Closing the door behind her, she ran downstairs. Pickles could have hugged her in his gratitude.

"Ain't you a perfect duck of a darlin'?" he said, gazing hard and full into her face.

"What do you want me for, Pickles?" asked Connie.

"Fur one or two things of much private importance. First, tell me, how is the little lame chap as is fretting fur his sister wot is kept in the country?"

"He is not so well, Pickles; he is not so well as he was. Pickles, I don't believe that story about Sue being in the country."

"You don't believe me when I opens my lips to give utterance to the words of gospel truth!" replied Pickles. But his red face grew a shade redder, and his full, bold gaze was not quite so steady as usual. "Why, surely, Pickles, you ain't going to be troubled wid nerves!" he said to himself.

Connie, watching anxiously, entreated in her softest tones: "Dear Pickles, you might trust me. I should like to know, and I won't tell Giles."

"Ay, ay, that's a woman's curiosity; but the misfortune is as it can't be gratified. No, Connie. You are as rare and pretty a bit of woman as hiver I clapped heyes on. But fur hall that you ain't going to come hover this yere boy. When I tells you, Connie, that Sue is hin the country, please believe as she his in that year health-giving place. When 'tis conwenient fur me to confide in you farther, why, I'll do it. That time ain't at present. In the meantime, ef you want to real help them who ere in difficulty, you will let me know widout any more wasting o' precious time where yer father, Peter Harris, is working to-day."

"Oh Pickles! wot do you want wid him?"

"Nothink to hurt you, pretty one. Now, will you speak?

"He's at Messrs —— in —— Street," replied Connie.

"Thank yer; and now I'm off. Ef you'll listen to the words o' solemn wisdom, and be guided in that same, you'll not mention this stolen interview to little Giles—bless the little chap! You keep up his heart, Connie. As soon as hiver this yer young man can manage it, Sue shall come home. Lor', now! ain't the world strange and difficult to live in? Wot 'ull bring joy to one 'ull give pain to t'other, but the cause o' right must win the day. Well, good-bye, Connie. I'll wery like look in soon again."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

PICKLES TO THE FORE AGAIN.

Connie went back to Giles, and Pickles, having obtained the information which he desired, sped as fast as his feet could carry him down the street. Once more his spirits were high, and hope was before him.

"I may save you, you most obstinate and tiresome Cinderella," he said to himself. "But oh, wot a mistake gels are! Why hever those weak and misguided beings was allowed to be is a puzzlement too great fur me."

But though Pickles talked even to himself in this light and careless vein, there was (and he knew it) a pain in his heart—a pain joined to an admiration for Sue, which would have made him willing to fight to the very death in her behalf.

The day, however, had been spent while he was rushing about, and by the time he reached the place where Connie had directed him to seek her father, the workmen were putting by their tools and preparing to go home.

Pickles followed Harris down the street. Harris was talking to and walking with one of his fellow-workmen, and Pickles did not care to accost him except when he was alone.

At the corner, however, of the next street the two parted; and then the boy, putting his face into grave and serious order, ran lightly after Harris. When he addressed him his very voice trembled.

"Mr. Harris, I see'd you coming out of that yer shop. I'm in much perplexity and trouble in my mind, and I thought the sight of you and a talk wid you might maybe set me up."

"You thought wrong, then," said Harris, replying in his gruffest voice, "for I'm in a mortal bit of a hurry, and I'm in no humor to listen to no chaff, so get away."

"Oh, Mr. Harris! I'll endeavor to run by yer side for a minute or two. Mr. Harris, wot does yer think? That little Sue wot I tolled yer on—why, she has discovered who the guilty party is. She have found out who really stole the locket and put it into her pocket."

"She have!" said Harris. He was so astonished and taken by surprise that he now stood still. He stood quite still, gazing helplessly at Pickles, while his weather-beaten face grew pale.

"'Tis gospel truth as I'm telling yer," continued Pickles, fixing his own light-blue eyes full on his victim. "Sue knows hall about it—the whole thing; the great and awful meanness have been made plain to her. Yes, she knows all, Sue does; but, Mr. Harris——"

"Yes; wot have I to say to this tale? I'm in a hurry—tearing hurry—I tell yer."

