dead, and were lying in their own quiet resting-places.
Behind the old stones, so black with the smoke of years, so discoloured and weather-stained by the dews of many a summer and the rains of many a winter, Audrey could see the ancient church, which was fully as dismal and deserted as were the graves amongst which it stood. It had been built eight hundred years ago, and at one time large and fashionable congregations had no doubt attended it. Now they had all passed away, and with them had departed the usefulness of the old church. It was shut up and neglected, and was left to the spiders and other creeping things, which had made a happy home there.
That old churchyard was the happiest place in the world to Audrey; she had loved it ever since she was a little child. She knew every corner of it; she felt as if it belonged to her, and as if no one else had a right to be there—no one except little Stephen.
She shared everything with him, and she loved him as if he were her brother. There he was now under the lilac tree, sitting patiently waiting for her to come; and Aunt Cordelia would not let her go out to him. How disappointed Stephen would be! A tear trickled down Audrey's cheek at the thought, and fell on the top of poor Miss Olivia's head.
"What—Audrey crying!" said her aunt, coming briskly into the room. "What is it all about?"
Audrey wiped the tear off Miss Olivia's hair, and made no answer.
"What?" said her aunt. "Because I said you were not to go out? Now, Audrey!"
"Aunt, it isn't that—it isn't that," sobbed Audrey. "It's because Stephen will be disappointed, and it's his birthday. He is five years old to-day, is Stephen."
"Oh, it's his birthday, is it?" said her aunt, relenting. "Well, I did not know that. I suppose I must let you go; but mind your pinafore—that's all!"
"Thank you, aunty!" said Audrey, her face filling with sunshine in a moment, as she climbed on a chair, crept through the small square casement, and jumped to the ground outside.
The little boy gave a cry of joy as he saw her, and came slowly forward to meet her. He could not come quickly, for Stephen was a crippled child, and had never known what it was to run or to jump like other children.
When he was a baby, he was so small that he was quite a curiosity; and the neighbours declared that such a child had never been seen before. But his father had nursed him and watched him as a gardener tends and watches a little sickly plant of which he is very fond. And Stephen had learnt to walk when he was three years old, and could now creep about the churchyard and play quietly with Audrey amongst the old graves. He was his father's only treasure, for Stephen's mother had died when he was a baby; and he loved the little lad with all the love of his heart.
Stephen's father was a cobbler, and his window also opened on the churchyard; and there he sat mending his shoes, and now and then glancing at the children at their play. He was never happy when Stephen was out of his sight, for the child's back was deformed and crooked, and his legs were weak and unsound, and his father always feared some evil might befall him.
And this was Stephen's birthday, and he was five years old.
"Oh, Audrey, I'm glad you've come!" he cried. "I've waited and waited till school should leave, and it did seem so long! I've been looking in at the window of the church and, Audrey, do you know, there's a bird building his nest inside, just over the pulpit. Come and look!"
The two children went round to the other side of the church, and climbing on the top of a large flat tombstone they peered in through the yellow and discoloured panes of the window. What a strange place it was!
The high, rotten old pulpit looked as if it must soon fall; the narrow brown pews, with their high backs, and the large square pews, where the grand people once sat, were all alike gradually slipping into crooked positions, and leaning over on the uneven stone floor.
Audrey and Stephen loved to look into that old church; they peeped in at all times of the day—in the morning, when the church looked bright and almost cheerful, as the sunbeams danced on the old pillars and streamed down the deserted aisles; in the afternoon, when the long shadows fell across the chancel, and the coloured window at the western end threw blue and red lights on the font and on the mouldy pavement below; and again in the evening, just before going to bed, when the old church was weird and ghostly, and the stone figures on the tombs in the chancel looked to the children as if they were alive, and might stand up and call to them as they watched.
Stephen would tremble at such times and cling fast to Audrey; but she was never afraid of the old church by night or by day, and she would have slept as soundly and as happily in one of the square pews as she did in her own bed at home.
This afternoon the church looked very bright, and the sunshine showed the dust and cobwebs which clung to the roof, as Stephen pointed out the nest he had discovered.
