A small knot of policemen stood outside Q – Police-Court. They chatted and talked one to another, now and then alluding to the different cases to be tried that day, now and then dwelling on the ordinary topics of the times, now and then, too, speaking to a companion of home interests, and home, and personal hopes and fears.

For these stalwart-looking myrmidons of the law are just human beings like the rest of mankind, and they are quite capable now and then even of feeling and showing pity for a prisoner.

“Any cases of interest coming on to-day?” asked a young policeman of constable 21 B.

“Nothing of moment – a few thefts committed on the Derby Day. By the way, I have just brought in the drollest figure of a child to appear as witness in one of these cases.”

Just then a little woman in a black dress, black, tight-fitting bonnet, and black veil, came up timidly to the constable and asked if she might see the trials.

“Certainly, missis; you have nothing to do but to walk in. Stay, I will show you the way to the court. May I ask if there is hany particular case as you is wanting to hear?”

“Not – not – that is, I am not a witness,” replied the little woman, whose lips trembled. “I have a curiosity to see the proceedings.”

“Well, ma’am, the affairs coming on are mostly hacts of robbery committed on the Derby day – but some of them may interest you. Walk this way, ma’am,” and the constable preceded the little woman into the court.

“There,” he said kindly, seeing that for some reason she appeared a good deal either upset or excited, “you need not stand where the crowd are, you may go up and seat yourself on that bench where the witnesses be. You’ll be more quiet and comfortable hup there, and will see heverything.”

“Thank you,” replied the little woman, and she placed herself on the extreme edge of the witnesses’ bench.

There was a case then on hand, one of those sad cases which police-courts see so many of. A woman had been brought up to be tried for that sin which, more than any other, blights homes, ruins children, spreads destruction through the land, sends souls to hell, – she was accused of drunkenness and disorderly conduct.

She stood in the prisoner’s dock with a sullen, bleared, indifferent face, her half-dead, listless eyes gazing vacantly at the magistrate. She had appeared in that court charged with the same offence forty times.

Mr Vernon, the gentleman before whom she was accused, asked her what she had to say for herself. Even at this question the indifferent countenance never woke into life.

“Nothing,” she answered listlessly, for the love of strong drink had killed all other love in that woman’s breast. She hardly listened as Mr Vernon addressed her in a few solemn but kindly words, and when her sentence – a month at Wandsworth with hard labour – was pronounced, received it with the same stoical indifference.

Then two boys were led in by the jailor, and constable 21 B. appeared as the first witness against them. As he passed into his place in the witnesses’ box he gave the little woman in black a nudge and an intelligent look, which would have told her, even if she had not known it before, that one of the Derby robbery cases had come on. Through her thick veil she looked at the two lads; one hung down his face, but the other gazed about him, apparently untroubled and unashamed. This hardened expression on the elder boy’s face seemed to cause her much pain, she turned her head away, and some tears fell on her hands. And yet, could she but have seen into their hearts, she would have perceived something which would have kindled a little hope in her soul.

Each boy, standing in this dreadful position, thought of his mother.

Dick, with that sea of faces about him, with the eyes of the judge fixed on him, felt that the memory of his mother was the hardest thing of all to bear, for the conscience of the child who had stood out against temptation for so long was by no means yet hardened, and though he knew nothing of God, his mother’s memory stood in the place of God to him. So the most ignorant among us have a light to guide us. Let us be thankful if it is a star so bright as that of mother’s love. For, strange to say, the older lad, the boy who stood in the dock with that brazen, unabashed face, the clever, accomplished London thief, who though not unknown to the police, had hitherto by his skill and cunning almost always escaped the hands of justice, he too, down deep in his heart of hearts, thought of his mother; he took one quick, furtive glance around as if to look for her, then, apparently relieved, folded his arms and fixed his bold eyes on Mr Vernon. Then the trial, in the usual form in which such trials are conducted in police-courts, went on. The prisoners’ names and ages were first ascertained.

“William Jenks, aged fourteen; Richard Darrell, aged ten,” sounding distinctly in the small room.

Then Police Constable 21 B. identified the boys as the same whom he had caught in the act of removing a gold watch and purse from a gentleman’s pocket in the midst of the crowds who thronged the streets on Tuesday. He described very accurately the whole proceedings, stating how and why his suspicions had been aroused – how he had dodged the boys for some little time, had observed them whispering together, had seen Dick buy his false nose and sixpenny fiddle, had overheard a few words which gave him a further clue to some mischief, had seen them separate, had closely noticed Dick’s antics, had watched the violent push he gave the old gentleman, and finally had laid his hand on Jenks as he drew forth the watch and purse from his victim’s pocket.