"Yes, Mr. Harris; I won't keep yer. Sue knows, but Sue, she won't betray. I know who did it," she said, "but I won't tell on him. He lent me a shilling once. He is kind to my little brother wot is lame. I know wot he did, but I won't never tell, I'll go to prison 'stead of he."

Harris's color had returned. He now walked so fast that Pickles had to run to keep up with him. Suddenly, seeing a passing omnibus, he hailed it, and in a second was on the roof. He did not glance at Pickles. In reply to his tale he had not answered by a single word.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE WINGS ARE GROWING.

Connie went back to Giles, sat down by him, and he resumed his reading. He was going through the Pilgrim's Progress to her, reading short sentences at a time, for his voice was too low and weak to enable him to exert himself for long at a time.

"Connie, wot were that as I read last?"

Connie colored.

"You weren't listening," said Giles reproachfully. "It wor a most beautiful bit. But you didn't hear me, Connie."

"I wor thinking o' something else jest then," owned Connie. "I'll listen now wid hall my might, dear Giles."

"Ah! but I'm tired now," said Giles; "and besides, I want to talk 'bout something else, Connie."

"Well."

"Sue have been a whole month in the country to-day—rayther more than a month. I don't understand it at all. I never thought as she could stay so long away from me. I suppose 'tis hall right, and cottages such as we want do take a powerful long time to find. It has been a long time—wery, wery long—but have I been patient 'bout Sue all this long time, Connie?"

"Yes, indeed, dear Giles."

"Oh! I'm glad, fur I've tried to be. Then, Connie, wot I'm thinking is that ef Sue don't soon come back—ef she don't soon find that 'ere cottage—why, I won't want it, Connie. Sue 'ull come back and find me—gone."

"Gone!" echoed Connie. "Do you mean dead? Oh Giles! you're not ill enough to die."

"Yes, Connie, I think I am. I'm so real desperate weak sometimes that I don't like even to move a finger. I used to be hungry, too, but now I never cares to eat. Besides, Connie dear——"

"Yes, Giles," answered Connie.

"Those wings that I told you of—why, I often seem to feel them flutter inside of me. I told you before, Connie, that when they was full grown, why, I'd fly away. I think they are growing wery fast. I'll want no cottage in the country now. I'm going away to a much better place, ain't I, Connie?"

"Oh! but, Giles, I don't want to think that—I don't want to," answered Connie, the tears raining down her cheeks.

"'Tis real good fur me, though, Connie. I used to pine sore fur the country; but it have come hover me lately that in winter it 'ud be dull—scarcely any flowers, and no birds singing, nor nothink. Now, in heaven there's no winter. 'A land o' pure delight,' the hymn calls it, 'and never-withering flowers.' So you see, Connie, heaven must be a sight better than the country, and of course I'd rayther go there; only I'm thinking as 'tis sech a pity 'bout Sue."

"Yes, I wish as Sue was home," said Connie.

"Connie dear, couldn't we send her a message to come straight home to me now? I'm so feared as she'll fret real hard ef she comes wid news of that cottage and finds me gone."

"I'll look fur her; I will find her," said Connie with sudden energy. Then she rose and drew down the blinds.

"I'll find Sue ef I can, Giles; and now you will go to sleep."

"Will you sing to me? When you sing, and I drop off to sleep listening, I allers dream arterwards of heaven."

"What shall I sing?"

"'There is a land of pure delight.'"



CHAPTER XXXVI.

A CRISIS.

Connie went downstairs and stood in the doorway. She had gone through a good deal during these last adventurous weeks, and although still it seemed to those who knew her that Connie had quite the prettiest face in all the world, it was slightly haggard now for a girl of fourteen years, and a little of its soft plumpness had left it.

Connie had never looked more absolutely pathetic than she did at this moment, for her heart was full of sorrow for Giles and of anxiety with regard to Sue. She would keep her promise to the little boy—she would find Sue.

