"Why, Grannie, you are out of sorts," he said. "Why did you get up so early? Surely Ally and me can manage the bit of work. But, I say, you are all of a tremble. Set down, and I'll get ye a cup of tea in a minute."

"No, Dave, no!" said the old woman, "'twill soon pass—'twill soon pass; the rheumatis in my hand and arm has been bothering me all night, and it makes me a bit shaky; but 'twill soon pass, Dave. We mustn't waste the tea, you know, lad; and I won't have a cup—no, I won't."

"Well, set there and rest," said the young man. "Thank goodness, I aint ashamed to work, and I'm real proud to put the kitchen straight and tidy. See how bright the fire is already; you warm your toes, Grannie, and you'll soon be better."

"So I will, to be sure," said Mrs. Reed, rubbing her hands and sinking into the chair which David had brought forward.

She gazed into the cheery flames, with her own bright-blue eyes, clear and steady. Then she looked straight up at David, who was in the act of filling the kettle and placing it on the top of the stove.

"David," she said, "stoop down a minute; I have a word or two to say."

David dropped on his knees at once, and put his hand on Grannie's shoulder.

"You aint likely to have a rise in your wages soon, are you, Dave?"

"Oh, yes, I am! arter a bit," he answered. "Mr. Groves is real pleased with me. He says I am a steady lad, and he often sets me to cast up accounts for him, and do little odds and ends of jobs. He says he has always railed against the School Board, but sometimes, when he sees how tidy I can write, and how well I can read and spell, he's inclined to change his mind."

"And what rise will he give?" said Grannie, whose mind was entirely fixed on the money part of the question.

"Well, maybe a shilling more a week, when the first year is out."

"And that 'll be——"

"Next March, Grannie; not so long coming round."

"Yes," she replied, "yes." In spite of herself, her voice had a sad note in it. "Well, you see, Dave, you can't keep yourself on half a crown a week."

"I wish I could," he answered, looking dispirited, "but I thought you were content. Is there anything that worries you, old lady?"

"No, that there aint, my brave boy. You stick to your work and please your master; you're safe to get on."

"I wish I could support myself," said David. "I wish I knew shorthand; that's the thing. A lad who knows shorthand, and can write and spell as well as I can, can earn his ten shillings a week easy."

"Ten shillings a week," said Grannie. "Lor' save us, what a power of money!"

"It's true," said David; "there's a lad who was at school with me—his name was Phil Martin—he managed to pick up shorthand, and he's earning ten shillings a week now. He's a bit younger than I am, too. He won't be fifteen for two months yet."

"Shorthand?" said Grannie, in her reflective voice; "that's writing, aint it?"

"Why, to be sure, Grannie; only a different sort of writing."

"Still, you call it writing, don't you?"

"To be sure I do."

"Then, for the Lord's sake, don't have anythink to do with it, David. Ef there is a mischievous, awful thing in the world, it's handwriting. I only do it twice a year, and it has finished me, my lad—it has finished me out and out. No, don't talk of it—keep your half a crown a week, and don't be tempted with no handwriting, short or long."

David looked puzzled and distressed; Grannie's words did not amuse him in the least—they were spoken with great passion, with a rising color in the little old cheeks, and a flash of almost fever in the bright eyes. Grannie had always been the perfect embodiment of health and strength to all the grandchildren, and David did not understand her this morning.

"Still," he said, "I can't agree with you about shorthand; it's a grand thing—it's a trade in itself; but there's no chance of my getting to know it, for I aint got the money. Now, hadn't I better get breakfast? Ally will be out in a minute."

"No, no; there's time enough. Look here, Dave, Harry must leave school altogether—he's old enough, and he has passed the standard. He must earn somethink. Couldn't he go as one of them messenger boys?"

"Perhaps so, Grannie; but why are you in such a hurry? Harry's really clever; he's got more brains than any of us, and he earns a shilling or so a week now in the evenings helping me with the figures at Mr. Groves'."

"Do you think Mr. Groves would take him on altogether, Dave?"

"No, he'd do better as a messenger boy—but don't hurry about him leaving school. He'd best stay until midsummer, then he'll be fit for anything."

"Midsummer," said the old woman to herself, "midsummer! Oh, good Lord!"

She bent her head down to prevent David seeing the tears which suddenly softened her brave eyes.

"What's all this fuss about Alison?" said David suddenly.

At these words Grannie rose to her feet.

"Nothing," she said, "nothing—it's nothing more than what I'd call a storm in a tea-cup. They have lost a five-pound note at Shaw's and they choose, the Lord knows why, to put the blame on our Ally. Of course they'll find the note, and Ally will be cleared."

"It seems a pity she left the shop," said David.

"Pity!" said Mrs. Reed. "You don't suppose that Ally is a Phipps and a Reed for nothink. We 'old our heads high, and we'll go on doing so. Why, Dave, they think a sight of Alison in that shop. Mr. Shaw knows what she's worth; he don't believe she's a thief, bless her! Yesterday, when I went to see him, he spoke of her as genteel as you please, and he wanted her back again."

"Then why, in the name of goodness, doesn't she go?" said David.

"Being a Phipps and Reed, she couldn't," replied Grannie. "We, none of us, can humble ourselves—'taint in us—the breed won't allow it. Ally was to say she was sorry for having done nothing at all, and, being a Phipps and a Reed, it wasn't to be done. Don't talk any more about it, lad. Shaw will be going on his knees to have her back in a day or two; but I have a thought in my head that she may do better even than in the shop. There, you've comforted me, my boy—you are a real out-and-out comfort to me, David."

"I am glad of that," said the young fellow. "There's no one like you to me—no one."

He kissed her withered cheek, which was scarcely like an apple this morning, being very pale and weary.

"Grannie," he said, "is it true that Ally is going to marry Jim Hardy?"

"It's true that Jim Hardy wants her to marry him," replied Grannie.

"I wonder if he does?" replied David, in a thoughtful voice. "They say that Clay's daughter is mad for Jim, and she'll have a tidy sight of money."

"She may be as mad as she pleases, but she won't get Jim. Now, do hurry on with the breakfast. What a lad you are for chattering!"

Poor David, who had certainly been induced to chatter by Grannie herself, made no response, but rose and set about his work as kitchen-maid and cook with much deftness. He stirred the oatmeal into the pot of boiling water, made the porridge, set the huge smoking dish on the center of the table, put the children's mugs round, laid a trencher of brown bread and a tiny morsel of butter on the board, and then, having seen that Grannie's teapot held an extra pinch of tea, he poured boiling water on it, and announced the meal as ready. The younger children now came trooping in, neat and tidy and ready for school. Grannie had trained her little family to be very orderly. As the children entered the room they came up to her one by one, and bestowed a kiss on her old lips. Her salutation to them was always simple and always the same: "Bless you, Polly; bless you, Susie; bless you, Kitty." But immediately after the blessing came sharp, quick words.

"Now, no dawdling; set down and be quick about it—sup up your porridge without letting a drop of it get on your clean pinafores, or I'll smack you."

Grannie never did smack the children, so this last remark of hers had long fallen flat. Alison came in almost immediately after the children, and then, after a longer interval, Harry, looking red and sleepy, took his place by the table. Harry was undoubtedly the black sheep of the family. Both Alison and David bestowed on him one or two anxious glances, but Grannie was too absorbed in some other thought to take much notice of him this morning. Immediately after breakfast the children knelt down, and Grannie repeated the Lord's Prayer aloud. Then came a great scampering and rushing about.

"Good-by, Grannie—good-by, Ally," came from several pairs of lips.

Then a clatter downstairs, then a silence—even David had gone away. On ordinary occasions Alison would have departed quite an hour before the children, as she always had to be at the shop in good time to display her excellent taste in the dressing of the windows. To-day she and Grannie were left behind together.

"You don't look well, Grannie," began the young girl.

"Now, listen, Alison," said Mrs. Reed, speaking in quite a tart voice, "ef you want to really vex me, you'll talk of my looks. I'm at the slack time o' life, and a little more color or a little less don't matter in the least. Ef I were forty and looked pale, or eighty and looked pale, it might be a subject to worry 'em as love me; being sixty-eight, I have let off pressure, so to speak, and it don't matter, not one little bit, whether I'm like a fresh apple or a piece o' dough. I am goin' out marketing now, and when I come back I'll give you a fresh lesson in that feather-stitching."

A dismayed look crept into Alison's face; she raised her delicate brows very slightly, and fixed her clear blue eyes on Grannie. She was about to speak, but something in the expression on Grannie's face kept her silent.

"You clear up and have the place tidy against I come back," said the little woman. "You might make the beds, and set everything in apple-pie order, ef you've a mind to."

She then walked into her little bedroom, and shut the door behind her. In three minutes she was dressed to go out, not in the neat drawn black-silk bonnet, but in an old straw one which had belonged to her mother, and which was extremely obsolete in pattern. This bonnet had once been white, but it was now of the deepest, most dingy shade of yellow-brown. It had a little band of brown ribbon round it, which ended neatly in a pair of strings; these were tied under Grannie's chin. Instead of her black cashmere shawl she wore one of very rough material and texture, and of a sort of zebra pattern, which she had picked up cheap many and many years ago from a traveling peddler. She wore no gloves on her hands, but the poor, swollen, painful right hand was wrapped in a corner of the zebra shawl. On her left arm she carried her market basket.

"Good-by, child," she said, nodding to her granddaughter. Then she trotted downstairs and out into the street.