It was a swallow's nest, and presently they saw the swallows themselves flying in and out of a broken pane in the east window, and adding finishing touches to their neat little nest.
"Isn't it lovely?" said Audrey. "We will come every day to watch them, and we shall see if any little birds come in the nest."
Then she lifted Stephen down from the stone, and they wandered together through the churchyard. What a forlorn place it was, full of long grass and weeds! All the grave-stones seemed to have fallen out of place, just as all the pews had done. Some were leaning one way and some another.
The names on most of them had long since been worn away, but others were still quite distinct; and Audrey loved to spell them out and to calculate how long it was since those buried in the old graves had died.
In one corner of the churchyard was a swing, which Stephen's father had put up for them; and just underneath the wall of the church was a hutch, where Stephen's white rabbit lived.
It was very, very seldom that any one visited the old church, except the deaf old woman who had the key of the gate; and she only came when some stranger, passing through the old city, happened to discover the whereabouts of the ancient building, and made it worth her while to unlock the door.
[CHAPTER III]
A Pair of Robins
THERE were three houses the windows of which looked into the old churchyard. Audrey and her aunt lived in one, Stephen and his father in another, but the third had long been empty. The windows were covered with dust, and the spiders and beetles had taken possession of it, just as they had done of the old church. However, to the children's astonishment, when they came back from watching the swallows on Stephen's birthday, they saw that the window of the empty house had been thrown wide open.
"Who can be inside? Dare you go and look, Audrey?"
"Yes, I'm not afraid," said the child; and leaving Stephen sitting on a flat tombstone, she went up to the window and peeped in.
"Who did you see?" said the little boy, when she came back.
"I saw nobody but a mouse," said Audrey, "a little grey mouse, sitting in the corner and eating a bit of bread; but the floor is all washed and clean, and the cobwebs are gone, and I saw a letter lying on the window-sill."
"Who can be there?" said Stephen. "We must watch and see."
They had not long to wait, for that very afternoon a man's face appeared at the window. He was a tall man, dressed in black, quite a gentleman, Audrey thought him. He was an old man, for his hair was very white, and he stooped a little; but he was very active in spite of his age, and his bright dark eyes seemed to be taking in all he saw at a glance. He only looked out for a minute, but as Audrey and Stephen crept nearer, they saw that he was very busy. He put down a bright-coloured carpet on the floor, and brought in a large, leather easy-chair and a little round table, and placed these close to the window, and he hung a canary in its cage just over the casement. Then he nailed up white muslin curtains, and Audrey and Stephen thought the old house looked very pretty, and were glad that some one had come to live in it.
"Will he live by himself, Stephen, do you think?" said Audrey.
But before Stephen had time to answer, Aunt Cordelia's voice was heard calling—
"Now, Audrey, tea-time! What about your pinafore?"
The pinafore was quite clean this time, and Audrey went in with a light heart; and as a reward for keeping clear of dirt, she was allowed to play with Stephen again after tea. She was eager to get out, that she might catch another glimpse of her old man, as she called him; but she found the shutters closed, and she and Stephen could only watch the flickering of the bright light inside.
"He's got a fire," said Stephen; "look at the smoke coming up out of the chimney."
"And he's got a lamp, too," said Audrey. "Look, you can see it through the crack in this shutter."
"THERE'S SOME ONE SITTING IN THE WINDOW!" HE SAID.
"Listen—" said Stephen. "What is he doing?"
The sound of hammering came again and again from the room, the window of which looked into the churchyard.
"He's putting up his pictures," said Audrey. "How pretty it will look in the morning!"
There was, however, no time for her to peep at it before school; but when she came home at twelve o'clock, she found Stephen full of excitement.
"There's some one sitting in the window, and I can't make out who it is," he said. "I can see something white, and it moves, but it isn't the old man's head; it's too white for that."
"Why don't you go and look?" said Audrey.
"I daren't," said Stephen; "I waited for you, Audrey."
The little girl went on tip-toe and peeped in.