As she stood and thought, some of the roughest neighbors passed by, looked at the child, were about to speak, and then went on. She was quite in her shabby, workaday dress; there was nothing to rouse jealousy about her clothes; and the "gel" seemed in trouble. The neighbors guessed the reason. It was all little Giles. Little Giles was soon "goin' aw'y."

"It do seem crool," they said one to the other, "an' that sister o' his nowhere to be found."

Just then, who should enter the house but kind Dr. Deane. He stopped when he saw Connie.

"I am going up to Giles," he said. "How is the little chap?"

"Worse—much worse," said Connie, the tears gathering in her eyes.

"No news of his sister, I suppose?"

"No, sir—none."

"I am sorry for that—they were such a very attached pair. I'll run up and see the boy, and bring you word what I think about him."

The doctor was absent about a quarter of an hour. While he was away Connie never moved, but stood up leaning against the door-post, puzzling her brains to think out an almost impossible problem. When the doctor reappeared she did not even ask how Giles was. Kind Dr. Deane looked at her; his face was wonderfully grave. After a minute he said:

"I think, Connie, I'd find that little sister as quickly as I could. The boy is very, very weak. If there is one desire now in his heart, however, it is just to see Sue once more."

"I ha' give him my word," said Connie. "I'm goin' to find Sue ef—ef I never see Giles agin."

"But you mustn't leave him for long," said the doctor. "Have you no plan in your head? You cannot find a girl who is lost as Sue is lost in this great London without some clue."

"I ain't got any clue," said Connie, "but I'll try and find Pickles."

"Whoever is Pickles?" asked the doctor.

"'E knows—I'm sartin sure," said Connie. "I'll try and find him, and then——"

"Well, don't leave Giles alone. Is there a neighbor who would sit with him?"

"I won't leave him alone," said Connie.

The doctor then went away. Connie was about to return to Giles, if only for a few minutes, when, as though in answer to an unspoken prayer, the red-headed Pickles appeared in sight. His hair was on end; his face was pale; he was consumed with anxiety; in short, he did not seem to be the same gay-hearted Pickles whom Connie had last met with. When he saw Connie, however, the sight of that sweet and sad face seemed to pull him together.

"Now must I give her a blow, or must I not?" thought Pickles to himself. "It do seem 'ard. There's naught, a'most, I wouldn't do for pore Cinderella; but w'en I have to plant a dart in the breast of that 'ere most beauteous crittur, I feels as it's bitter 'ard. W'y, she 'ud make me a most captiwatin' wife some day. Now, Pickles, my boy, wot have you got in the back o' your 'ead? Is it in love you be—an' you not fourteen years of age? Oh, fie, Pickles! What would yer mother s'y ef she knew?"

Pickles slapped his hand with a mighty thump against his boyish breast.

"That's the w'y to treat nonsense," he said aloud. "Be'ave o' yerself, Pickles—fie for shame, Pickles! That 'ere beauteous maid is to be worshipped from afar—jest like a star. I do declare I'm turnin' po-ettical!"

"Pickles!" called Connie at this moment. "Stop!"

"Pickles be 'ere," replied the youth, drawing up before Connie and making a low bow.

"Giles is worse, Pickles," said Connie, "an' wot's to be done?"

Pickles's round face grew grave.

"Is 'e wery bad?" he asked.

"So bad that he'll soon go up to God," said Connie. Her eyes filled with tears; they rolled down her cheeks.

"Bright as dimants they be," thought the boy as he watched her. "Precious tears! I could poetise 'bout them."

"Pickles," said Connie again, "I have made Giles a promise. He sha'n't die without seeing Sue. I'm sartin sure, Pickles, that you could take me to Sue now—I'm convinced 'bout it—and I want you to do it."

"Why do you think that?" asked Pickles.

"'Cos I do," said Connie. "'Cos of the way you've looked and the way you've spoken. Oh, dear Pickles, take me to her now; let me bring her back to little Giles to-night!"

Once again that terribly mournful expression, so foreign to Pickles's freckled face, flitted across it.