There was no fog to-day—the air was keen and bright, and there was even a very faint attempt at some watery sunbeams. There wasn't a better bargainer in all Shoreditch than Mrs. Reed, but to-day her purchases were very small—a couple of Spanish onions, half a pound of American cheese, some bread, a tiny portion of margarine—and she had expended what money she thought proper.

She was soon at home again, and dinner was arranged.

"I may as well get the dinner," said Alison, rising and taking the basket from the old woman.

"My dear, there aint nothing to get; it's all ready. The children must have bread for dinner to-day. I bought a stale quartern loaf—I got a penny off it, being two days old; here's a nice piece of cheese; and onions cut up small will make a fine relish. There, we'll put the basket in the scullery; and now, Alison, come over to the light and take a lesson in the feather-stitching."

Alison followed Mrs. Reed without a word. They both took their places near the window.

"Thread that needle for me, child," said the old woman.

Alison obeyed. Mrs. Reed had splendid sight for her age; nothing had ever ailed her eyes, and she never condescended to wear glasses, old as she was, except by lamplight. Alison therefore felt some surprise when she was invited to thread the needle. She did so in gloomy and solemn silence, and gave it back with a suppressed sigh to her grandmother.

"I don't think there's much use, Grannie," she said.

"Much use in wot?" said Mrs. Reed.

"In my learning that feather-stitching—I haven't it in me. I hate needlework."

"Oh, Ally!"

Grannie raised her two earnest eyes.

"All women have needlework in 'em if they please," she said; "it's born in 'em. You can no more be a woman without needlework than you can be a man without mischief—it's born in you, child, the same as bed-making is, and cleaning stoves, and washing floors, and minding babies, and coddling husbands, and bearing all the smaller worries of life—they are all born in a woman, Alison, and she can no more escape 'em than she can escape wearing the wedding-ring when she goes to church to be wed."

"Oh, the wedding-ring! that's different," said Alison, looking at her pretty slender finger as she spoke. "Oh, Grannie, dear Grannie, my heart's that heavy I think it 'll break! I can't see the feather-stitching, I can't really." Her eyes brimmed up with tears. "Grannie, don't ask me to do the fine needlework to-day."

Grannie's face turned pale.

"I wouldn't ef I could help it," she said. "Jest to please me, darling, take a little lesson; you will be glad bimeby, you really will. Why, this stitch is in the family, and it 'ud be 'a burning shame for it to go out. Dear, dearie me, Alison, it aint a small thing that could make me cry, but I'd cry ef this beautiful stitch, wot come down from the Simpsons to the Phippses, and from the Phippses to the Reeds, is lost. You must learn it ef you want to keep me cheerful, Ally dear."

"But I thought I knew it, Grannie," said the girl.

"Not to say perfect, love—the loop don't go right with you, and the loop's the p'int. Ef you don't draw that loop up clever and tight, you don't get the quilting, and the quilting's the feature that none of the workwomen in West London can master. Now, see yere, look at me. I'll do a bit, and you watch."

Grannie took up the morsel of cambric; she began the curious movements of the wrist and hand, the intricate, involved contortions of the thread. The magic loop made its appearance; the quilting stood out in richness and majesty on the piece of cambric. Grannie made three or four perfect stitches in an incredibly short space of time. She then put the cambric into her granddaughter's hand.

"Now, child," she said, "show me what you can do."

Alison yawned slightly, and took up the work without any enthusiasm. She made the first correct mystic passage with needle and thread; when she came to the loop she failed to go right, and the effect was bungled and incomplete.

"Not that way; for mercy's sake, don't twist the thread like that!" called Grannie, in an agony. "Give it to me; I'll show yer."

It seemed like profanation to see her exquisite work tortured and murdered. She snatched the cambric from Alison, and set to work to make another perfect stitch herself. At that moment there came the sudden and terrible pain—the shooting agony up the arm, followed by the partial paralysis of thumb and forefinger. Grannie could not help uttering a suppressed groan; her face turned white; she felt a passing sense of nausea and faintness; the work dropped from her hand; the perspiration stood on her forehead. She looked at Alison with wide-open, pitiful eyes.

"Wot is it, Grannie—what is it, darlin'? For God's sake, wot's wrong?" said the girl, going on her knees and putting her arms round the little woman.

"It's writers' cramp, honey, writers' cramp, and me that never writes but twice a year; it's starvation, darlin'. Oh, darlin', darlin', it's starvation—that's ef you don't learn the stitch."

All of a sudden Grannie's fortitude had given way; she sobbed and sobbed—not in the loud, full, strong way of the young and vigorous, but with those low, suppressed, deep-drawn sobs of the aged. All in a minute she felt herself quite an old and useless woman—she, who had been the mainspring of the household, the breadwinner of the family! All of a sudden she had dropped very low. Alison was full of consternation, but she did not understand grief like Grannie's. She was at one end of life, and Grannie was at the other; the old woman understood the girl—having past experience to guide her—but the girl could not understand the old woman. It was a relief to Grannie to tell out her fear, but Alison did not comprehend it; she was full of pity, but she was scarcely full of sympathy. It seemed impossible for her to believe that Grannie's cunning right hand was going to be useless, that the beautiful work must stop, that the means of livelihood must cease, that the old woman must be turned into a useless, helpless log—no longer the mainspring, but a helpless addition to the strained household.

Alison could not understand, but she did her best to cheer Grannie up.

"There, there," she said; "of course that doctor was wrong. In all my life I never heard of such a thing as writers' cramp. Writers' cramp!—it's one of the new diseases, Grannie, that doctors are just forcing into the world to increase their earnings. I heard tell in the shop, by a girl what knows, that every year doctors push two new diseases into fashion, so as to fill their pockets. But for them, we'd never have had influenza, and now it's writers' cramp is to be the rage. Well, let them as writes get it; but you don't write, you know, Grannie."

"That's wot I say," replied Grannie, cheering up wonderfully. "No one can get a disease by writing two letters in a year. I don't suppose it is it, at all."

"I'm sure it isn't," said Alison; "but you are just tired out, and must rest for a day or two. It's a good thing that I'm at home, for I can rub your hand and arm with that liniment. You'll see, you'll be all right again in a day or two."

"To be sure I will," said Grannie; "twouldn't be like my luck ef I warn't." But all the same she knew in her heart of hearts that she would not.



CHAPTER VII.

Both Alison and Mrs. Reed were quite of the opinion that, somehow or other, the affair of the five-pound note would soon be cleared up. The more the two women talked over the whole occurrence, the more certain they were on that point. When Grannie questioned her carefully, Alison confessed that while she was attending to her two rather troublesome customers, it would have been quite within the region of possibility for someone to approach the till unperceived. Of course Alison had noticed no one; but that would not have prevented the deed being done.

"The more I think of it, the more certain I am it's that Clay girl," said Grannie. "Oh, yes, that Clay girl is at the bottom of it. I'll tell Jim so the next time he calls."

"But I don't expect Jim to call—at least at present," said Alison, heaving a heavy sigh, and fixing her eyes on the window.

"And why not, my dearie, why shouldn't you have the comfort of seeing him?"

"It aint a comfort at present, Grannie; it is more than I can bear. I won't engage myself to Jim until I am cleared, and I love him so much, Grannie, and he loves me so much that it is torture to me to see him and refuse him; but I am right, aint I? Do say as I'm right."

"Coming of the blood of the Simpsons, the Phippses and Reeds, you can do no different," said Grannie, in a solemn tone. "You'll be cleared werry soon, Alison, for there's a God above, and you are a poor orphin girl, and we have his promise that he looks out special for orphins; oh, yes, 'twill all come right, and in the meantime you might as well take a lesson in the feather-stitching."

But though Grannie spoke with right good faith, and Alison cheered up all she could, things did not come right. The theft was not brought home to the wicked Clay girl, as Grannie now invariably called her; Shaw did not go on his knees to Alison to return; and one day Jim, who did still call at the Reeds' notwithstanding Alison's prohibition, brought the gloomy tidings that Shaw was seeing other girls with a view to filling up Alison's place in the shop. This was a dark blow indeed, and both Alison and Grannie felt themselves turning very pale, and their hearts sinking, when Jim brought them the unpleasant news.

"Set down, Jim Hardy, set down," said Grannie, but her lips trembled with passion as she spoke. "I don't want to see anyone in my house that I don't offer a chair to, but I can't think much of your detective powers, lad, or you'd have got your own gel cleared long ere this."

"I aint his own girl, and he knows it," said Alison, speaking pertly because her heart was so sick.

Jim hardly noticed her sharp words—he was feeling very depressed himself—he sank into the chair Grannie had offered him, placed his big elbows on his knees, pushed his huge hands through his thick hair, and scratched his head in perplexity.

"It's an awful mystery, that it is," he said; "there aint a person in the shop as don't fret a bit for Ally—she was so bright and genteel-looking; and no one thinks she's done it. If only, Alison, you hadn't gone away so sharp, the whole thing would have blown over by now."

"Coming of the blood——" began Grannie; but Alison knew the conclusion of that sentence, and interrupted her.

"Bygones is bygones," she said, "and we have got to face the future. I'll look out for another post to-day; I'll begin to study the papers, and see what can be done. It aint to be supposed that this will crush me out and out, and me so young and strong."

"But you'll have to get a character," said Jim, whose brow had not relaxed from the deep frown which it wore.

Alison gave her head another toss.

"I must do my best," she said. She evidently did not intend to pursue the subject further with her lover.