"It's an old woman, Stephen," she reported, when she came back to him. "Such a pretty old woman, and she is sitting in that arm-chair, knitting, and she is smiling to herself as she knits. I wonder what she is thinking about that makes her smile. Come and look, Stephie."
Very, very quietly the two children crept to the window and peeped in.
"Is any one there?" said a pleasant voice.
But the children were so startled when she spoke, that they ran away and hid behind the bushes, and it was some time before they dared to venture again near the window.
"Is any one there?" said the kindly voice of the old woman. "I am sure I hear some little feet outside."
"Yes, ma'am," said Audrey; "it's me and Stephen."
"You and Stephen, is it?" said the old woman. "And what are you and Stephen like?"
Instead of answering, the two children put their heads in at the window.
How pretty it was inside that room! The walls were covered with pictures and photographs and coloured texts, a fire was burning in the grate, and in front of it lay a tortoiseshell cat fast asleep; the chimney-piece was adorned with stuffed birds and vases filled with grass, and on the round table was a large bunch of wallflowers, which filled the whole room with sweetness.
"Now then, what are you and Stephen like?" said the old woman, smiling again.
"Can't you see us, ma'am?" said Audrey.
"No, I can't see you," said the old woman quietly; "I'm blind."
"Oh dear, what a pity!" said little Stephen.
"No, not a pity," said the old woman, "not a pity, because the good Lord sees best; we must never say it's a pity."
"Can't you see anything?" said Audrey.
"Not a glimmer," said the old woman, "it is all dark now; but I can feel the warm sunshine, thank God, and I can smell these sweet flowers, and I can hear your bonny voices."
"I'm so sorry for you," said little Stephen, "so very, very sorry!"
"God bless you, my dear child!" said the old woman, and a tear rolled down her cheek and fell upon her knitting. "And now tell me who you are, and what you are like."
"I'm Audrey, please, ma'am," said the little girl, "and he's Stephen, and he's as good as my brother, only he isn't my brother—are you, Stephie? And he's got shaky legs, and he can't walk far; but he plays with me among the graves—don't you, Stephie?"
"And now, Stephen, what is Audrey like?" asked the old woman.
"She's got yellow hair," said little Stephen, "and she's nice!" And then he turned shy, and would say no more.
"Now," said the old woman, "you must often come and talk to me as I sit in my window, and you must tell me all you are doing. I know what to call you, but you must know what to call me. My name is Mrs. Robin, and you shall call me Granny Robin. I have some little grandchildren, but they live over the sea in America, so you must take their place."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Audrey. "Thank you, Granny Robin, I mean," she added, laughing.
That was the beginning of a great friendship between the two children and the new-comers. Mr. Robin had been a schoolmaster, and for many years had worked hard and lived carefully, so that in his old age he had saved enough to retire, and to take the old house, and make a comfortable home in it for himself and for his wife.
The rent was low, for few liked to take a house the windows of which looked out upon graves, but the schoolmaster made no objection to the churchyard. There were green trees in it, which would remind him of the pretty village where he had lived so long, and he did not mind the graves: he would soon be lying in one himself, and it was well to be reminded of it, he said. And as for his wife, she could not see the graves, but she could hear the twittering of the swallows that built under the eaves of the deserted church, and she could smell the lilac on the bush close to her window, and it would be a quiet and pleasant home for her until the Lord called her.
The only fear that the schoolmaster had had in choosing his new home had been lest his wife would miss the company to which she had been accustomed in the village where they were so well known. She had a large and loving heart, and there were very few in the village who did not come to her for sympathy both in joy and in sorrow. She knew the history of every one, and, one by one, they dropped in to tell her all that was going on in the village—countless little events which would have been of small interest to others, but which were of great interest to Mrs. Robin.
She sat at her knitting when the neighbours had gone, thinking over what she had heard, and carrying the sorrows of others, as she ever carried her own, to the throne of grace.
But Mr. Robin need not have feared for his wife. She had a happy, contented spirit. It is true she had felt sad at leaving her happy country home, but new interests were already springing up in the one to which she felt the Lord had brought her. Little Stephen with his shaky legs, and Audrey with her motherly care over him, had already won Granny Robin's heart, and the children from that time spent a very large part of their playtime in talking to their new friend, as she sat at her window knitting.