His statements, delivered slowly and impressively, were taken down by a clerk of the court, and then read over to him, and signed as quite correct; then the constable retiring, the old gentleman who had been the victim of the robbery appeared in the witness-box.

Very irate was this witness, and very indignant the glances he gave over his spectacles at the prisoners.

Those were the boys of course!

Well, he had been befooled by the small chap’s funny nose and absurd antics – any one else would have been the same. Well, he had a personal interest in the great race, and had come out to meet some friends who were returning from Epsom, he had given the small boy only a passing thought. When violently knocked by him, he had believed it to be accidental, and caused by the eagerness and swaying of the crowd – his was not a suspicious nature. No, he had felt no hand in his pocket – and knew nothing of any robbery until the policeman showed him his own purse and watch in the elder prisoner’s hand. Though obliged to the constable for his zeal, he must add he thought it shameful that such a thing could happen in any well-governed land!

“Will you tell us precisely what your purse contained, and describe its appearance?” asked Mr Vernon.

“I can do that to the letter,” replied the angry man. “I am not likely to forget my own purse or my own money.”

“We must ask you to confine your remarks to answering the questions put to you,” interfered the magistrate. “How much did your purse contain, and what kind of purse was it?”

“The purse you wish me to describe, and which I repeat I can describe, was a green Russian leather one, with silver fastenings. It contained (I know to a farthing what it contained) five sovereigns in gold, a half-sovereign, two florins, and sixpence, besides in one pocket a cheque for twenty pounds on the City Bank. The cheque was not signed.”

The purse being opened, and its contents found to answer to this description, it was handed back to the old gentleman, who was then requested to describe his watch; and on his doing so, and also getting back this property, he became much more gracious, and retired, with his anger considerably cooled, to his former place beside the little woman in black.

“If you have a watch, ma’am, hold it safely,” he whispered to her. “Even here, and surrounded by the officers of the law, we are not safe from the light fingers of these young ruffians.”

Just then there was a bustle, and a movement of fresh interest in the court. Another witness was appearing.

Led by the hand of Constable 21 B. a little girl was led into the witnesses’ box, a little girl with an old woman’s face, grave, worn, pale. At the sight of this witness Dick changed colour violently, and even Jenks gave way to some passing emotion.

For an instant a pair of sad dark eyes gazed steadily at both the boys. They were speaking eyes, and they said as plainly as possible – “I cannot save you. I would help you, even you, Jenks, out of this, but I cannot. I have come here to speak the truth, and the truth will, the truth must do you harm.”

Flo, with all her deep ignorance, had one settled conviction, that no one was ever yet heard of who told a lie in the witnesses’ box.

“How old is the little girl?” asked Mr Vernon.

The question was repeated to her.

“Don’t know,” she answered promptly.

“Have you no idea, child? try and think!”

“No, I doesn’t know,” said Flo. Then she added after a pause, “Mother knowed me age, and she said ef I lived till this month (ain’t this month June?) as I’d be nine.”

“Nine years old,” said the magistrate, and the clerk of the court took a note of the fact.

“Now, little girl, what is your name?”

“Darrell.”

“Darrell, do you know the nature of an oath?”

“Eh?” questioned Flo.

“Do you know who God is? You have got to take a solemn oath to God that you will speak nothing but the truth while you stand there.”

“Yes,” said Flo, “I’ll on’y speak the truth.”

“Do you know about God?”

“Mother used to say ‘God ’elp me.’ I don’t know nothink else – ’cept ’bout Heve,” she added after another pause.

“What do you know about Eve?”

“She wor the first thief, she wor. She prigged the apple off God’s tree.”

A laugh through the court; but the odd little figure in mother’s old bonnet never smiled, her eyes were turned again reproachfully on Dick – he was following in the footsteps of “Heve.”

“You may administer the oath,” said the magistrate to the usher of the court, and then the Bible was placed in Flo’s hands and the well-known solemn words addressed to her.

“The Evidence you shall give to the court, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing else but the truth, so help you God.”

“Yes,” answered Flo.

“Kiss the book,” said the usher.

She did so gravely, and handed it back to him. “Now, Darrell, just answer the questions put to you, and remember you are on your oath to speak the truth. Who are these boys? Do you know them?”

“Yes, yer Washup.”

Flo had heard Mr Vernon spoken to as “Your Worship,” and had adopted the name with avidity.

“What are they called?”

“Little ’un’s Dick – t’other Jenks.”

“Which of the two is your brother?”

“Little chap.”

“Do you live together – you and your brother and Jenks?”

“Yes; number seven, Duncan Street.”