Jim was not at all an unobservant man. He had seen many signs which distressed him, both in Grannie's face and Alison's; he knew also that Harry had been taken from school quite a year too soon; he knew well that Alison's bread winnings were necessary for the family, and that it was impossible to expect an old body like Grannie to feed all those hungry mouths much longer.

"Look here," he said, rising suddenly to his feet, "I have got something to say."

"Oh, dear, dear, why will you waste our time?" said Alison.

"It aint waste, and you have got to listen—please, Mrs. Reed, don't go out of the room; I want you to hear it too. Now, you look at me, Alison Reed. I am big, aint I, and I'm strong, and I earn good wages, right good—for a man as isn't twenty-five yet. I'm getting close on two pounds a week now, and you can see for yourselves that that's a good pile."

"Bless us!" said Grannie, "it's a powerful heap of money."

"Well, I'm getting that," said Jim, with a sort of righteous pride on his face, "and no one who knows what's what could complain of the same. Now, this is what I'm thinking. I am all alone in the world; I haven't kith nor kin belonging to me, only an uncle in Australia, and he don't count, as I never set eyes on him. I'd have never come to London but for father and mother dying off sudden when I was but a bit of a lad. I'm sort of lonely in the evenings, and I want a wife awful bad."

"Well, there's Louisa Clay, and she's willing," said Alison, who, notwithstanding that her heart was almost bursting, could not restrain her flippant tone.

Jim gave her a steady look out of his dark gray eyes, but did not reply. She lowered her own eyes then, unable to bear their true and faithful glance.

"What I say is this," said Jim, "that I know you, Alison; you aint no more a thief than I am. Why shouldn't you come home to me? Why shouldn't you make me happy—and why shouldn't I help the lads and Grannie a bit? You'd have as snug a home as any girl in London; and I'd be proud to work for you. I wouldn't want you to do any more shopwork. Why should we wait and keep everybody wretched just for a bit of false pride? Why should you not trust me, Ally? And I love you, my dear; I love you faithful and true."

"I wish you wouldn't say any more, Jim," said Alison.

The note in her voice had changed from sharp petulance to a low sort of wail. She sank on a chair, laid her head on the table which stood near, and burst into tears.

"Grannie, I wish you would try and persuade her," said the young man.

"I'll talk to her," said Grannie; "it seems reasonable enough. Two pounds a week! Lor' bless us! why, it's wealth—and ef you love her, Jim?"

"Need you ask?" he answered.

"No, I needn't; you're a good lad. Well, come back again, Jim; go away now and come back again. We'll see you at the end of a week, that we will."

Jim rose slowly and unwillingly. Alison would not look at him. She was sobbing in a broken-hearted way behind her handkerchief.

"I don't see why there should be suspense," he said, as he took up his cap. "It's the right thing to do; everything else is wrong. And see here, Alison, I'll take a couple of the children; they don't cost much, I know, and it will be such a help to Grannie."

"To be sure, that it will," said Grannie. "That offer about the children is a p'int to be considered. You go away, Jim, and come back again at the end of a week."

The young man gave a loving glance at Alison's sunny head as it rested on the table. His inclination was to go up to her, take her head between his hands, raise the tearful face, kiss the tears away, and, in short, take the fortress by storm. But Grannie's presence prevented this, and Alison would not once look up. The old woman gave him an intelligent and hopeful glance, and he was obliged to be content with it and hurry off.

"I'll come again next Tuesday to get my answer," he said.

Alison murmured something which he did not hear. The next instant he had left the room.

The moment his footsteps had died away Alison raised her tearful face.

"You had no right to do it, Grannie," she said. "It was sort of encouraging him."

"Dry your tears now, child," said Mrs. Reed. "We'll talk of this later on."

"You said yourself I'd have no proper pride to marry Jim at present," continued the girl.

"We'll talk of this later on," said Grannie; "the children will be home in a minute to tea. After tea you and me will talk it over while they are learning their lessons."

Grannie could be very immovable and determined when she liked. Having lived with her all her life, Alison knew her every mood. She perceived now, by her tightly shut up lips, and the little compression, which was scarcely a frown, between her brows, that she could get nothing more out of her at present.

She prepared the tea, therefore; and when the children came in she cut bread and margerine for them, for butter had long ago ceased to appear on Grannie's board.

After tea the children went into Grannie's bedroom to learn their lessons, and the old woman and the young found themselves alone. The lamp was lit, and the little room looked very cheerful; it was warm and snug. Grannie sat with her hands before her.

"I thought I wouldn't tell you, but I must," she said. "It's a month to-day, aint it, Ally, since you lost your place?"

"Yes, a month exactly," replied Alison. "It is close on Christmas now, Grannie."

"Aye," said the old woman, "aye, and Christmas is a blessed, cheerful time. This is Tuesday; Friday will be Christmas Day. We must have a nice Christmas for the children, and we will too. We'll all be cheerful on Christmas Day. Jim might as well come, whatever answer you give him next week. He's all alone, poor lad, and he might come and join our Christmas dinner."

"But we haven't much money," said Alison. "We miss what I earned at the shop, don't we?"

"We miss it," said Grannie, "yes."

She shut up her lips very tightly. At this moment quick footsteps were heard running up the stairs, and the postman's sharp knock sounded on the little door. Alison went to get the letter. It was for Grannie, from a large West End shop; the name of the shop was written in clear characters on the flap of the envelope.

Grannie took it carefully between the thumb and finger of her left hand—she used her right hand now only when she could not help it. No one remarked this fact, and she hoped that no one noticed it. She unfastened the flap of the envelope slowly and carefully, and, taking the letter out, began to read it. It was a request from the manager that she would call at ten o'clock the following morning to take a large order for needlework which was required to be completed in a special hurry. Grannie laid the letter by Alison's side.

Alison read it. She had been accustomed to such letters coming from that firm to Grannie for several years. Such letters meant many of the comforts which money brings; they meant warm fires, and good meals, and snug clothes, and rent for the rooms, and many of the other necessaries of life.

"Well," said the girl, in a cheery tone, "that's nice. You have nearly finished the last job, haven't you, Grannie?"

"No, I aint," said Grannie, with a sort of gasp in her voice.

"I thought I saw you working at it every day."

"So I have been, and in a sense it is finished and beautiful, I am sure; but there aint no feather-stitching. I can't manage the feather-stitching. I can never featherstitch any more, Alison. Maybe for a short time longer I may go on with plain needlework, but that special twist and the catching up of the loop in the quilting part of the feather-stitching, it's beyond me, darlin'. 'Taint that I can't see how to do it, 'taint that I aint willing, but it's the finger and thumb, dearie; they won't meet to do the work proper. It's all over, love, all the money-making part of my work. It's them letters to Australia, love. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

Grannie laid her white head down on the table. It was a very sad sight to see it there, a much more pathetic sight than it had been to see Alison's golden head in the same position an hour or two ago. There was plenty of hope in Alison's grief, heart-broken as it seemed, but there was no hope at all in the old woman's despair. The last time she had given way and spoken of her fears to Alison she had sobbed; but she shed no tears now—the situation was too critical.

"Ef you had only learned the stitch," she said to her granddaughter. There was a faint shadow of reproach in her tone. "I can't show it to you now; but ef you had only learned it."

"But I do know it," said Alison, in distress.

"Not proper, dear; not as it should be done. I fear that I can never show you now."

"And that is why you want me to marry Jim?" said Alison. "I wonder at you, Grannie—you who have such pride!"

"There are times and seasons," said Grannie, "when pride must give way, and it seems to me that we have come to this pass. I looked at Jim when he was talking to-day, and I saw clear—clear as if in a vision—that he would never cast up to you those words that you dread. If you are never cleared of that theft, Alison, Jim will never call his wife a thief. Jim is good to the heart's core, and he is powerful rich, and ef you don't marry him, my gel, you'll soon be starving, for I can't do the feather-stitching. I can't honestly do the work. I'll go and see the manager to-morrow morning; but it's all up with me, child. You ought to marry Jim, dear, and you ought to provide a home for the two little ones—for Polly and little Kitty."

"And what's to become of you, Grannie, and Dave, and Harry, and Annie?"

"Maybe Jim would take Annie too, now that he is so rich."

"Do you think it would be right to ask him?"

"No, I don't; no, I don't. Well, anyhow, it is good to have half the fam'ly put straight. You will think of it, Ally, you will think of it; you've got a whole week to think of it in."

"I will think of it," said Alison, in a grave voice.

She got up presently; she was feeling very restless and excited.

"I think I'll go out for a bit," she said.

"Do, child, do; it will bring a bit of color into your cheeks."

"Is there anything I can get for you, Grannie—anything for Christmas? You said we were to be happy till after Christmas."

"So we will; I have made up my mind firm on that p'int. We'll have a right good Christmas. There's three pounds in my purse. We'll spend five shillings for Christmas Day. That ought to give us a powerful lot o' good food. Oh, yes, we'll manage for Christmas."

"This is Tuesday," said Alison, "and Christmas Day comes Friday. Shall I get any of the things to-night, Grannie?"

Grannie looked up at the tall girl who stood by her side. She saw the restless, agitated expression on the young face.

"She'll like to have the feel of money in her hands again," thought the little woman. "I'll trust her with a shillin'. Lor', I hope she'll be careful with it. Twelve pennies can do a mint ef they're spent careful."

