“I wants fur to help Dick wen ’ee gets hout of that prison school, and I wants fur to tidy up fur Mrs Jenks the day ’er lad comes ’ome, and I wants to do something fur you, Miss Mary.”

“To be my little servant?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what I said to you when first I asked you to be my servant?”

“I must be God’s servant.”

“Just so, dear child, and I believe fully you have tried to be His servant – He knows that, and He has sent you a message; but before I give it to you, I want to ask you a question – why do you suppose that having seen the Queen will make you well?”

“Oh! not seein’ ’er – but she looked real kind-’earted, and though I didn’t ax ’er, I knows she be prayin’ to God fur me.”

“Yes, Flo, it is very likely the Queen did send up a little prayer to God for you. There are many praying for you, my child. You pray for yourself, and I pray for you, and so does Mrs Jenks, and better than all, the Lord Christ is ever interceding for you.”

“Then I’ll soon be well,” said Flo.

“Yes, you shall soon be well – but, Flo, there are two ways of getting well.”

“Two, Miss Mary?”

“Yes; there is the getting well to be ill again by and by – to suffer pain again, and sickness again – that is the earthly way.”

Flo was silent.

“But,” continued the lady, “there is a better way. There is a way of getting so well, that pain, and sickness, and trouble, and death, are done away with for ever – that is the heavenly way.”

“Yes,” whispered Flo.

“Which should you like best?”

“To be well for ever-’n-ever.”

“Flo, shall I give you God’s message?”

“Please.”

“He says that His little servant shall get quite well – quite well in the best way – you are to go up to serve Him in heaven. God is coming to fetch you, Flo.”

“To live up in the gold streets wid Himself?” asked Flo in a bright, excited manner.

“Yes, He is coming to fetch you – perhaps He may come for you to-night.”

“I shall see God to-night,” said Flo, and she closed her eyes and lay very still.

So white and motionless was the little face that Miss Graham thought she had fainted; but this was not so; the child was thinking. Her intellect was quite clear, her perceptions as keen as ever. She was trying to realise this wonderful news.

She should see God to-night.

It was strange that during all her illness the idea of getting well in this way had never hitherto occurred to her – she had suffered so little pain, she had been so much worse before – she had never supposed that this weakness, this breathlessness, could mean death – this sinking of that fluttering little heart, could mean that it was going to stop!

A sudden and great joy stole over her – she was going to God – He was coming Himself to fetch her – she should lie in His arms and look in His face, and be always with Him.

“Are you glad, Flo?” asked Miss Mary, who saw her smile.

“Yes.”

“I have another message for you. When Dick comes out of the prison school, I am to take care of him – God wishes that.”

“You will tell him about God.”

“Certainly, I shall do that – and, Flo, I feel it will be all right about the widow’s son.”

“Yes, God’ll make it right,” – then, after a pause, going back to the older memories, “I’d like to ’ear the Glory Song.”

“What is that, darling?”

“Oh! you knows – ‘I’m glad – I hever – ’”

”‘Saw the day’?” finished Miss Mary.

“Yes, that’s it. Poor Janey didn’t know wot it meant – ’tis ’bout God.”

“Shall I sing it for you?”

“Yes – please.”

Miss Mary did so; but when she came to the words, “I’ll sing while mounting through the air To Glory, Glory, Glory,” Flo stopped her.

“That’s wot I’ll do – sing – wile mountin’ – ’tis hall glory.”

And then again she lay still with closed eyes.

During that night Mrs Jenks and Miss Mary watched her, as she lay gently breathing her earthly life away.

Surely there was no pain in her death – neither pain nor sorrow. A quiet passing into a better Land. An anchoring of the little soul, washed white in the Blood of the Lamb, on a Rock that could never be moved.

Just before she died she murmured something about the Queen.

“Tell ’er – ef she ’ears o’ me – not to fret – I’m well – the best way – and ’tis hall glory.”

So it was.