[CHAPTER IV]
Forgotten Graves
ONE day, as the children stood by Granny Robin's side, they talked about the old graves in the churchyard. It was a bright spring evening, and the golden sunshine was streaming through the branches of the ragged, untidy trees, which nearly hid the old church from sight. Granny Robin could not see the sunshine, but Stephen could see it, and he told her about it, and said he was sure the swallows liked it as much as he did, for they were flying round and round in long circles, twittering as they flew.
It had become quite a regular thing for Stephen to tell the old woman all he saw, and he loved to hear her say that she was now no longer blind, for she had found a pair of new eyes.
One day she called him her "little Hobab," and when he laughed and asked her why she gave him such a funny name, she said it was because, long, long ago, when Moses was travelling through the wilderness with the children of Israel, he said to his brother-in-law, Hobab:
"Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes." And she said that God had sent little Stephen to her, in her old age, that he might be instead of eyes to her.
"I am so sorry for those poor graves," said Stephen on that spring evening, when he had been telling Granny Robin about the sunlight and the swallows.
"Why are you sorry for them?" asked the old woman.
"They look so sad and lonely," said Stephen.
"What are they like?" asked Granny Robin.
"Oh, all green and dirty," said Audrey, "and the trees are fallen against them, and when the wind blows, their branches go beat, beat, beat, against the stones, till Aunt Cordelia says she can't bear to hear them when she's in bed at night."
"Does nobody bring flowers to put on them?" asked the old woman.
"No, never," said little Stephen.
"Nor wreaths?"
"Oh no, never."
"Does no one ever come to look at them?"
"No, never once, Granny Robin," said Audrey.
"And they do look so sad," said Stephen.
"Yes," said the little girl, "I went with Aunt Cordelia to the cemetery one day, and it's lovely there, just like a garden; the flowers are beautiful, and there were heaps of people watering graves, and raking them and pulling off the dead flowers, and some of them were crying."
"But no one cries over these graves," said Granny Robin.
"No, not one person," said Stephen. "My father says all the people that loved them are dead and buried themselves."
"Poor forgotten graves!" said the old woman. "And my grave will be like one of them in fifty years' time—a forgotten grave."
She was talking to herself more than to the children, but little Stephen answered her.
"Will no one remember it, Granny Robin?"
"Yes, some one will," she said brightly; "my Lord will never forget. He will know where it is, and whose body lies inside, and it will be safe in His care till the great Resurrection Day."
"Will the angels know too?" said Stephen.
"I think they will," she said.
"Do they know who are buried in these poor old graves?" asked the child.
"Yes, I believe they do," said the old woman.
"In every one?"
"Yes, in every one."
"Even when the names are worn off?" asked the little boy.
"Yes, I believe they do," said Granny Robin softly.
"I'm so glad," said Stephen. "Then maybe the angels do come and look at them sometimes. I expect they come at night, when Audrey and me are in bed. I'll get out and look some night, Granny Robin; maybe I shall see them; my window looks out this way."
The forgotten graves weighed heavily on Stephen's mind after this talk with the old woman. When Audrey was at school, he used to wander up and down amongst them, pitying them with all the pity of his loving little heart. And he would try to put aside some of the branches that kept blowing against the stones, and which were so fast wearing them away, and he would pull up some of the long grass, which in some places hid the stones completely from sight.
"Audrey—" he said one afternoon when Aunt Cordelia had given her leave to have a long play with him, "Audrey, couldn't we make these poor old graves look nice?"
"We couldn't do them all," said Audrey. "Why, Stephen, there must be a hundred or more!"
"No, we couldn't do them all; we might begin with two—one for you and one for me, Audrey."
"Well, let's choose," said the little girl. "We'll walk round and have a look at them all."
"We'll have one with some reading on," said Stephen, "and then we shall know what to call it."
"Here's a poor old stone against the wall," said Audrey; "I'll read you what it says."