She went slowly to her cupboard, took her keys out of her pocket, unlocked it with her left hand, and, taking her little purse from a secret receptacle at the back of the cupboard, produced a shilling from her hoard.

"There," she said, "for the Lord's sake don't drop it; put it safe in your pocket. You might get the raisins for the puddin' and the sugar and the flour out o' this. You choose from the bargain counter, and use your eyes, and don't buy raisins what have got no fruit in 'em. Sometimes at bargain counters they are all skin, and good for nothink; but ef you are sharp you can sometimes pick up right good fruity fruit, and that's the sort we want. Now, don't be long away. Yes, for sure, we may as well have the stuff for the puddin' in the house."

Alison promised to be careful. She put on her neat black hat and jacket and went out. She had scarcely gone a hundred yards before she came straight up against Louisa Clay. Louisa looked very stylish in a large mauve-colored felt hat, and a fur boa round her neck; her black hair was much befrizzed and becurled. Alison shrank from the sight of her, and was about to go quickly by when the other girl drew up abruptly.

"Why, there you are," she said; "I was jest thinking of coming round to see yer."

Alison stood still when she was addressed, but she did not make any remark. Her intention was to go on as soon as ever Louisa had finished speaking. Louisa's own intention was quite different.

"Well, I am glad," she continued. "I have a lot of things to say. Do you know your place is filled up?"

"Yes," said Alison, flushing. "Jim told me."

"Jim!" repeated Louisa, with a note of scorn. "Don't you think you are very free and easy with Mr. Hardy? And when did you see him?" she added, a jealous light coming into her eyes.

"He was at our house this afternoon. I must say good-evening now, Louisa. I am in a hurry; I am doing some errands for Grannie."

"Oh, I don't mind walking a bit o' the way with you. You are going shopping, is it?"

"Well, yes; Christmas is near, you know."

Alison felt herself shrinking more and more from Louisa. She hated her to walk by her side. It irritated her beyond words to hear her speak of Jim. She dreaded more than she could tell Louisa finding out how poor they were; nothing would induce her to get the bargain raisins or any of the other cheap things in her presence.

"I am rather in a hurry," she said; "perhaps you won't care to go so fast."

"As it happens, I have nothing special to do. I'll go with you now, or I'll call in by and by and have a chat. I don't know that old Grannie of yours, but folks say she's quite a character. Jim said so last night when he was supping at our house."

"I am sure he didn't," muttered Alison under her breath angrily; but she refrained from making any comment aloud.

"Well," said Louisa, "you'd like to know what sort of girl is coming to Shaw's to take up your work?"

"I don't think I would," replied Alison; "I am really not interested."

"I wonder you care to tell such lies, Alison Reed! Anyone can tell by your face that you are just burning with curiosity and jealousy."

"You mustn't say such things to me," said Alison; "if you do, I won't walk with you."

"Oh, my word, how grand we are!" said the other girl; "how high and mighty, and all the rest of it! To be sure, Alison, you were a flat to run off the way you did that day. There is not a person in the shop that don't think you guilty, and small blame to 'em, I say. Poor Jim did fret a bit the first day or two, but I think he's pretty happy now; he comes to our house constant. He's very fine company is Jim, he sings so well; and did you know he had a turn for acting? We're getting up a little play for Christmas Eve, and Jim's to be the hero; I'm the heroine. My word! it's as pretty a bit of love-making as you'd often see. I tell you what it is, Alison; I'll give you an invitation. You shall come and see it; you will now, won't you? I'll think you're devoured with jealousy if you don't. You will; say you will."

Alison paused for a moment—a sort of inward rage consumed her. How dared Jim profess such love for her, and yet give up so much of his time to Louisa—how dared he make love to her even in play! A sudden fierce resolve came into her heart. Yes, she would see the acting—she would judge for herself. Christmas Eve, that was Thursday night—Thursday was a good way off from Tuesday, the day when she was to give Jim her answer. As she walked now by Louisa's side, she guessed what her answer would be—she would be careful and cautious—oh, yes, she would see for herself.

"I will come," she said suddenly, and to Louisa's great surprise—"I will come, if you promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Don't tell Jim Hardy—don't say anything about it. When he sees me he'll know, but don't tell him beforehand."

Louisa burst into a loud, scathing laugh.

"To hear you speak, Alison," she said, "one would think that you were somebody of consequence to Mr. Hardy. Oh, dear—oh, dear, the conceit of some folks! Do you suppose it would make any difference to him whether you came or not? But take my word for it, I won't tell him."

"Thank you," said Alison. "Yes, I'll be there. What time shall I come?"

"The acting begins at nine o'clock, but there's supper first at eight; you had best come to supper. I will put you in a corner where you can't get even a sight of Jim's face, then you'll be easy and happy in your mind."

"No, I won't come to supper, but I'll come in time for the acting. I am very much obliged, I am sure."

Louisa gave vent to a great yawn.

"Seems to me," she said, "that you aint up to much shopping; you haven't gone into one shop yet."

"No more I have," said Alison. "I have changed my mind; I won't buy the things I meant to to-night. I'll go home now; so I'll say good-evening."

"Good-evening," said Louisa, accompanying her words with a sweeping courtesy which she considered full of style and grace.

She went home chuckling to herself.

"I guess that acting will finish up Alison's love affair," she thought. "It won't be any fault of mine if it doesn't. Oh, good-evening, Mr. Sampson."

George Sampson, who had been looking out for Louisa, now joined her, and the two walked back to the pawnshop arm in arm, and talking very confidentially together, Louisa had been true to her own predictions—she had so flattered and so assiduously wooed George Sampson that he was her devoted slave by this time. He came to see her every night, and had assured Jim Hardy long ago that of all people in the world Louisa was the last who had anything to do with the stealing of the five-pound note. Louisa's own charms were the sort which would appeal to a man like Sampson, but whether he would have made up his mind to marry her, if he did not know that she was safe to have a nice little sum down from her father on her wedding-day, remains an open question.

As Alison walked home, many angry and jealous thoughts whirled through her brain. Was Jim really false to her?—she forgot all about his face that afternoon; she forgot his earnest words. She only recalled Louisa's look of triumph and the little play which was to be acted in her presence.

"Yes, I'll be there," thought the girl; "yes, Christmas Eve shall decide it."

She ran upstairs and entered the kitchen. Grannie and David were sitting side by side, engaged in earnest conversation. David blushed when he saw Alison, and suddenly slipped something under the table; Grannie patted his arm softly with her left hand.

"Well, Ally, you are home in double-quick time," she said.

"Too quick, is it?" said Alison, taking off her hat and flinging herself wearily into the nearest chair.

"No, no, my child, never too quick," said the old lady; "and did you get a good bargain?" she added the next minute anxiously. "Were you careful in the spending of that shillin'? Why, I don't see any parcels. For mercy's sake child, don't tell me that you dropped the shillin'."

"No, I didn't, Grannie; here it is. Somehow I am out of humor for bargains to-night—that's why I come back."

Grannie took back the precious shilling tenderly. She went to the cupboard and restored it to her purse. As she did so, she gave a sigh of relief. She was full of respect for Alison's powers, but not as a bargainer; she was certain she could get a penny-worth more value out of the shilling than her grand-daughter would.

"Dave," she said, turning to the lad as she spoke, "Ally and I have made up our minds that, whatever happens, we'll have a right good Christmas. We'll have a puddin' and snap-dragon, and a little bit of beef, and everything hot and tasty, and we'll have the stockings hung up just as usual by the children's beds; bless 'em, we'll manage it somehow—somehow or other it has got to be done. Who knows but perhaps cheerful times may follow Christmas? Yes, who knows? There's never no use in being downhearted."

"I suppose you are thinkin' of a wedding," said Alison suddenly.

"Well, dear child, and why not?"

"There's not much chance of it," was the reply, in a defiant tone. "Anyhow," continued Alison, "I've made up my mind to look for another situation to-morrow."

Grannie's little white face became clouded.

"I am going to Oxford Street, to a registry office," said Alison. "I know lots about counter work, and I don't doubt that I may get a very good place; anyhow, I'm going to try."

"Well, that's sperit, there's no denying that," said the old lady; "it's in the breed, and it can't be crushed."

"David, what are you hiding under the table?" said Alison, in a fretful tone. She felt too unhappy to be civil to anyone.

"I have got spirit, too, and I'm not ashamed," said David suddenly. "It's a bit o' stuff I'm feather-stitching; there—I am learning the stitch."

"Well!" said Alison; "you, a boy?"

"Yes, I—a boy," he replied, looking her full between the eyes.

There was something in the fearless glance of his gray eyes that caused her to lower her own—ashamed.

"Dave's the blessing of my life," said Mrs. Reed; "he has learned the stitch, and though he do it slow, he do it true and beautiful. It shan't never now die out of the fam'ly."



CHAPTER VIII.

Grannie felt that matters had arrived at a crisis. Whatever the doctors chose to call the suffering which she endured, her right hand was fast becoming useless. It was with her right hand that she supported her family; if it failed her, therefore, her livelihood was cut off. She was a brave little woman; never in all her long life had she feared to look the truth in the face. She looked at it now quietly and soberly. Night after night she gazed at it as she lay in her tiny bed in her tiny bedroom, with a grandchild fast asleep at each side of her. She lay motionless then, in too great pain to sleep, and with the future staring at her.