"There!" he said, giving himself a thump. "W'en I could I wouldn't, and now w'en I would I can't. I don't know where she be. She's lost—same as you were lost—w'ile back. She's disappeared, and none of us know nothink about her."

"Oh! is she really lost? How terrible that is!" said Connie.

"Yus, she's lost. P'r'aps there's one as could find her. Connie, I 'ate beyond all things on 'arth to fright yer or say an unkind thing to yer; but to me, Connie, you're a star that shines afar. Yer'll fergive the imperence of my poetry, but it's drawn from me by your beauty."

"Don't talk nonsense now, Pickles," said Connie. "Things are too serious. We must find Sue—I must keep my promise."

"Can you bear a bit o' pine?" said Pickles suddenly.

"Pain?" said Connie. "I've had a good deal lately. Yes, I think—I think I can bear it."

"Mind yer," said Pickles, "it's this w'y. I know w'y Sue left yer, and I know w'y she ain't come back. It's true she 'aven't give herself hup yet, although she guv me to understand as she were 'bout to go to prison."

"To prison?" said Connie, springing forward and putting her hand on Pickles's shoulder. "Sue—the most honest gel in all the world—go to prison?"

"Oh yes," said Pickles, "yer might call her honest; but w'en she goes into a pawnshop an' comes hout agin wid a golden dimant locket a-hid in her pocket, there are people as won't agree wid yer, an' that's the solemn truth, Connie."

Connie's face was very white.

"I don't believe it," she said.

"Yer don't?" cried Pickles. "But I were there at the time. But for me she would ha' been locked up long ago. But I tuk pity on her—'avin' my own suspicions. I hid her and disguised her. Wot do yer think I come 'ere for so often but jest to comfort the poor thing an' bring her news o' Giles? Then all of a suddn't my suspicions seemed confirmed. I guessed wot I see is workin' in your mind—that some one else done it an' putt the blame on 'er. Oh, I'm a born detective. I putt my wits in soak, an' soon I spotted the guilty party. Bless yer, Connie! ye're right—Sue be honest—honest as the day—noble, too—more nobler nor most folk. Pore Sue! Pore, plain Cinderella! Oh, my word! it's beauteous inside she be—an' you're beauteous outside. Outside beauty is captiwatin', but the hinner wears best."

"Go on," said Connie; "tell me wot else you 'ave in yer mind."

"It's this: yer may own up to it, an' there's no use beatin' about the bush. The guilty party wot stole the locket an' transferred it by sleight-of-'and to poor Sue is no less a person than yer own father, Connie Harris."

Connie fell back, deadly pale.

"No—no!" she said. "No—no! I am sartin sure 'tain't that way."

"Yus, but it be that way—I tell yer it be. You ax 'im yerself; there's no time for muddlin' and a-hidin' o' the truth. You ax the man hisself."

"Father!" said Connie. "Father!"

Harris, wrangling with another workman, was now seen approaching. When he perceived his daughter and Pickles, his first impulse was to dart away down a side-street; but Pickles, that most astute young detective, was too sharp for him.

"No," he said, rushing at the man and laying his hand on his shoulder. "Giles is bad, an' we can't find Sue no'ow, and yer must tell the truth."

Harris did not know why his heart thumped so heavily, and why a sort of wild terror came over him; but when Connie also joined Pickles, and raising her eyes to the rough man's face, said, "Be it true or be it lies, you are my own father and I'll niver turn agin yer," her words had a most startling effect.

Harris trembled from head to foot.

"S'y that agin, wench," he muttered.

"You're mine—I'll not turn agin yer," said Connie.

"Then why—wot 'ave I done to deserve a child like this? There, Pickles! you know—and you ha' told Connie—it's all the truth. There come a day w'en I wanted money, an' I were met by sore temptation. I tuk the dimant locket w'en the pawnbroker 'ad 'is back turned on me; but as I were leavin' the shop—Sue bein' by my side—I suddenly saw him pokin' his finger into the place where it had been. I knew it were all up. I managed to slip the locket into Sue's pocket, and made off. I ha' been near mad since—near mad since!"

