Mother Meg Part 35

"But I've been thinkin', that if she was to mention me to them servants at the doctor's, who is so kind to her, they might know of some little place or 'nother before breakfast for _me_."

"So they might, Kit; you're a good girl to ha' thought of it."

"I _am_ honest," Kittie went on, meditatively, was.h.i.+ng away all the time as she talked, "and you could say as I'm not given to pickin' things, or takin' what ain't mine, now couldn't you, mother?"

Mrs. Blunt laughed a little, at which Kittie blushed crimson.

"Mother!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, Kit, my dear, I never meant as I couldn't! Bless your heart, I should hope so! But I was laughin' at you havin' thought it all over so grand!"

"Well--but--mother--we would be glad of two s.h.i.+llings more every week, wouldn't we?"

"Of course we should, Kittie." Mrs. Blunt raised herself, and wrung the soap-suds from her arms. "Why, yes, Kit, if you _could_, my dear, we shouldn't know ourselves!"

Kittie looked very pleased; and directly her mother had done with her, she ran up-stairs to ask Cherry to put her into communication with the doctor's servants.

She knocked at Meg's door, but could get no answer, and remembering that they were away, she went up to the top to Mrs. Seymour's rooms.

Here on the landing, swaying about in the air that came in freely from the window, were sheets and clothes drying finely; she bobbed her head under them, and as she did so she heard Cherry's clear voice saying--

"I've a'most done, Miss Hobson; will it do then?"

Kittie gained admittance, and found Cherry starching some things on the centre table.

"My! you do know how to do it fine!" she exclaimed; and then she explained her errand.

Cherry took her compliments very calmly, ironing and starching were such every-day things to her; but when she heard what Kittie wanted she looked very serious.

"I can ask 'em and welcome, but I don't know as they would. But they are mighty kind."

As she spoke she went into the back room to give Miss Hobson a book which she had dropped on the floor, and the invalid called to Kittie to come too.

"Look 'ere," she said to her, "_I've_ got a friend as I'll name ye to, if ye like to go and see her. She's the curate's wife, what comes to see me sometimes, and I know as she've got a heap of children and not much to do with. Would ye like to go?"

Kittie said she should, and the day being Sat.u.r.day, and a half-holiday, she ran down to ask her mother's permission to go at once.

Mrs. Blunt said it could do no harm to try, and made Kittie as neat as her very spare wardrobe would allow, and saw her set forth on her errand with a strange feeling that she was going out into the world.

Kittie traversed the two or three streets that brought her to the one where the good man, who spent his life among the poor, had his home.

She rang timidly, and stood for some minutes much concerned that the door was not opened, though she heard feet running up and down, and children's voices many and shrill.

At last another step came nearer and nearer, and the door was opened by a lady, pale and careworn, the curate's wife herself, who led the way without asking any questions into the front room, where a baby was crawling on the hearth-rug, and two or three little ones were standing about watching Kittie with curiosity.

The curate's wife took up the baby, and bade Kittie be seated. She supposed she had come on account of some sick relative, and patiently waited to hear the story. But when Kittie had explained why she came the lady looked surprised and pleased.

"And you think you could help me at odd times?" she asked at last, "and would not get tired of the children? because, you know, I could not have them slapped even if they were tiresome."

Kittie promised that this should never happen, privately remembering that it was a thing her mother never allowed, though she recalled with compunction, that now and then--but still she felt different now from what she used to do, and she must ask for help from the Lord Jesus.

All that pa.s.sed through her mind as she made the promise, but the curate's wife could not tell that. She only thought that this little girl seemed very straightforward.

"So you would be able to come before breakfast, and light the kitchen fire?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

"But does not your mother want you, as you have such a large family at home?"

"No, ma'am, 'cause mother's obliged to stay at home with the little 'uns, and she says as we didn't ought both of us to be at home."

"But I am afraid I shall not be able to pay you as much as I should like, Kittie; I have very little to spend; and yet--" She sighed. "I _am_ so tired, and it would be such a comfort to have you if you were a good girl."

"I'd try to be, ma'am," answered Kittie; "but--mother says I'm very tiresome sometimes."

The curate's wife smiled kindly.

"We all are," she said gently; "but if we know it, and try to be better, so as to please our Lord and Master, we are sure to improve."

Kittie's eyes gave a flash; n.o.body talked to her quite like that. She should like to serve this pretty lady very much.

"Then you will come in the evenings too, and wash up our dishes for us, and help me put the children to bed, or anything I may want?"

Kitty promised, and went home, about the happiest little girl in London.

Of course her difficulties were yet to come.

Two whole s.h.i.+llings a week! It seemed a fortune to her.

Cherry and Miss Hobson were as pleased as she could wish, and then she ran down and burst in with her news to her mother.

"Oh, Kittie!" exclaimed Mrs. Blunt, "won't you just have to be good to them dear little children! and to the lady too. I never did see such a wonderful thing, never. But it's like my Lord, that it is!"

When, after a fortnight's work at the Hall, Jem went back to London, he left Meg and d.i.c.kie to get two more weeks of fresh air and country milk.

Perhaps to d.i.c.kie that month in the country seemed to him afterwards as but one brief day filled with the birds' song.

All day long the two sat out under the apple-trees basking in the suns.h.i.+ne, and listening to the melodious sounds from the Hall farm.

d.i.c.kie, in Meg's old little wooden chair, was learning to catch the song of the different birds, and would listen intently and patiently while Meg tried to teach him how to distinguish them.

One day, seeing the lark soaring above their heads, she raised his hand, and pointed with his little finger as far as he could reach.

"It is up in the sky, d.i.c.kie, oh, so high! singing G.o.d's praise," she said.

And d.i.c.kie answered as he caught the sound--