To-night she went to bed as usual. There was no manner of use in sitting up burning lamps and fire; it was far cheaper to lie down in the dark in bed. She lay down and gazed straight out into the deep shadows which filled the little room. It was a moonlight night, and some of the moon's rays pierced through the tiny window, but most of the room lay in shadow, and it was toward the shadow Grannie turned her eyes.

"It's all true," she said to herself, "there aint no manner of use in denying it, or turning my face from it—it's true—it's the will o' the Lord. My mother said to me—her as was a Simpson and married a Phipps—she said when my father died, 'Patty, it's the will o' the Lord.' I didn't like, somehow, to hear her say it—the will o' the Lord seemed so masterful like, so crushing like, so cruel. And now the will o' the Lord has come to me. It wor the Lord's will to bless me all my life hitherto, but now it is his will to make things sore dark. Somehow I can't trust and I can't hope, for there's nothing to hope for, and there are the children, four of 'em unable to earn their bread. Harry must make shift to do something, but there are three little ones. Oh, good Lord, don't ever let me hear the children cry for bread!"

As Grannie whispered these words out into the darkness, she laid her left hand tenderly on the flaxen head of her youngest grandchild. Her hand stroked down the smooth, round head; the child stirred in her dreams, murmured "Grannie," and turned over on her other side. She was very well, and very happy—as plump as a little button—a bonny, bright-eyed creature. Grannie used to adore her stout legs.

"Kitty have always been so well fed," she used to say; "that's the secret—there's nothink like it—nothink."

And she had held the fat baby, and by and by the fat little girl, up admiringly for less fortunate neighbors to criticise.

Now the fiat had fallen; the bread-winner could no longer earn the family meal, and Kitty and the others would have to do without their bread and butter.

"It is true, and it must be faced," thought the old woman. "The p'int to be considered now is, how is it to be faced? Wot's the best way?"

Grannie thought matters over very carefully. Before the morning she had marked out a line of action for herself. Christmas Day should come and go before any of the dark shadow which filled her own breast should descend upon the younger members of the household. David and Alison knew about it, or at least they partly knew, although it was impossible for them to quite realize the extent of the disaster. It was arranged, too, that Harry was to leave school, so he also must partly guess that something was up; but the little ones had never known sorrow yet, and Grannie resolved that they should have a perfect Christmas Day. Afterward, if Alison would only consent to marry Jim, half the family would be provided for. For Grannie, although she was proud, had no false pride, and she felt that a man who was earning such magnificent wages as two pounds a week might undertake the care, at any rate for a time, of two little children. But even granted that Alison and the two youngest were off her hands, there were still David, Harry, and Annie to provide for. Grannie could not see her way plain with regard to these three members of the family. She resolved to ask the advice of an old clergyman of the name of Williams, who had often before given her valuable counsel. Mr. Williams was most kind; he was full of resources; he took a great interest in the poor; he had known Grannie for close on twenty years; he might be able to help her in this critical moment of her fate, Having made up her mind so far, the little woman fell asleep.

When she heard at an early hour the following morning that Alison was still fully resolved to seek for a new situation, she suggested that she should call at the shop in Regent Street, see the manager, and explain to him as best she could that it was out of Grannie's power to do any more needlework.

"You had best go," said Grannie, looking up at the girl with her bright blue eyes, and a determined expression steeling her sweet old mouth almost to sternness. "Jest see the manager, Mr. Squire, and tell him the simple truth. Take him back this underclothing; it is finished beautiful all but the feather-stitching. I know he'll be put out, but I suppose he'll give me half pay—o' course, I don't expec' more. Ef that cambric had been properly feather-stitched there was thirty shillings to be got on it; but I'll be glad of fifteen, and you can let Mr. Squire know. I am pleased that Dave knows the stitch, for he can teach it to his wife when he gets one. He have promised, dear lad; there's a fortin' in it yet, for a member of the fam'ly wot hasn't learned handwriting. It's them schools wot are at the bottom of all this trouble, Alison. Talk of edication! My mother, wot was a Simpson by birth, could only put a cross agin her name, but Lor', wot a fine woman she was with sprigs!—we called the beginning of the feather-stitching sprigs in them days. It was she invented sprigs, and she had no writers' cramp, nor a chance o' it, bless her! Now then, dearie, run off, and bring me back the fifteen shillings. We'll try to keep up 'eart till after Christmas Day."

Alison was very silent and depressed, but she promised to do exactly as her grandmother wished in the matter of the feather-stitching; and with the cambric made up into a neat parcel she soon left the little flat.

Grannie sighed deeply when she saw her go. The little woman felt that she had burned her boats; there was no going back on anything now. She had severed with her own hands her best connection, and nothing could ever be the same again. A sort of agony came over her as she heard Alison running downstairs, a fierce desire to call her back, to beg of her not to go to Mr. Squire at all that day; but one glance at the swollen, useless hand made her change her mind. She sat down limp on the nearest chair, and one or two slow tears trickled out of her eyes.

By dinner time Alison was back; she was full of her own concerns, and considered Grannie and the feather-stitching, for the time being, quite a secondary matter.

"The shop is a very good one," she said, "and they want a girl. If I can bring a good character, I am very likely to get the situation. It is twelve shillings a week, four—four shillings more than Shaw used to give me. If only I can get Shaw to give me a character I'll be all right, and on twelve shillings a week we can keep up the house somehow; can't we, Grannie?"

Grannie pursed up her lips, but did not speak.

She knew far better than Alison that these small wages, although an immense help, could not possibly do the work which her feather-stitching money had accomplished.

"Well, dearie," she said, after a pause, "I am glad that things are so far good; but have you quite made up your mind not to marry poor Jim, then, Alison?"

"No, no, not quite," she replied, coloring; "but the fact is, I want two strings to my bow. By the way, I did not tell you that the Clays have invited me to a party there to-morrow night?"

"The Clays!" exclaimed Grannie. "Sakes! you aint goin' to them?"

"Yes, but I am. I have promised."

"I don't think the Clays are the sort of people that a girl of your breed ought to know, Alison. Poor as we are, we hold up our heads, and why shouldn't we, being——"

"Oh, Grannie, here is your fifteen shillings," interrupted Alison. "I saw Mr. Squire, and he said he was sorry, but he really could not offer more, as the feather-stitching was not done."

"He were put out, weren't he?" said Grannie, her little face puckered up in her intense anxiety to know how Mr. Squire bore the calamity.

"After a fashion, yes," said Alison; "but he said the new embroidery which is coming in so much would do quite as well, and he knew a woman who would do the things in a hurry. He said: 'Give my compliments to Mrs. Reed, and say I am sorry to lose her nice work,' and he paid me my money and bowed me out of the shop."

"It is all over, Grannie," continued the girl, cruel in her severity, and not knowing she was stabbing the old woman's heart at every word. "You place wonderful store by that feather-stitching, but the new embroidery will do quite as well for all the fine ladies, and other women will get the money."

"Yes, yes," said Grannie, "yes, it is the will o' the Lord. Somehow, that seems to steady me up—to bear it like."

She went out of the room tottering a little, but came back quite cheerful when the children returned home for the midday meal.

After dinner Alison went to see Mr. Shaw. She did not like this job at all, but she knew she had no chance of getting another place unless she could induce Shaw to give her a character. She planned how best to go to the shop without being observed by the rest of the shop people. She was too handsome a girl not to have created a great deal of attention during her stay at Shaw's, and now, with this story about the theft hanging over her head, she would be more interesting and more worthy of criticism than ever. She dreaded beyond words being seen at Shaw's, more particularly by Louisa Clay and Jim Hardy. She crept in by a side entrance, and as the shop was very full at this hour (Christmas being so close at hand, the crowd this afternoon was denser than ever), she managed to escape attention. She could see without being noticed. She observed Louisa flaunting about the shop, looking very handsome, and on every possible occasion appealing to Jim for advice or help. Jim was the walker to-day, and Louisa was always calling him to her on one pretext or another. It seemed to Alison's jealous eyes that the young man did not dislike her too-evident attentions. He always replied to her with courtesy, and, according to Alison, stood by her side longer than was necessary.

"I must get that situation in Oxford Street," muttered the girl to herself. "I shall feel fit to kill those two if ever they are wed, and the further I am off the better."

Her angry and excited feelings gave her courage, and she was able to ask a comparative stranger—a girl who scarcely knew her—if she could see Mr. Shaw.

"I am afraid you cannot to-day," was the reply. "The manager is too busy, but if you like to call again——"

"No, no, I see him there. I'll ask him myself," was the reply.

"Lor', what cheek!" muttered the new shop-girl; but Alison was too far away to hear her.

She had approached Mr. Shaw as he was wishing one of his customers "A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." He turned round with a smile on his lips. Things were doing remarkably well, and he could afford to be cheerful. Suddenly his rather staring, bloodshot eyes encountered the full gaze of Alison's clear blue ones.

"Eh, Miss Reed?" he said, stepping back in astonishment.

"Yes, sir; can I speak to you?" said Alison.

"Certainly, my dear, certainly; come this way. She has found out who the thief is, and will come back once more," muttered the manager to himself. "She's the best and most attractive shopwoman I ever had; she shall come back immediately after Christmas."

He hurried Alison through the shop into his own little counting-house. He shut the door then, and asked her to seat herself.

"How are you?" he said, fixing his eyes with a sort of coarse admiration on her face. "You have got at the truth of this miserable matter, have you not? Now, I wonder who the thief is, eh? Well, all I can say is this: I am right glad that you know. We miss you, Miss Reed, in the shop. Your services have been of great value to us. I shall have the person who took that money prosecuted; there's not the least doubt about that. Your character will be abundantly cleared, and you can resume your post here immediately after the Christmas holidays."