“Have you a father and mother?”

“No. Father fell from a ’ouse and wor killed – he wor a mason; and mother, she died a year ago. We ’ad Scamp wid us too,” added Flo; “leastways we ’ad till the night o’ the Derby.”

“Who is Scamp?”

“My dawg.”

A laugh.

“Do not mind about your dog now, Darrell,” said the magistrate. “Tell me how you live.”

“’Ow I lives? Course I lives on wittles; and when I can’t get wittles I lives on nothink.”

“Mr Vernon means, what do you do to earn money?” explained the constable.

“Oh! I translates.”

“You translate!” said Mr Vernon, raising his eye brows in wonder that anything literary should find its way to Flo’s hands; “I did not know that you could read.”

“No, more I can – I knows nothink ’bout ‘read and pray.’ I never was glad to see that ’ere day. No – I translates; and ef they is down at the ’eel, and bust at the sides, and hout at the toes, wy I makes ’em as good as new fur hall that.”

“She cobbles old boots and shoes, your Worship,” explained the amused constable. “They call it translating down in Duncan Street.”

“Oh! Does your brother translate also, Darrell?”

“No, yer Washup; Dick ’ave a broom and crossin’. ’Ee wor doin’ a tidy lot lately wid ’is broom and crossin’.”

“Now remember you are on your oath. How did you spend your time on the Derby Day?”

“I sold small dolls to the gents.”

“Were you with your brother and the other prisoner?”

“No, yer Washup. Jenks ’ee said as we worn’t to keep company.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“’Ee said as we’d do better bis’ness apart. ’Ee was in the blackin’ line, and Dick in the fusee line.”

“Where were you at the time of the Robbery?”

“Close ahint Jenks and Dick.”

“Did they see you?”

“No.”

“What were they doing? what did you see them do?”

“Dick, ’ee ’ad a funny little red nose on, and ’ee capered about, and played the fiddle.”

“Well, go on.”

“The people, they was pressing hevery way, and the folks was cheerin’, wen – hall on a sudden – ”

“Well?”

“Dick – ’ee gave a great leap in the hair, and down ’ee come slap-bang ’gainst that ’ere gent,” pointing to the red-faced gentleman; “and Jenks – ”

“What about Jenks? Don’t forget your oath, Darrell.”

“I’m not a forgettin’ – I’m a comin’ to Jenks. No, Jenks,” suddenly turning round and addressing him, “I wouldn’t tell on you ef I wasn’t standin’ yere where no lies was hever spoke. ’Ee stepped forrard as soft as soft, and pulled hout a purse and a watch hout o’ the gent’s pocket.”

“Are these the watch and purse?”

“Yes.”

The clerk of the court then read over Flo’s evidence, and as she could neither read nor write, she was shown how to put her mark to the paper.

“You may go now,” said the magistrate; “I don’t wish to ask you anything further.”

Constable 21 B. took her arm, but she struggled against him, and held her ground.

“Please, yer Washup, I ’ave spoke the truth.”

“Indeed, I hope so.”

“May the little chap come ’ome wid me, and I’ll – ” But here official authority was called to interfere, and Flo was summarily ejected from the witness-box.

She found a seat at the other side of the little woman in black, who took the child’s trembling hand in hers. A few moments of patient summing up of evidence, and then the magistrate asked the prisoners if they had anything to say for themselves.

“Please, I’ll never do it no more,” said poor little Dick, in a tone which nearly broke his sister’s heart; but Jenks, the older and more hardened offender, was silent.

Then the sentence was made known. Dick, in consideration of his youth, and its being a first offence, was only to go to a reformatory school, but Jenks was doomed to Wandsworth House of Correction for nine long months.

Chapter Ten
The Little Woman in Black

“Come home with me,” said the little woman by Flo’s side.

She had thrown up her veil now, and the face the child saw was nearly as pale and sad as her own. She hardly noticed it, however, she was absorbed in a recognition. The little woman in black had the gentle voice and kind eyes, the little woman in black was her friend of the Derby Day.

“My dear, I am real glad to find you again. You shall come to my house and have a bit of dinner.”

“No, ma’am,” said Flo, shaking away her hand, “I knows yer, ma’am, and you is werry kind. But I’m not a goin’ ’ome wid yer, missis; I’m not ’spectable to be in yer ’ouse. Dick, ’ee be a thief and in prison, I’m not ’spectable no more.”

Flo said this without tears, and defiantly.

“Oh, my dear, you are quite respectable enough for me. You are poor and in trouble, child – just the one that Jesus Christ wants; and surely if the King of Glory wants you, I may want you too.”

“Wot’s glory?” asked Flo.