"'SACRED
TO THE MEMORY OF
CHARLES HOLDEN,
WHOSE REMAINS LIE
HERE INTERRED.
HE WAS
OF HUMANE DISPOSITION,
A SOCIAL COMPANION,
A FAITHFUL SERVANT,
AND A SINCERE FRIEND.
HE DEPARTED THIS LIFE
THE 23RD OF DECEMBER, 1781.
AGED 38.'"
"I don't like that one bit," said Stephen; "it has got too many hard words in it."
"Well, here's another."
"'IN MEMORY
OF
JOHN POWELL.
DIED IN 1781.
ALSO MARY, RELICT OF
THE ABOVE, WHO DIED
JANUARY 20, 1827,
AGED 87.
ALSO TWO GRANDCHILDREN,
WHO DIED YOUNG.'"
"That's much nicer," said Stephen. "I like those two grandchildren who died young. I wonder how old they were; do you think they were as old as you and me, Audrey?"
"I don't know," said Audrey; "it doesn't say, and it doesn't tell if they were girls or boys."
"Never mind," said Stephen, "we can guess. I think one was a girl and one was a boy. And are their bodies really down under here, Audrey?"
"Yes, what there is of them," said Audrey; "Aunt Cordelia says they turn to dust."
"Oh," said little Stephen, in an awestruck voice, "I wish we could see the dust of the two grandchildren who died young! I'll have this grave, Audrey, and take care of them. Is there any one else inside it?"
"Yes, there's John Powell, died in 1781; also Mary, relict of the above," read Audrey.
"What does relict mean?" asked Stephen.
"Aunt Cordelia has a relict," said Audrey, "and she keeps it in a box."
"Is it a woman?" asked Stephen.
"No, it's a bit of grey hair; she cut it off her mother's head when she was dead, and she says it's a relict. I don't know what she means, but she keeps it locked up ever so safe."
"I hope John Powell didn't lock Mary up," said Stephen.
"She must have got out if he did," said Audrey, "for she lived a long, long, long time after him. He died in 1781, and she didn't die not until 1827; let me count up, it's quite a long sum. Why, it's forty-six years, Stephen!"
"Oh dear," said Stephen, "that is a long time! Let's tell Granny Robin about it, and I'll ask her if she would have that one if she was me."
Granny Robin quite approved of their plan, and of Stephen's choice of the two grandchildren who died young. She told them that relict meant the wife left behind, and tears came into the old woman's sightless eyes, as she sat at her knitting and thought of the poor widow left behind for forty-six years. She pictured her living on and on, year after year, coming doubtless often to that grave to look at the place where her John lay, but still kept waiting for forty-six years for the glad day when she should see him again.
Granny Robin thought it must have seemed a longs dreary time to poor Mary. And then, maybe, those two grandchildren were a cheer and comfort to her. Yet they were taken, they died young, but old Mary still lived on. Till at last, on that winter's day, January 20, 1827, the call, so long waited for, came, and she and her John were together again. Then, too, the old grandmother saw once more the faces of the two grandchildren who died young.
So Granny Robin mused as she sat at her work; and she wondered whether the waiting-time seemed as long to old Mary, as she looked back to it from the brightness and the joy of the Home above, or did it seem short as a troubled dream seems when we wake from sleep?
"Our light affliction, which is but for a moment."
So long, when we are passing through it; but for a moment, as we look back to it from God's eternity.
[CHAPTER V]
The Collection
STEPHEN had now quite settled upon the grave which he was to make his especial care, but he promised not to begin his work until Audrey had chosen hers. She was very undecided for a long time, but at length she chose one, sacred to the memory of another John.
"It will be nice for us each to have a John," she said.
"'BENEATH IS DEPOSITED
ALL THAT WAS MORTAL OF
JOHN HUTTON,
WHO DIED THE 12TH OF APRIL, 1793,
AGED 47.'"
"'Go home, dear wife, and shed no tear,
I must ly here till Christ appear;
And at His coming hope to have
A joyful rising from the grave.'"
"How do you spell lie, Granny Robin?" said Audrey, when she had finished reading it to her.