"I thought," said Alison, "that you had got someone else to fill my place."

"So I have, so I have—that Jenkins girl—the daughter of poor Tom Jenkins, who died in the autumn; but, bless you, she's no good; she don't even know the meaning of drawing on a customer! You see, Miss Reed, I don't mean to flatter you, but you have got the tact, and just when the sales are beginning you will be invaluable. I can offer you a percentage on all the remnants you dispose of. Come, now, that's a bargain; you'll be right welcome back. You have got tact, and if I may be allowed to say so—looks."

Here the manager gave Alison another broad stare.

"By the way, who is the thief?" he continued.

"You quite misunderstand me, sir," said Alison. "I have not found the thief—I have not the faintest idea who stole that money; I only know that I did not, and that nothing will induce me to set foot again in this shop as one of the staff until I am cleared."

"Then, my good girl, may I ask what in the world you are wasting my time for?"

He approached the door of his tiny counting-house, and half opened it as he spoke.

"One minute, sir, please. Although I cannot of course come here, I naturally want to get another situation."

"I dare say; but that is not my affair."

"Oh, yes, please, sir, it is! I have just heard of a very good post in Oxford Street. I saw the manager this morning, and he said that he would give me the situation if you could recommend me. Will you, sir; will you give me a character, Mr. Shaw?"

"You have cheek," said Shaw, in a deliberate voice. "Do you suppose I am going to recommend a thief?"

"But, oh, sir, oh, Mr. Shaw, you know I am not that!"

"I don't know anything of the kind; I only know that you are a brazen, unreasonable hussy. You know perfectly well that when you left here you forfeited your character. Yes, your attitude, let me tell you, Miss Reed, cuts both ways. If you don't choose to come here until you are cleared, I don't give you a character until you are cleared. Come, now, that's a fair bargain, is it not?"

"Oh, sir, it is so hard of you!" said Alison. "Sir, if you would but be merciful!"

"That's my last word," said Shaw. "I must go back to attend to my customers."

He left the counting-house abruptly, and Alison did not take long in following his example.

"It is no good, Grannie," she said, when she entered her little home half an hour afterward. "Shaw is as hard as a millstone. He won't give me a character until I am cleared; and, as I never shall be cleared, why, I'll never get a character, and I cannot get a situation. What is to become of me, Grannie; oh, Grannie, what is to become of me?"

At these words Alison gave way to the most terrible, overpowering grief. She did not know how to comfort Grannie, but Grannie knew how to comfort her. She patted her as if she were a baby; she stroked her soft hair, and kissed her hot cheeks, and laid her head on her own little shoulder, and made tea, although the supply in the caddy was getting very low, and then talked to her as she knew how, and with wonderful cunning and power of Jim, Jim, Jim.

As Alison loved Jim this subject could not but be of interest to her.

"There's no other way out of it," said Grannie finally. "He is yer sweetheart, faithful and true—he don't suspect you; he never will suspect you. You whisper 'yes' to him on Christmas night, dearie, and don't wait for next Tuesday. It's the right thing to do, it's the only right thing to do."



CHAPTER IX.

On Christmas Eve, Grannie went out and stayed away for about an hour. She looked mysterious when she came back. She wore her zebra-pattern shawl, which was quite bulged out with parcels. These she conveyed quickly into her bedroom, notwithstanding the devouring eyes which the children cast upon them.

"Out of that," she said, pushing them all aside; "none of your curiosity, or you'll get nothing. What right have you to suppose as I'm agoin' to waste my money a-giving presents to little brats like you? Now, out of the way, out of the way. For goodness' sake Polly, set down and finish stoning 'em raisins. Annie, is that a currant I see in yer mouth, you bad, greedy girl? I'll whack you, as sure as my name's Grannie."

Then Grannie disappeared into her room and locked the door amid the screams of excitement and laughter of the happy children. "I am an old fool to do it," she said to herself, trembling a good deal, for somehow she had been feeling very weak the last few days; the constant pain and anxiety had told upon her. "I am an old fool to spend seven and sixpence on nothing at all but gimcracks to put into the Christmas stockings; but there, I must see 'em happy once again—I must—I will. Afterwards there'll be a dark time, I know; but on Christmas Day it shall be all light—all light, and cheerfulness, and trust, for the sake of the dear Lord wot was born a babe in Bethlehem."

Grannie very carefully deposited her parcels in the old-fashioned bureau which stood in the corner of the tiny bedroom. She locked it up and put the key in her pocket, and returned to the little sitting room.

Alison was busy trimming her party dress. She had a party dress, and quite a stylish one. It was made of pink nun's-veiling, which she had got very cheap as a bargain at Shaw's when the summer sale was over. The dress was made simply, quite high to the throat, with long sleeves, but the plain skirt and rather severe-looking bodice, with its frill of lace round the throat and wrists, gave Alison that curiously refined, ladylike appearance which was so rare in her station of life. She had a sort of natural instinct which kept her from overdressing, and she always looked the picture of neatness. She was furbishing up the lace on the dress now, and Polly was seated by the little table stoning the raisins for the Christmas pudding, and gazing with admiration at her sister all the while. The Christmas bustle and sense of festivity which Grannie had insisted on bringing into the air, infected everyone. Even Alison felt rather cheerful; as she trimmed up the old dress she kept singing a merry tune. If it was her bounden duty to marry Jim—to return the great love he bore her—to be his faithful and true wife—then all the calamity of the last few days would be past. Good luck would once more shine upon her. Once again she would be the happiest of the happy.

"Oh, yes, I love him!" she murmured to herself. "I love him better every day, every hour, every minute; he is all the world to me. I think of him all day long, and dream of him all through the night. I could be good for him. If he is strong enough and great enough to get over the fact of my being accused of theft, why, I'll take him; yes, I'll take him. It will make Grannie happy too. Poor old Grannie! she don't look too well the last day or two. It is wonderful, but I think she is fretting sore about that feather-stitching. Poor dear! she thinks more of that feather-stitching than of most anything else in the world; but, Lor' bless her, they'll soon be putting something else in its place in the West End shops. The feather-stitching will be old-fashioned beside the embroidery. Poor old Grannie, it is hard on her!"

By this time the tea hour had arrived. Alison took her dress into her little bedroom, laid it on the bed, and came back to help to get ready the family meal. David and Harry both came noisily upstairs to partake of it. They were going out immediately afterward to the boys' club, and told Grannie that they would not be back to supper.

"There are going to be real high jinks at the club to-night," said Harry; "a magic lantern and a conjurer, and afterward we are to play leapfrog and billiards, and end up with a boxing match. That swell, Mr. Rolfe, is the right sort. Anyone would think that he had known boys from this part of the world all his days."

"Boys is boys all the world over," said Grannie; "be they rich or poor, high or low, they are just the same—mischeevous, restless young wagabones. Now then, Harry, for goodness gracious, don't spill your tea on the cloth. My word! wot a worry you all are."

"You know you don't think so, Grannie," said the audacious boy. His black eyes laughed into her blue ones; she gave him a smile into which she threw her whole brave heart. He remembered that smile in the dark days which were to follow.

Tea was over, and presently Alison went into her room to dress. She did not intend putting in an appearance at the Clays' before nine o'clock, and she told Grannie not to sit up for her. Of course Jim would see her home. It occurred to her, and her heart beat faster at the thought, that she might be able to give Jim his final answer on her way home; if so, what a glorious Christmas present would be hers. Accordingly, as she dressed her hair she sang a cheerful little song under her breath. Grannie heard her in the kitchen, paused with her finger on her lip, and enjoined silence for a moment, and then smiled in a very heart-whole manner.

"To be sure," she murmured to herself "the will of the Lord seems full o' mercy to-night. Wot do it matter about an old body like me, ef things go right for the children? Oh, good Lord, I commit these children to thy care; do for 'em wot is right, and don't trouble about an old body. I don't count; I know my place is safe enough for me in the Kingdom. I need not fret about wot is left for this world."

When Alison came out of her room, looking beautiful, and fifty times too good for the company she was to be with, Grannie gave her a kiss, which was so full of gladness and meaning as to be almost solemn.

"And Jim will see you home," said the old lady. "Oh, yes, yes!"

"To be sure; but don't sit up, Grannie," said Alison.

"I won't ef you don't wish it, love. You'll find the key under the mat; now go off, and a Christmas blessin' with you."

Alison departed, and soon afterward the younger children were hustled off to bed. They were very much excited, and did not at all wish to retire at this comparatively early hour, but Grannie was peremptory. She had plenty of work to do after the rogues were asleep, she murmured. So off to bed they went, with a couple of raisins each by way of comfort; and when she thought they were snoring she slipped softly into her room to fetch the brown paper parcels, and the long woolen stockings which year after year had done duty for the Santa Claus gifts. If she suspected it, she took good care not to look; nevertheless, the fact remains that the three little snorers did open their eyes for a brief moment, and did see the parcels going out, and the stockings following them, and then turned round to hug each other in an ecstacy of bliss. On this occasion Alison's companion slept with her two sisters, and they kept up a little chatter, like birds in a nest, for quite five minutes after Grannie had left them. She heard them, of course,—for every sound could be heard in the little flat,—but she took no notice.

"Bless 'em, how happy they are!" she said to herself. "Bless the Lord, oh, my soul. I do declare there's a sight o' good to be got out of life, writers' cramp or not. Now, then, to open these parcels."