Chapter Twenty One
The Prodigal’s Return

In the evening after Flo’s funeral Mrs Jenks was seated by her bright little fire.

Nothing could ever make that fire anything but bright, nothing could ever make that room anything but clean, but the widow herself had lost her old cheery look, she shivered, and drew close to the warm blaze. This might be caused by the outside cold, for the snow lay thick on the ground, but the expression on her brow could hardly come from any change of weather, neither could it be caused by the death of Flo.

Mrs Jenks sorrowed for the child, but not rebelliously – perhaps not overmuch. Those who loved her hardly spoke of her going away as a death at all. God had come and fetched her – that was what they said.

And the child was so manifestly fit to go – so evidently unfit to pass through any more of the waves of this troublesome world, that the tender regret that was felt at her loss was swallowed up in the joy at her gain.

No, Mrs Jenks was not mourning for Flo, but all the same she was troubled, nervous, unlike in every particular her usual self, so easily startled, that a very gentle knock at her door caused her to jump to her feet.

“’Tis only me, Mrs Jenks,” said Miss Mary Graham, taking off her snow-laden cloak, and sitting down on Flo’s little stool at one side of the fire.

“I thought you’d feel lonely, and would like me to look in on you.”

“Thank you, ma’am – yes – I’m missing the child and her dog, maybe. Anyhow, without being sorry for the blessed darling, or wishing her back, I’m very low like. If I ’ad Scamp, poor fellow, he’d keep me up. It was ’ard he should come by such a bad end.”

“Oh! Mrs Jenks, it was not a bad end. It was quite a glorious closing of life for the fine old fellow – he died defending the one he loved best. And, do you know, I could not bear to have him here without her, he would miss her so, and we could never tell him how well off she is now.”

“No, ma’am – that is true. He always lay close to her side, and curled up on the foot of her bed at night – and not a look nor a thought would he give me near her. And they say he hardly suffered a bit, that his death must ’ave come like a flash of lightning to him.”

“Yes; a woman who saw the whole thing says he dropped dead like a stone at Flo’s feet.”

Miss Mary paused – then, bending forward, she touched the widow’s arm.

“You are going to Wandsworth in the morning – may I come with you?”

At the word Wandsworth, Mrs Jenks’ face flushed crimson, the tears, so close to her eyes, rolled down her cheeks, and she threw her apron over her head.

“Oh! Miss Mary, don’t mind me, ma’am – I’m a poor weak creature, but indeed my heart misgives me sore. Suppose the lad should refuse to come back?”

“Suppose the Lord hath forgotten to be gracious?” replied Miss Mary, softly.

“Oh! no, ma’am, it ain’t that. He’s gracious any way, anyhow. No, Miss Mary dear, I feels your kindness, but I’ll go alone. It will daunt the poor boy less if I ’ave no one beside me. Down on my bended knees, if need be, I’ll beg of him to turn from ’is evil ways, and perhaps the Lord will hear me.”

“Yes, Mrs Jenks, the Lord will hear you, and give you back your lost son.”

Miss Mary went away, and the widow, having dried her eyes, sat on by the fire.

“Yes,” she said after a pause. “I were a fool to misdoubt God. Don’t his heavenly Father and his blessed Saviour care more fur the lad than I do?

“’Twill be all right for ’im, and if Flo was here to-night, she’d say, sweet lamb, —

”‘Mrs Jenks, ma’am, ain’t you about ready to get hout that jacket, and trousers, and vest, to hair ’em, ma’am?’

“Well! I just will get ’em hout, same as if she bid me.”

The widow rose, went to her trunk, unlocked it, and taking out a parcel wrapped in a snowy towel, spread its contents before the fire.

There they were – the neat, comfortable garments, smelling of lavender and camphor.

Mrs Jenks contemplated them with pride. How well grown her boy must be, to need a jacket and trousers so large as these! They would be sure to fit, she had measured his appearance so accurately in her mind’s eye that sad day when he was taken to prison!