"Small wonder!" said Pickles. "An' do yer know that she 'ad made up her mind to go to prison 'stead o' you?"

"You told me so," said Harris—"at least you told me that she was goin' to prison instead o' the guilty party."

"Wull," said Pickles, "yer own 'eart told yer 'oo was the guilty party."

"That's true, youngster."

"Father," said Connie, "we can't find Sue anywhere, and Giles is dying, and we must get her, and you must help."

"Help?" said Harris. "Yes, I'll help. I won't leave a stone unturned. She wanted to save me, knowing the truth. Wull, I'll save and find her, knowin' the truth."

"I will come with you," said Connie. "I want to go wid yer; only wot am I to do with Giles?"

"Don't worrit 'bout him," said Pickles. "I'm 'ere to be o' sarvice to you, Miss Connie—and to you, sir, now as you 'ave come ter yer right mind."

"Then I will come with you, father," said Connie. "We'll both go together and find Sue."

As Pickles was entering the house he popped his head out again.

"I forgot to mention," he said, "as hinquiries o' the most strict and dertective character 'ave been institooted by yer 'umble sarvant for poor Cinderella—I mean Sue. They've led to no results. There's nothing now but one o' the hospitals."

It is very doubtful whether Pickles believed himself the clue he had unexpectedly given to Harris and Connie, but certain it is that they immediately began their investigations in those quarters. From one hospital to another they went, until at last they found Sue in bed in St. Thomas's Hospital—flushed, feverish, struggling still to hide her secret in order that when she was better she might save Peter Harris.

The poor child was rather worse than usual that evening, and the surgeon who had set her leg was slightly anxious at her feverish symptoms. He said to the nurse who was taking charge of the little girl:

"That child has a secret on her mind, and it is retarding her recovery. Do you know anything about her?"

"No, sir. It is very awkward," said the nurse, "but from the first she has refused to give her name, calling herself nothing but Cinderella."

"Well," said the doctor, "but Cinderella—she doesn't seem touched in the head?"

"Oh no," said the nurse; "it isn't that. She's the most sensible, patient child we have in the ward. But it's pitiful to see her when she thinks no one is listening. Nothing comforts her but to hear Big Ben strike. She always cheers up at that, and murmurs something below her breath which no one can catch."

"Well, nurse," said the doctor, "the very best thing would be to relieve her mind—to get her to tell you who her people are, and to confide any secret which troubles her to you."

"I will try," said the nurse.

She went upstairs after her interview with the doctor, and bending over Sue, took her hot hand and said gently:

"I wish, little Cinderella, you would tell me something about yourself."

"There's naught to tell," said Sue.

"But—you'll forgive me—I am sure there is."

"Ef you was to ask me for ever, I wouldn't tell then," said Sue.

"Ah! I guessed—there is something."

"Yes—some'ut—but I can't bear it—the Woice in the air is so beautiful."

"What voice?" asked the nurse, who feared that her little patient would suddenly become delirious.

"It's Big Ben hisself is talkin' to me and to my darling, darling little brother."

"Oh! you have a little brother, Cinderella?"

"Yus, a cripple. But don't ask me no more. The Woice gives me strength, and I won't niver, niver tell."

"What does Big Ben say? I don't understand."

"No," said Sue; "and p'r'aps ye're not wanted to understand. It's for me and for him, poor darling, that Woice is a real comfort."

The nurse left her little charge a few minutes afterwards. But before she went off duty she spoke to the night nurse, and confessed that she was anxious about the child, who ought to be recovering, and certainly would but for this great weight of trouble on her mind.

All these things, which seemed in themselves unimportant, bore directly on immediate events; for when Connie and Harris arrived at St. Thomas's Hospital and made inquiries with regard to a little, freckled girl, with an honest face and sturdy figure, the hall porter went to communicate with one of the nurses, and the nurse he communicated with turned out to be the night nurse in the very ward where Sue was lying—so suffering, so ill and sorely tried.