The parcels when opened produced a wonderful array of cheap workboxes, needle-cases, pin-trays, ornamental pens, boxes full of bon-bons, penny whistles, twopenny flutes, a Jew's-harp or two; in short, a medley of every kind of heterogeneous presents which could be produced with the modest sum of from a penny to twopence halfpenny. Grannie fully believed in numbers. She knew from past experience that the children would rather have half a dozen small things than one big thing. The worsted stockings, too, which had been knit in a bygone age, by the celebrated Mrs. Simpson, the inventor of the sprig, were deep and long. They took a great deal of filling, and Grannie knew what keen disappointment would be the result if each stocking was not chock-full. She collected her wares, sorted them into six parcels, laid the six stockings on the table by the side of the gifts, and then began to select the most appropriate gifts for each. Yes; Alison should have the little basket which contained the pretty thimble, the little plush pin-cushion glued on at one corner, and two reels of cotton kept in their place by a neat little band, and the needle-book at the opposite side.

"This is the werry nattiest thing I have seen for many a day," murmured Grannie, "and only tuppence three farthings. I'll take the price off, of course. Now, suppose Ally comes back an engaged girl, could she have anything prettier than this little basket? It shall go in the top of the stocking, jest where it can peep out and look at her the first thing in the morning."

The stockings were filled at last; the toes and heels dexterously stuffed out with apples and oranges; the gifts following next—each separate gift wrapped in paper, and tied neatly with string.

"Quite half the fun is in the untying of the string," thought Mrs. Reed. "Oh, how the little 'earts will go pitter-patter! Don't I know it myself? Why, when I were nothing more than a five-year-old Phipps, I remember as well as possible taking my presents out of this werry stocking, and trembling all over when I couldn't untie the knot of the parcel which held that cock made of sugar, wot I kept on the chimney-piece for many and many a day afterward; for though mother give it to me, she wouldn't let me eat it."

The six stockings were filled, and each stocking hung at the foot of its future owner's bed. The children were sound asleep now, and the boys at the club, and the girl at her party forgot all about such a trivial thing as poor old Santa Claus and his stocking, but Grannie was very thankful that the stockings should hang at the foot of the beds for the last time. When all was done and the kitchen made as neat as a new pin she fell on her knees and uttered a short prayer—a prayer which was more praise than prayer. She then got into bed, and quickly fell asleep; for she was very tired, and, wonderful to say, her hand and arm did not ache as much as usual.

Not far away was Tragedy coming to meet her with quick strides, but the little woman was under the shadow of God's wing to-night, and had neither fear nor trouble.



CHAPTER X.

When Alison arrived at the Clays' the fun was in full swing. The house was crowded—not only the long sitting room, but the little hall, and a good way up the stairs. A stage had been erected at one end of the sitting room; on this stage now the actors were disporting themselves. As Alison had not arrived in time for supper, no one took any notice of her when she appeared. She found that it was quite impossible to hope to get a corner, either to sit or stand, in the room where the acting was going on. She had, therefore, to content herself with leaning up against the wall in the passage, and now and then bending forward so as to see the one person about whom she was the least interested—Jim himself.

The play was a very poor affair, and consisted of several short scenes acted in the style of charades, with impromptu conversations, which mostly consisted of coarse jests and innuendoes; but the loud laughter of the spectators assured Alison that this style of thing was quite up to their level. She felt rather sickened at Jim's taking part in anything so commonplace; but her love for him, which grew daily, gave her a certain sense of rest and happiness at even being in his vicinity. He did not know she was there, but that mattered little or nothing. When the play was over he would come out and see her, and then everything would be smooth and delightful. She forgot to be jealous of Louisa; she even forgot the fact that a few short weeks ago she had been publicly accused of theft; she only knew that she wore her best frock; she was only conscious that she looked her best and brightest, that when Jim's eyes did rest upon her he could not but acknowledge her charm; she was only well aware that it was Christmas Eve, and that all the world was rejoicing. She stood, therefore, in the crowded hall with a smiling face, her hands lightly, clasped in front of her, her thoughts full of peace, and yet stimulated to a certain excited joy.

Between the acts people began to go in and out of the large sitting room, and on these occasions Alison was jostled about a good bit. She was quite pushed up against the stairs, and had some difficulty in keeping her balance. She saw a man stare at her with a very coarse sort of admiration. She did not know the man, and she shrank from his gaze; but the next moment she saw him speaking to a girl who she knew belonged to Shaw's establishment. The girl's reply came distinctly to her ears.

"Yes, I suppose she is pretty enough," she said. "We always spoke of her as genteel at Shaw's. Oh, you want to know her name, Mr. Manners? Her name is Alison Reed. She left Shaw's because she stole a five-pound note. It was awfully good of him not to prosecute her."

"That girl a thief!" said the man who was addressed as Manners. "I don't believe it."

"Oh, but she is! She was in such a fright that she left the shop the very day she was accused. That shows guilt—don't it, now?"

Alison could not hear Manners' reply, but after a time, the sharp voice of the girl again reached her ears.

"They do say as Jim Hardy, our foreman, was sweet on her, but of course he has given her up now; he is all agog for Louisa Clay, the girl he is acting with to-night. They say they are sweethearts, and they'll be married early in the year. It is a very good match for him, for Louisa has lots of money and——"

The speakers moved on, and Alison could not catch another word. She had gained a comfortable position for herself now, and was leaning firmly against the wall. The words which had reached her she fully and completely realized. She was accustomed to being considered a thief; she always would be considered a thief until that five-pound note was found. It was very painful, it was bitter to be singled out in that way, to have attention drawn to her as such a character; but the words which related to Jim she absolutely laughed at. Was not Jim her own faithful lover? Would he not see her home to-night, believing in her fully and entirely? Oh, yes. Whatever the world at large thought of her, she was good enough for Jim. Yes, yes. She would promise to be his to-night, she would not wait until next Tuesday. What was the good of pushing happiness away when it came so close? A cup full of such luck was not offered to every girl. She would drink it up; she would enjoy it to the full. Then envious and malicious tongues would have to be quiet, for she would prove by her engagement that Jim, at least, believed in her. She drew up her head proudly as this thought came to her.

The next act in the noisy little play was just beginning, and those who cared for seats in the room were pushing forward; the crowd in the passage was therefore less oppressive. Alison moved forward a step or two, and stood in such a position that she was partly sheltered by a curtain. She had scarcely done so before, to her great astonishment, Hardy and Louisa came out. They stood together for a moment or two in the comparatively deserted passage. Other characters occupied the stage for the time being, and Louisa was glad to get into the comparatively fresh air to cool herself.

"Oh, aint it hot?" she said. "Fan me," she added, offering Jim a huge fan gaudily painted in many colors.

She unfurled it as she spoke, and put it into his hand.

"Make a breeze o' some sort," she said; "do, or I'll faint!"

Jim looked pleased and excited. He was fantastically dressed in the stage costume in which he had shortly to appear. Alison, partly sheltered by the curtain, could see well without being seen herself.

"The play is going splendid, Jim," said Louisa. "I'm ever so pleased."

"I am glad of that," replied Jim.

"I thought you would be. Well, I do feel a happy girl to-night."

"And when is it to be?" said Jim, bending down and looking earnestly into her face.

She flushed when he spoke to her, and immediately lowered her eyes.

"I aint made up my mind quite yet," she said.

"But you will?" he replied, in a voice full of solicitude.

"I don't know. Would it please you if I did?"

"I needn't say that it would," was the reply. "I think it would make me real happy."

"Well, ef I thought that——"

Louisa took her fan out of Jim Hardy's hand and began to toy with it in a somewhat affected manner. Then her expression changed to one of absolute passion.

"I don't think there is anything in heaven above, or the earth beneath, I wouldn't do, Jim Hardy, even to please you for half an hour; to please you is the light of life to me. So, if you wish it, let it be—there! I can't say any more, can I?"

"You can't; you have said enough," he replied gravely. "There is our call," he added; "we must go back. Are you cooler now?"

"Much cooler, thanks to you."

The call came a second time. Louisa hurried forward; Jim followed her. Neither of them noticed the listening girl behind the curtain. The next moment loud cheers filled the room as Hardy and Louisa took their places side by side in the front of the stage.

Alison waited until the great uproar had subsided, then she slipped into the dressing room where she had gone on her arrival, put on her hat and jacket steadily and calmly, and went home. She had no intention now of waiting for Jim. She never meant to wait for Jim any more. He was false as no man had ever been false before. She would forget him, she would drive him out of her life. He had dared to come and talk of marriage to her when he really loved another girl; he had dared to give her words of tenderness when his heart was with Louisa Clay.

"It is all over," whispered Alison quite quietly under her breath.

She wondered, in a dull sort of fashion, why she felt so quiet; why she did not suffer a great deal more; why the sense of disappointment and cruel desertion did not break her heart. She was sure that by and by her heart would awaken, and pain—terrible, intense pain would be her portion; but just now she felt quiet and stunned. She was glad of this. It was Christmas Eve, but Jim was not walking home with her. The Christmas present she had hoped for was not to be hers. Well, never mind, to-morrow would be Christmas Day. Jim was invited to dinner, to that good dinner which Grannie had no right to buy, but which Grannie had bought to give the children one last happy day. Alison herself had made the cake and had frosted it, and Alison herself had stirred the pudding, and had thought of Jim's face as it would look when he sat with the children round the family board. He would never sit there now; she must never see him again. She would write to him the moment she got in, and then, having put him out of her life once and for ever, she would help Grannie to keep the Merry Christmas.