"L-i-e," said the old woman.
"Well, it's l-y here," said the child.
"That's the old-fashioned way," said Granny Robin.
"Well, now, we'll set to work," said Audrey; "we must wash them first, Stephen. Do you think your father would give us some water in a basin? I daren't ask Aunt Cordelia; she would say I should dirty my pinafore."
"If Stephen's father will give him a basin, I will give you one, Audrey," said Granny Robin.
"And I'll get you both an old sponge," said Mr. Robin, who was smoking his pipe in the window.
What a scrubbing went on after that! Stephen's father, who was always pleased to do anything his poor little boy asked him, brought out soap and two scrubbing brushes, and the children worked away diligently for more than an hour.
At the end of it, they were far from satisfied with their work.
"The two grandchildren who died young won't come clean, Granny Robin," said little Stephen mournfully.
"They're quite as nice as my John is," said Audrey. "Anyhow," she added more hopefully, "they're a deal cleaner than they were before. Now what's the next thing to be done?"
"We must cut the long grass behind them," said Stephen, "and then we must dig up the grave in front of the stone. I'll get father's big scissors and my little spade."
Father's big scissors cut the grass down very successfully, but Stephen's little spade refused to go into the hard ground. It had been trodden underfoot for many years, and it lay hard and dry and stony over the heads of the two grandchildren who died young.
But at this point old Mr. Robin came to the rescue. He brought a large spade out of his house and dug the grave over for little Stephen, and then, after he had rested a little, he did the same for Audrey's John, as she called him.
AT THIS POINT OLD MR. ROBIN CAME TO THE RESCUE.
"Wouldn't the wife be pleased if she saw we were doing it?" she said.
"What wife?" asked Stephen.
"This wife it says about in the hymn—"
"'Go home, dear wife, and shed no tear.'"
"I wonder if she did shed any," said Stephen.
"I expect she did," said Audrey; "I wonder what has become of her. Do you think she will ever come to see how nice we have made her John's grave, Granny Robin?"
"When did John die?" asked the old woman.
"In 1793," said Audrey.
"1793—a hundred years ago!" said Granny Robin. "Why, Audrey, the wife must have been dead long since!"
"And she never sheds any more tears now," said Stephen, "because she's in heaven."
"I hope so," said Granny Robin.
"Does everybody go to heaven when they die?" asked the child.
"No, my dear boy, not every one."
"Shall I go there when I die, Granny Robin? I do hope I shall," said little Stephen.
"I hope so too, my little man. The Lord wants to have you there," she said.
"What is it like, Granny Robin?" asked Stephen.
"We know very little about it, Stephen," said the old woman, "but we can't help thinking about it, and dreaming about it; and I always think of it as a beautiful garden, where the King walks with His friends. I may be wrong, Stephie, but that's what I always see in my mind when I think of it."
"The two grandchildren who died young will like being in the garden," said Stephen. "Do you think they're glad they died young, Granny Robin?"
"I think they are, Stephie," she said; "they did not have to tread far on life's rough ways; their little feet reached the garden long, long years ago."
"And there will be soft grass for them to walk on there," said Stephen, "Maybe I'll see them when I get there. Do you think I'll know them, Granny Robin?"
"I think you will, Stephie; I feel almost sure you will," she said.
"If I see any very dear little children playing under the trees of the garden," said little Stephen, "I might ask them, 'Are you the two grandchildren who died young?' And then they could tell me, couldn't they?"
"God bless you, my dear little lad!" was all the answer Granny Robin gave him.
The next day was Saturday, which was market-day in the old city. It was Audrey's holiday, and the happiest day in the week to Stephen and to herself. Aunt Cordelia was always busy cleaning from morning till night, and sent Audrey into the churchyard, that she might be out of the way of her sweeping-brush and dust-pan.
On this particular Saturday, Audrey and Stephen were whispering together under the lilac tree for a very long time; and about ten minutes afterwards, Mr. Robin, who was smoking his pipe in the window, saw a sight which made him laugh so much, that for a long time he could not tell Granny Robin at what he was laughing.