Now, the nurse, instead of sending word that this was not the hour for visiting patients, took the trouble to go downstairs herself and to interview Connie and her father. Connie gave a faithful description of Sue, and then the nurse admitted that there was a little girl in the hospital who was now in the children's surgical ward. She had been brought in a day or two ago, having a broken leg, owing to a street accident. She was a very patient, good child, but there was something strange about her—nothing would induce her to tell her name.

"Then what do you call her?" asked Harris.

He was still full of inward tremors, for at that moment he was thinking that of all the sweet sights on earth, that sight would be little Sue's plain face.

"Have yer no name for the pore child?" he repeated.

"Yes," said the nurse. "She calls herself Cinderella."

"It's Sue! It's Sue herself father! God has led us to her—and it's Sue her very own self!"

Poor Connie, who had borne up during so many adventures, who had faced the worst steadfastly and without fear, broke down utterly now. She flung herself into her father's arms and sobbed.

"Hush, wench hush!" said the rough man. "I am willin' to do hall that is necessary.—Now then, nurse," he continued, "you see my gel—she's rather upset 'bout that pore Cinderella upstairs. But 'ave yer nothing else to say 'bout her?"

"She acts in a strange way," said the nurse. "The only thing that comforts her is the sound of Big Ben when he strikes the hour. And she did speak about a little cripple brother."

"Can us see her?" asked Connie just then.

"It is certainly against the rules, but—will you stay here for a few minutes and I'll speak to the ward superintendent?"

The nurse went upstairs. She soon returned.

"Sister Elizabeth has given you permission to come up and see the child for a few minutes. This, remember, is absolutely against the ordinary rules; but her case is exceptional, and if you can give her relief of mind, so much the better."

Then Connie and her father followed the nurse up the wide, clean stairs, and down the wide, spotless-looking corridors, until they softly entered a room where many children were lying, some asleep, some tossing from side to side with pain.

Sue's little bed was the fifth from the door, and Sue was lying on her back, listening intently, for Big Ben would soon proclaim the hour. She did not turn her head when the nurse and the two who were seeking her entered the ward; but by-and-by a voice, not Big Ben's, sounded on her ear, and Connie flung herself by her side and covered her hand with kisses.

"You don't think, Sue, do yer," said Connie, "that us could stop seekin' yer until we found yer?"

Sue gave a startled cry.

"Connie—Connie! Oh Connie! 'ow is Giles?"

"'E wants yer more than anything in all the world."

"Then he—he's—still alive?"

"Yus, he's still alive; but he wants yer. He thought you was in the country, gettin' pretty rooms for you and him. But oh, Sue! he's goin' to a more beautiful country now."

Sue didn't cry. She was about to say something, when Harris bent forward.

"God in 'eaven bless yer!" he said in a husky voice. "God in 'eaven give back yer strength for that noble deed yer ha' done for me an' mine! But it's all at an end now, Susan—all at an end—for I myself 'ave tuk the matter in 'and, an' hall you 'as to do is to get well as fast as ever yer can for the sake o' Giles."

"You mustn't excite her any more to-night," said the nurse then, coming forward; "seeing," she added, "that you have given the poor little thing relief. You can come again to-morrow; but now she must stay quiet."

Late as the hour was when Harris and Connie left St. Thomas's Hospital, Harris turned to Connie.

"I've some'ut to do—and to-night. Shall I take yer 'ome first, or wull yer come with me?"

"Oh, I will come with you, father," said Connie.

"Wull then, come along."

They walked far—almost as far as Cheapside. Connie could not imagine why her father was taking her into a certain dingy street, and why he suddenly stopped at a door which had not yet been shut for the night.

"I thought as there were a chance of findin' him up," he said. "Come right in, gel."

Connie entered, and the next minute Harris was addressing the pawnbroker from whom he had stolen the locket.

"I 'ave a word to say with you," he remarked; and then he related the circumstances of that day, several weeks ago now.

"But we found it," said the pawnbroker, "in the pocket of the young gel."