She walked up the weary number of steps to the flat on the fifth floor. She found the key under the mat, and then went in. Grannie had left everything ready for her. Grannie had thought of a betrothed maiden who would enter the little house with the air of a queen who had come suddenly into her kingdom. Grannie, who was sound asleep at this moment, had no idea that Despair itself was coming home in the last hours just before the blessed Christmas broke. Alison opened the door very softly, and, going into the kitchen, took down her writing portfolio from a little shelf where she generally kept it, and wrote a short letter to Jim.

"Dear Jim: I have made up my mind, and in this letter you will get your final answer. I will not marry anybody until I am cleared of this trouble about the five-pound note; and whether I am cleared or not, I shall never marry you, for I don't love you. I found out to-night it was all a mistake, and what I thought was love was not. I don't love you, Jim, and I never wish to see you again. Please don't come to dinner to-morrow, and please don't ever try to see me. This is final. I don't love you; that is your answer.

"ALISON REED."

Having signed the letter in a very firm hand, Alison put it into an envelope, addressed and stamped it. She then went out and dropped it into a pillar-box near by. Jim would get it on Christmas morning.



CHAPTER XI.

Christmas Day went by. It was quiet enough, although the children shouted with glee over their stockings and ate their dinner heartily. There was a depressed feeling under all the mirth, although Alison wore her very best dress and laughed and sang, and in the evening played blindman's buff with the children. There was a shadow over the home, although Grannie talked quietly in the corner of the Blessed Prince of Peace, and of the true reason for Christmas joy. Jim's place was empty, but no one remarked it. The children were too happy to miss him, and the elder members of the party were too wise to say what they really felt.

Boxing Day was almost harder to bear than Christmas Day. Alison stayed quietly in the house all the morning, but toward the afternoon she grew restless.

"Dave," she said, "will you and Harry come for a walk with me?"

"To be sure," answered both the boys, brightening up. The little girls clamored to accompany them.

"No, no," said Grannie, "you'll stay with me. I have a job on hand, and I want you to help me. It is tearing up old letters, and putting lots of things in order. And maybe I'll give you a chocolate each when it is done."

The promise of the chocolates was comforting, and the little ones stayed at home not ill pleased. Alison went out with her two brothers. She held herself very erect, and there was a proud look on her face. She had never looked handsomer nor more a lady. David felt very proud of her. He did not understand her just now, it is true, but he was pleased when people turned round to look at her; and when admiring glances came in her way, he walked close to her with an air of protection, and was glad that his sister was better looking than other fellows'. They all turned their steps in the direction of Victoria Park. They had just got there when quick footsteps overtook them, and Jim Hardy came up.

"Hullo," he said, when he approached the little party. "Stop, can't you? I have been running after you all this time."

David and Harry both stopped, but Alison walked on.

"That's all right," said Jim, nodding to the boys. "You stay back a bit, won't you, like good fellows? I want to have a talk with your sister."

Harry felt inclined to demur, for he was fond of Jim, and his own pleasure always was first with him; but David understood, and gripped his brother's arm fiercely, holding him back.

"Keep back," he said, in a whisper; "can't you see for yourself that there's trouble there?"

"Trouble where?" said Harry, opening his eyes.

"You are a muff. Can't you see that something has put Alison out?"

"I can see that she is very disagreeable," said Harry. "I suppose she is in love, that's what it means. She is in love with Jim Hardy. But he is going to marry Louisa Clay; everybody says so."

"Shut up," said David. "You are a silly. Hardy thinks no more of Louisa than he does of you."

"Well, let us make for the pond and leave them alone," said Harry. "I do believe the ice will bear in a day or two."

The boys rushed off to the right, and Alison and Jim walked down the broad center path. Alison's heart was beating wildly. The love which she was trying to slay rose up like a giant in her heart.

"But I won't show it," thought the proud girl to herself. "He shall never, never think that I fret because he has thrown me over for another. If, loving me, he could care for Louisa, he is not my sort. No, I won't fret, no, I won't; I'll show him that I don't care."

"I'm glad I met you," said Jim. Jim was a very proud fellow, too, in his own way. Alison's queer letter had pierced him to the quick. Not having the faintest clew to her reason for writing it, he was feeling justly very angry.

"I didn't come in yesterday," he continued, "when you made it so plain that you didn't want me; but, all the same, I felt that we must talk this matter out."

"There's nothing to talk out," said Alison. "You knew my mind when you got that letter, and that's about all I've got to say."

"That letter was a lie from first to last," said Jim boldly.

Alison turned and looked full at him. Her face was white. Her big blue eyes blazed and looked dark.

"The letter was true," she said. "Girls can't help being contrary now and then. I don't want to see you again, I don't want to have anything to do with you. I made a mistake when I said I loved you. I found out just in time that I didn't. It was a right good thing I found it out before we was wed, instead of afterwards; I did, and we are safe, and you can give yourself, heart and soul, with a clear conscience, to another."

"I can't make out what you are driving at," said Jim. "You know perfectly well, Alison, that I love no one in all the world but yourself."

"Oh! don't you?" said Alison.

"Really, Ally, you will drive me mad if you go on talking in that unreasonable way. Of course I don't care for anyone but you, and you always gave me to understand that you returned my love. Come, darlin', what is it? You must know that after all you have said to me in the past, I can't believe that letter of yours; it is all against common sense. People can't love and then unlove in that sort o' fashion. Tell me the truth, Ally. Something made you angry; and you love me as much as ever, don't you, darlin'? Come, let us make it up. There is something at the bottom of this, and you ought to tell me. As to your not loving me, that is all fudge, you know."

Alison's heart, which had lain so dead in her breast, began suddenly to stir and dance with a queer excitement. After all, had she made a mistake? Was Jim really faithful to her after all? But, no; how could she mistake? She had heard the words herself. Oh, yes, of course, Jim was false; and for all he had such an honest voice, and the truest eyes in all the world, Alison must turn her back on him, for she could not doubt the hearing of her own ears and the seeing of her own eyes.

"I am sorry," she said, in a cold voice, when Jim had paused and looked eagerly for her answer. "I am sorry, but after all it is a pity that we met to-day, for my letter really told you everything. I don't love you. You wouldn't marry a girl what didn't love you; would you, Jim?"

"No, no," said Jim; "no marriage could be happy, it would be a cruel mistake, without love. It seems to me that marriage is a sin, an awful sin, if there aint love to make it beautiful."

"Well, then, it would be a sin for us to marry," said Alison. "You can see that for yourself. You need have no scruples, Jim; you can do what you wish."

"Well, that is to marry you," said Jim. "Come, Ally, there is a strange thing over you, my dearie, but show me your true self once again. Come, darlin'. Why, you are going nigh to break my heart, the way you are going on."

For a moment Alison's belief in what she had herself seen was staggered by Jim's words and the ring of pain in his voice, but only for a moment. The thought of Louisa and the tender way he had looked at her, and her bold words of passion, were too vivid to be long suppressed. Alison's voice took a note of added scorn as she replied:

"It's real shabby o' you to worry me when I have given you a straight answer. I don't love you, not a bit, but there's another girl what does. Go to her—go and be happy with her."

"What do you mean?" said Jim, turning pale.

Alison's eyes were fixed angrily on him.

"Oh, I see, I can move you at last," she Said. "You didn't think that I could guess, but I can. Go to Louisa—she loves you well, and I don't—I never did—it was all a big mistake. Girls like me often fancy they love, and then when the thing comes near they see that they don't; marriage is an awful thing without love—it is a sin. Go and marry Louisa; she'll make you a good wife."

"Alison," said Jim, "there can be only one explanation to the way you are going on to-day."

"And what is that?" she asked.

"There must be someone you like better than me."

"Of course there is," said Alison, with a shrill laugh.

"I love Grannie better than him. I love Dave better," whispered the excited girl wildly, under her breath.

"Of course there is," she repeated. "There is nothing for opening the eyes like seeing your true love at last."

"Then you have explained matters, and I haven't a word to say," answered Jim, in a haughty voice.

He drew himself up,—his eyes looked straight into hers,—she shivered, but did not flinch; the next moment he had turned on his heels and walked away.

He walked quickly, leaving the miserable, distracted girl alone. He thought he understood at last; Alison had another lover. Who could he be? Jim had certainly never heard of anybody else. Still, this was the true explanation—she had admitted as much herself.

"Go to Louisa Clay—she loves you well," the angry girl had said to him.

Well, why should not he go to Louisa? Louisa was not his style, but she was handsome, and she had a good bit of money, and he had guessed long ago that she loved him. He did not want to hear of Alison's new lover, and of Alison's engagement, and of Alison's marriage without putting some shield between himself and the bitter words that would be spoken, and the laugh that would be all against him. He was proud as well as steadfast; he was daring as well as true. If Alison could give him up as she had done, why should he not take the lesser good? It was true that Louisa had admitted, or almost admitted, her engagement to Sampson, which was really the wedding poor Jim had alluded to on Christmas Eve; but Jim knew that matters were not settled in that direction yet, and he was too angry just now not to feel a keen desire to cut Sampson out. He went straight, therefore, to the Clays' house. His heart was just in that sort of tempest of feeling when men so often take a rash step and lay up misery for themselves for the whole of their remaining days.