“Glory, child; that’s where the King lives.”

“Ain’t kings and queens the same?”

“Oh! now, my dear, I see you don’t know nothing about the matter, or you wouldn’t speak of any king or queen in the breath with my King. Come and have a bit of dinner with me, and then I’ll tell you about my King.”

“I ain’t ’ungry,” said Flo; “but I’d real like to ’ear o’ that King as wants me. Would ’ee make a swell o’ me, missis?”

“He can raise you very high, little girl,” said the woman; and taking Flo’s hand, they walked together in silence.

“You was fond of poor Jenks?” said the little woman at last.

“Yes, ma’am; ’ee wasn’t a bad sort o’ a feller. But ’ee shouldn’t ’ave tempted the little chap. I don’t go fur to blame Jenks, ma’am, fur ’ee ’adn’t no mother – but ’ee shouldn’t ’ave tempted Dick.”

At these words the little woman withdrew her hand from Flo’s, and pulling out her handkerchief, applied it to her eyes; and Flo, wondering what made her cry, and what made her appear so sad altogether, walked again by her side in silence.

They passed down several streets until at last they came to one of those courts hidden away from the general thoroughfares, so well-known to London district visitors. There are Sun streets in London, where the sun never shines – there are Jubilee courts, where feasts are never held, where Satan and his evil spirits are the only beings that can rejoice.

This place was called Pine Apple Court, and doubtless a few years ago it as nearly resembled Cherry Court and May-Blossom Court as three peas resemble each other; but now, as Flo and the little woman walked into it, it really and truly, as far as sweetness and purity went, was worthy of its name. Here, in the midst of London, was actually a place where the decent poor might live in comfort and respectability. (One of Miss Octavia Hill’s courts.) The freshly-painted, white-washed houses had creepers twining against them; and before the doors was a nicely-cared-for piece of ground, where trees were planted, where the women could dry their clothes, and where, out of school-hours, the children could play.

The little woman conducted Flo across this pleasant court into one of the freshest and cleanest of the white-washed houses, where she brought her into a room on the ground floor, as bright as gay chintz curtains to the windows, neat paper on the walls, and the perfect purity which the constant use of soap and water produces, could make it. The polished steels in the grate shone again, a little clock ticked on the mantel-piece, and a square of crimson drugget stood before the fire-place. The window-sash was wide open, and on the ledge stood two flower-pots, one containing a tea-rose, the other a geranium in full blossom.

The rose was ticketed, prize 1st, and stood in a gaily ornamented pot, doubtless its prize at the last poor people’s flower show. Had Flo ever heard of Paradise she would have supposed that she had reached it; as it was she believed that she had come to some place of rest, some sweet spot where weary limbs, and weary hearts too, might get some repose. She sat down thankfully on a small stool pointed out to her by her hostess and gazed around.

“Please, ma’am,” she said presently, “wot am I to call yer?”

At this question the little woman paused, and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks.

“Why, now,” she said, “that’s a curious thing, but my name’s Jenks, same as that poor fellow they put in prison this morning – Mrs Jenks is my name, little Darrell.”

“Yes, missis,” replied Flo respectfully.

She had admired Mrs Jenks very much on the Derby Day, but now her feelings of wonder and admiration amounted almost to fear. For aught she could tell the owner of such a room might be a “Dook’s” wife in disguise.

“You sit in this chair and rest,” said Mrs Jenks, “and I’ll see about dinner.”

And Flo did rest, partly stunned by what she had witnessed and undergone, partly soothed by the novel scene now before her.

Mrs Jenks had made her take off mother’s old bonnet, and had placed her in the very softest of easy-chairs, where she could lie back and gaze at the little woman, with a wonder, a hunger of spiritual want, a sadness of some unexplained desire, all shining out of her eyes.

There were baked potatoes in a small oven at the side of the fire-place, and over the potatoes some nice pieces of hot bacon, and Mrs Jenks made coffee, fragrant coffee, such as Flo had never tasted, and toasted bread, and buttered it. Then she drew a little table up close to the open window, and placed a snowy cloth on it, then plates, and knives and forks, and then the potatoes and bacon, the coffee and toast; and when all was ready she put a chair for Flo, and another for herself.

But before they began to eat a more astonishing thing still happened. The little woman stood up, and folded her hands, and closed her eyes, and said these words: —

“I thank Thee, my God, for the dinner Thou hast given me; but more than all I thank Thee that Thou hast let me have one of thy outcast little ones to share it with.”