"It was I as put it there," said Harris. "It was I—the meanest wretch on 'arth. But I've come to my senses at last. You can lock me up ef yer like. I'll stay 'ere; I won't even leave the shop ef yer want to deliver the real thief over to justice."

The pawnbroker stared at the man; then he looked at Connie. There is no saying what he might have done; but Connie's face, with its pleading expression, was enough to disarm any one.

"The fact is," he began "this sort o' thing ought to be punished, or however could poor folks live? But it's a queer thing. When the young gel vanished, as it seemed, into the depths of the 'arth, and I 'ad got my property back, I tuk no further trouble. In course, now that you 'ave delivered yerself up, it seems a'most fair that the law should take its course."

"That's wot I think," said Harris. "Make a short job of it, man. Call in a constable; 'e can take me to Bow Street to-night."

"No 'urry, man," said the pawnbroker. "I want yer to tell me some'ut more. Is that other little party alive or dead? It seems to me as though the 'arth must 'ave swallered her up."

"I will tell you," said Connie; and she did relate Sue's story—as much as she knew of it—and with such pathos that even that pawnbroker, one of the hardest of men, felt a queer softness about his heart.

"Wull," he said—"wull, it's a queer world! To think o' that child plannin' things out like that! And ef she ad come to me, I might ha' believed her, too. Wull now, she be a fine little crittur. An' s'pose"—he glanced at Harris—"I don't prosecute you, there's no call, to my way o' thinkin'. And the fact is, I'm too busy to be long out of the shop. Don't you steal no more, neighbor. You ha' got off dirt-cheap this time, but don't you steal no more."



CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE HAPPY GATHERING.

There came a day in the early spring of that year when a great many pleasant things happened to the people who have been mentioned in this story.

Connie's room was very bright with flowers—spring flowers—which had been sent to her all the way from Eastborough by Mrs. Cricket. Quantities of primroses were placed in a huge bowl, and the sun came feebly in at the window and seemed to kiss and bless the flowers. There were also some early buttercups and quantities of violets.

Giles was neither better nor worse, but perhaps on this day he was a little bit on the side of better. It was so beautiful to think that Sue was coming back!

Oh, this was a wonderful day! Sue was well again; Connie was happy; Harris was never tired of doing all he could both for Connie and Giles; and other people were happy too, for Sue's return was to be marked by a sort of holiday—a sort of general feast.

To this feast was invited—first, Mrs. Anderson; then Ronald, who happened to be staying in London and was deeply excited at the thought of seeing Connie once more; and also dear Father John, who would not have missed such an occasion for the wide world. Of course, Pickles could not be left out of such a gathering; but he could scarcely be considered a guest, for did he not belong, so to speak, to the family, and was not dear Sue, in particular, his special property?

Mrs. Anderson supplied the good things for the feast. This she insisted upon. So Connie spread quite a lordly board—cold meats not a few, some special delicacies for Giles, and a splendid frosted cake with the word "Cinderella" written in pink fairy writing across the top. This special cake had been made by Mrs. Price, and Pickles had brought it and laid it with immense pride on a dish in the centre of the table.

"Yus," said Connie, "it do look purty, don't it? Wot with good things to eat, and wot with flowers, it's quite wonderful."

When everything was arranged, Connie went into a little room to put on once again her dark-blue dress, and to unplait her thick hair and allow it to fall over her shoulders.

"It's for Ronald," she said. "Ronald wouldn't know me without my hair down."

Then, one by one, the visitors made their appearance—Father John, who sat down by Giles's side and held his hand, and by his mere presence gave the boy the greatest possible comfort; and Pickles, whose face was shining with hard rubbing and soap and water, and whose red hair stuck upright all over his head. Then Mrs. Anderson came in and sat down, and gave a gentle look first at Giles and then at Connie; and Connie felt that she loved her better than ever, and Giles wondered if he would meet many with faces like hers in heaven.

In short, every one had arrived at last except the little heroine. But hark! there was a sound outside as though some vehicle had stopped at the door. Giles's breath came fast. There were steps on the stairs, and two porters from the hospital carried Sue in between them.