As he looked across the churchyard, he saw Audrey and Stephen coming towards the window arm in arm. Stephen was dressed in the tall hat which his father wore when he went to chapel on Sunday night, and in an old greatcoat, which was fastened round his neck, and dragged like a long tail behind him, whilst the sleeves were turned up so far that there was far more lining than cloth to be seen. Audrey had a red shawl thrown over her head, and her pinafore was tied round her waist like an apron. Each child carried a tin, on which old Mr. Robin distinctly read the words "Colman's Mustard."
As soon as they came up to the window both children made a low bow, but neither of them spoke.
"Well, what do you want?" said Mr. Robin, as gravely as he could. "Are you going round begging this fine spring morning?"
"Please, sir, we're making a collection," said Audrey.
"Yes, it's a collection," echoed little Stephen.
"What's it for, my little dears?" said Granny Robin, as she laid down her knitting, and began to put her hand into her pocket.
"Mine's for the TWO GRANDCHILDREN WHO DIED YOUNG," said little Stephen.
"And mine's for ALL THAT WAS MORTAL OF JOHN HUTTON," said Audrey.
"Oh, I see," said the old woman; "you want to go and get some roots in the market for your graves—is that it?"
That is it, and Granny Robin's hand must go in the pocket again. It goes in empty, but it comes out well filled. Three pennies for the grandchildren go into Stephen's tin, and three more for John Hutton go rattling to the bottom of Audrey's.
Now it is Mr. Robin's turn, and his pocket seems to be full of pennies too; and the tins make such a noise when they are shaken that Granny Robin pretends to stop her ears, that she may not hear the din.
Then the two children go on to the next window, where Stephen's father sits busy with his work. But the boot is laid down, that the collection may have due attention, and it is silver this time which goes into the tins, two quiet silver threepences, which make no noise, but which the two children admire greatly as they slip in amongst the copper.
"Now for Aunt Cordelia," says Audrey. "You must go first, Stephen; she won't say 'No' to you."
Aunt Cordelia makes a dive at Audrey's pinafore, the bottom of which she declares is collecting all the dust in the churchyard, but she is not angry when she hears why they have come. And when Stephen pleads for something for his two grandchildren, she goes to her till and brings out several pence for each tin, and willingly gives Audrey leave to go that afternoon to the market with Mr. Robin to make her purchases.
[CHAPTER VI]
Angels' Visits
WHAT an important little person Audrey was, as she set out to do her marketing that afternoon! Stephen was not able to go, for the crowd in the market-place was so great on Saturday afternoon, that his father was afraid he might get hurt. So Audrey and the old man were to do the business between them; Audrey carried the money, and Mr. Robin brought a basket for the flowers.
The market was an open one, and was held in a wide street in the centre of the city. There were stalls for all manner of articles in that market—toys, and kettles, and tins, and slippers, and caps, and all sorts of other things; but the flower-stalls were by far the prettiest, Audrey thought, and these were placed by themselves, all down one side of that long street. The little girl went from stall to stall, admiring all the flowers, and wondering which Stephen would like best.
It was well that Mr. Robin was there to help her to decide, or Stephen's patience would have been exhausted long before she reached home. He was sitting at the window looking out for them the whole time they were away. And oh, what excitement there was when the basket was unpacked, and the contents spread out on Granny Robin's round table!
Then, when all had been duly admired, they were divided into two heaps. One heap was for Stephen's grandchildren, as he called them, and the other was for Audrey's John. There were a yellow and a purple pansy, a red and a white daisy, a yellow musk, a sweet william, a primrose, a violet, a lily of the valley, and two or three beautiful roots of forget-me-nots in each heap.
Then the children went out in great glee to plant their flowers. But what was their surprise to find that, whilst Audrey had been in the market, Stephen's father had been very busy bringing bucketfuls of earth from the garden of a friend of his who lived not far away, and making the two graves as tidy and neat as the daintiest flower-garden. It was easy to plant the roots after this; and oh, how delighted the children were, as they saw the graves growing more and more pretty every moment!