She examined the beautiful stitching she had put into them with pride; when they were aired she took a clothes’ brush, and brushed them over again – then she folded them up, and finally raised them to her lips and kissed them.

As she did this, as she pressed her lips to the collar of the jacket, in that fervent kiss of motherly love, a great sob outside the window startled her considerably. Her room was on the ground floor, and she remembered that she had forgotten that evening, in her depression and sadness of spirit, to draw down the blind.

Holding her hand to her beating heart, she approached and looked out.

She had not been mistaken in supposing she heard a sob. A lad was lying full length on his face and hands in the snow, outside her window, and she heard suppressed moans still coming from his lips.

For the sake of her own son she must be kind to all destitute creatures.

She stepped out on her threshold, and spoke in her old cheery tones.

“Come in, poor fellow, come in. Don’t lie there perishing – come in, and I’ll give you a cup of tea. I’ve just brewed some, and a good strong cup will warm you.”

As she spoke she went and laid her hand on the boy’s arm.

“I’m a thief,” he said without stirring; “you won’t let in a thief?”

Something in the hoarse, whispered tones went straight to her heart.

“Of all people on earth, those I ’ave most feeling for are poor repentant thieves,” she said. “If you’re one of them, you ’ave a sure welcome. Why, there!” she continued, seeing he still lay at her feet and sobbed, “I’ve a lad of my own, who was a thief, and ’as repented. He’s in prison, but I feel he ’ave repented.”

“Would you let in your own lad?” asked the figure in the snow, in still that strange muffled voice.

“Let him in!” cried the widow; “let in my own lad! What do you take me for? I’m off to his prison to-morrow, and ’ome he shall come with all the love in his mother’s heart, and the prodigal son never had a better welcome than he shall have.”

Then the boy in the snow got up, and stumbled into the passage, and stumbled further, into the bright little room, and turning round, fixed his eyes on the widow’s face, and before she could speak, threw his arms round the widow’s neck. “Mother,” he said, “I’m that repentant lad.”

Jenks had been let out of prison a day sooner than his mother had calculated upon.

He had come back – humbled – sorry – nay more, clothed, and in his right mind: ready to sit at the feet of that Jesus whom once he persecuted. All the story of how these things had come to pass, all the story of that sermon which had touched his heart, all the story of that simple, childish letter, of those two locks of hair, he told to his happy and rejoicing mother.

And of her it might be said, “O woman, great was thy faith; it was done unto thee even as thou wouldest.”

These things happened a few months ago. How do the characters in this little story fare now?

Truly, with pleasure can it be said, that there is not a dark thing to relate about any of them.

Jenks, partly through Miss Mary’s aid, and partly through his mother’s savings, is apprenticed to a carpenter, and his strict honesty, his earnestness of purpose, joined to his bright and funny ways, have already made him a favourite with his master. Humanly speaking, few are likely to do better in their calling and station than he, and his dream is some day wholly to support his beloved little mother.

Pick is still at the Reformatory School, but he promises to do well, and Miss Mary promises never to cease to look after him.

Even little Janey, through this brave woman’s influence, has been rescued, and picked out of the mire of sin and ignorance, and has learned something more of the true meaning of the Glory Song.

As for Miss Mary herself, she is still a sister – a true sister of the poor, going wherever sins need reproving, and misery comforting. Not joining any particular denomination, wearing no special badge, she yet goes about, as her Master left her an example, doing good – and in the last day, doubtless, many shall rise up and call her blessed.

And the widow – when her boy came home, when her boy became a Christian, she seemed to have no other earthly good thing to ask for. She is very happy, very bright, and very dear to all who know her.

Thus all are doing well.

But surely – the one in his unbroken sleep, the other in the sunshine of her Father’s House – there are none we can leave so contentedly, so certain that no future evil can befall them, as the two, whom the child always spoke of as

SCAMP and I.

The End.