"Oh, I can really walk," she said. "And oh, Giles—Giles!—Please put me down, porter; I really, really can walk."

"Jest as himpatient as ever, Cinderella!" said Pickles, who always tried, as was his custom, to be specially funny in pathetic times.

Sue glanced at him, but could not speak just then. There are moments in our lives when no words will come. She went up to Giles and hid her face on his pillow. Poor little Sue had a bitterly hard fight with herself, for that face, which belonged not to earth, unnerved her, notwithstanding the rapture of seeing it once again. But Giles himself was the first to recover composure.

"We are 'avin' such a feast!" he said. "An' it's all so beautiful! Now then, Sue I do 'ope as ye're 'ungry."

After that Ronald spoke and made the others laugh; and Sue bustled about, just as though she were at home, and Connie helped her; and very soon they all crowded round the table, except Giles, who had his dainty morsels brought to him by Sue's own hands.

Thus they ate and laughed and were merry, although perhaps the laughter was a little subdued and the merriment a trifle forced.

It was when the feast was quite over that Father John spoke a few words—just a very few—about the love and goodness of God, and how He had brought His wandering sheep home again to the fold, and how He had helped Connie in dark times, and Ronald in dark times, and Sue in dark times.

"And He is helping Giles, and will be with him to the end," said the street preacher. "And now," he added, "I think Giles is very tired and would like to be all alone with Sue. Suppose, neighbors, we go into the next room."

The opening of the door of the next room was one of the surprises which had been planned by Connie and her father. As he was now earning such really excellent wages, and as he had taken the pledge and meant to keep it, he felt he was entitled to another room. It was neatly furnished. There was a fire burning in the grate, and there were white muslin curtains to the windows. Connie spoke of it with great pride as the "drawing-room," and Pickles assured her that even to set foot in that room was enough to make Connie a "lydy" on the spot.

When they were alone Sue and Giles talked softly one to the other.

"The blessed Woice," said Sue, "'ave been with me all the w'y."

"And with me," said Giles.

"You won't go jest yet, Giles," said Sue.

"Wery soon—but not quite yet," he answered.

Sue smiled and kissed his hand, and they talked as those who have been long parted, and know they must be parted soon again, will talk, when heart meets heart.

In the other room people were not more cheerful, but at least more glad.

"There is nothing left to wish for," said Pickles. "It's just the best thing in all the world for little Giles to get quite well up in heaven. Ain't it now?" he added, looking at Father John.

"Yes," said Father John very briefly. Then he turned to Connie.

"You must never forget all that you have lived through, Connie," he said. "You'll be a better and a braver girl just because of these dark days."

"She's the best wench on 'arth," said Harris.

Suddenly Ronald sprang forward and spoke.

"Uncle Stephen said I was to tell you he has bought the cottage in the country where Mrs. Cricket lives and he's adding to it and making it most beautiful, and dear Mrs. Cricket is to be housekeeper, and you're all to come down in the summer—all of you—even Giles; and Giles is to stay there as long as he lives. Uncle Stephen is a splendid man," continued Ronald. "It was after him my darling V. C. father took when he became so great and brave and manly, and I love Uncle Stephen better than any one except father. Father hasn't come home yet, and perhaps I won't see him until Giles sees his father. But I'm a very, very happy boy, and it's all because of Uncle Stephen. Now, the rest of you can be happy too in my cottage—Uncle Stephen says it is my cottage—in the beautiful country."

* * * * *

These things came to pass, and even Giles went for a short time to the beautiful country, where the flowers grew in such abundance, and where the birds sang all day long.

"Now you can guess," he said to Sue after they had been there a fortnight or more, "some little bit about the joys of the Land of Pure Delight."



* * * * *



Transcriber's Notes

1. This book makes extensive use of dialect. Original spellings of words in dialect have been retained.

2. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

3. Table of Contents added in this text was not present in original edition.

4. One word has been changed from the original to correctly identify the speaker, Agnes, replying to Connie's question: p. 27 original: "Wot sort?" asked Connie. replacement: "Wot sort?" asked Agnes.

THE END