Then she opened her eyes, and bustled about, and helped Flo. And Flo, who had found her appetite come back in full vigour at the first smell of the coffee and bacon, ate very heartily of Mrs Jenks’ liberal helpings, leaning back in her chair when she had finished, with quite a pink flush on her thin cheeks, and the hunger of bodily want gone out of her eyes.

“Now,” said the little woman, after all the plates and dishes were washed up and put away, “Now,” she said, “I will get to my work, and you shall tell me all that story over again. All about your poor dear mother and the boys, and when that poor fellow with the same name as mine came to live with you.”

“Yes,” answered Flo, whose little heart was so drawn to Mrs Jenks, and so comforted by her, that any words she asked her to say came easily to her lips; and the story of the Derby Day was repeated with fuller confidence by the child, and listened to with fuller understanding on the part of her kind listener. Flo told over again all about her mother, and mother’s death, and the promise they had given mother – then of their own lives, and what hard work translating was, and how little Dick earned by his broom and crossing – finally how Jenks came, and how good-natured he was at first, and how glad they were to have him, and how they wondered what his trade was, and how he had promised to teach them both his trade.

Then at last, on the day she saw Regent Street and the Queen, and tasted ’ot roast goose for the first time, then too she discovered that Jenks was a thief. Then she related her interview with Jenks, and how he had promised to leave Dick alone, and not to teach him his wicked trade, and how on those terms she had allowed him to remain in the cellar; and then at last, when she was feeling so sure and so happy, he had deceived her, and now she was in great trouble, in great and bitter trouble, both the boys in prison, both thieves, and now mother could never rest any more.

Here Flo broke down and sobbed bitterly.

“I think if I were you, I would leave all that about your dear mother to God, my child,” said little Mrs Jenks. “His ways are not as our ways. If I were you, I would not fret about your mother – I would just leave her to God.”

“Who is God?” asked Flo, stopping her tears and looking up.

“Who is God?” repeated Mrs Jenks. “Why, He’s the King of Glory I had to tell you about; and now I remember, at the trial to-day you seemed to know very little about Him – nothing, in fact. Well, you shall not leave this house without knowing, I promise you that. Why, God – God, little Darrell, He’s your best friend, and your poor mother’s best friend, and Dick’s best friend, and my – that is, Jenks’ best friend too. He loves you, child, and some day He’ll take you to a place where many poor people who have been sad, and hungry, and wanting for everything down here, are having rest, and good times for ever.”

“And will God give me a good time in that place?” asked Flo.

“Yes. If you love Him He will give you a better time than the Queen has on her throne – a time so good, that you will never want to change with anybody in all the world.”

“Tell me about God,” asked Flo in a breathless voice, and she left her stool and knelt at Mrs Jenks’ feet.

“God,” said little Mrs Jenks, putting down her work and looking up solemnly, “God – He’s the Father of the fatherless, and you are fatherless. God’s your Father, child.”

“Our – Father – chart – ’eaven,” repeated Flo.

“Your Father in Heaven – yes, that’s it.”

Then the little woman paused, puzzled how best to make her story plain enough and simple enough for the ignorant child. Words came to her at last, and Flo learned what every child in our England is supposed to know, but what, alas! many such children have never heard of; many such children live and die without hearing of.

Do we blame them for their social standing? do we blame them for filling their country with vice and crime?

Doubtless we do blame them, we raise our own clean skirts and pass over on the other side. In church we thank God that we are not as these men are – murderers – thieves – unclean – unholy. Let them go to prison, and to death – fit ends for such as they.

True! virtue is to them not even a name, they have never heard of it at all.

The fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness has never come in their path. Their iniquities are unpurged, their sins unpardoned.

Christ, it is certain, would wash them white enough, and give them a place in His kingdom; but they know nothing of Christ, and we who do know, to whom His name is a sound too familiar to excite any attention, His story too often read, too often heard of, to call up any emotion – we are either too lazy, or too selfish, or too ignorant of their ignorance, to tell them of Him.

Now for the first time Flo learned about God, and about God’s dear Son, our Saviour. A little too about Heaven, and a very little about prayer.

If she spoke ever so low, down in her dark cellar, God would hear her, and some day, Mrs Jenks said, He would come for her, and carry her away to live with Him in Heaven.

Only a glimmering of the great truth could be given at one time to the child’s dark mind, but there is a vast difference between twilight and thick darkness, and this difference took place in Flo’s mind that day.

She listened with hardly a question – a breathless, astonished look on her face, and when Mrs Jenks had ceased speaking, she rose slowly and tied on mother’s old bonnet.

“May I come again?” asked Flo, raising her lips to kiss the little woman.

“Yes, my child, come again to-morrow. I shall look out for you to-morrow.”

And Flo promised to come.