Mother Meg Part 4

"I wish I'd known; then I'd have watched for you," said Meg.

"Would you? Well, my dear, I don't know as it will make much difference, only for knowing as we're near each other, because I never do use myself to leave my work, for nothing."

"Ah! no," answered Meg.

He sat down to the table, and after he had asked a blessing they began their meal; but Jem was unusually preoccupied.

Meg was not an old enough wife to understand all her husband's moods, and supposed he was tired with his day's work.

"Meg," he said suddenly, "I suppose we haven't such a thing as an old blanket?"

Meg looked rather astonished.

"Why, you know, Jem, as everything nearly is new what you got ready for our home."

"Yes," said Jem, "yes, I know. I wonder how we could do?"

"What is it for?" asked Meg.

"Why, my girl, my heart's just achin' at a little feller I saw there in a attic. He's been lyin', his sister told me, ever since the first week in May, and he's like a skeleton. She don't seem to have much to give him, nor to live on herself neither, and he's got nothing on him but an old shawl, and the girl says as he's awful cold of nights. It's a frightful draughty place."

Meg's happy eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, Jem," she exclaimed, "can we give them one of ours?"

"Well, ye see, Meg, it won't do for us to be giving away our things one by one; for if we began in this poor neighbourhood, we should not have a rag to our backs, as the sayin' is. But yet this little chap--"

"Oh, yes, Jem, we ought not to 'pa.s.s by on the other side,' as the Bible says. Do let us give one of ours."

"I was thinkin'," said Jem; "you know, Meg, you and me made up our minds when we was married to put by somethin' to give to our G.o.d out of every s.h.i.+llin' we earned--"

"Yes, we did," answered Meg eagerly.

"Now, though we haven't earned much yet," he went on, "yet we've had a deal give us; and 'sposin' I was to get a blanket for the poor little chap: how would that be?"

"Oh, Jem, do! Will you take me out with you to get it?"

Jem smiled; then turning grave again, he added:

"But, sweetheart, I'm loth to sadden you with such tales when your dear heart's a bit sore at leavin' home. Eh, Meg?"

Meg's tears were very near, but she answered as steadily as she could--

"It would be poor thanks to Him who's given me so much, Jem, to say as I was too happy to be made sorrowful by helping any one in need."

Jem said no more, but went into the other room and fetched Meg's hat and jacket; but when they got outside in the brilliant light of the declining June sun, he said to himself, that he had never before seen his Meg look so beautiful.

The blanket was bought, a very ordinary one--"all wool" as Jem had said, remembering his mother's bringing-up, but not so good as to be immediately noticed and perhaps stolen in the large lodging-house in which the children lived.

Then they retraced their steps, and when they came to the court Jem stopped.

"I'll soon be home, my girl; you go on without me."

"Shan't I come too?" asked Meg.

"If you'd like to, my dear; but it ain't a nice place."

It was by this time getting dusk between the high houses, and Meg followed her husband in silence. It was the first time she had ever been into any crowded abode. A country cottage was the only experience she had had.

Jem led the way up the dark and rickety stairs to the very top, and then stooped his head under a low doorway.

The room was close under the roof, open to the tiles, and was very bare, but neat and orderly. On a mattress in the corner lay the little sufferer, while by him sat his crippled sister, nearly as pale and thin as he.

"My child," said Jem in a kind voice, addressing her, "do you think if I brought you a blanket you could keep it from being stolen?"

The child looked up suddenly. A face, with all its want and suffering, on which something indescribable was written. Jem did not a.n.a.lyze it, but he felt it.

"I think so," she answered. "I know a place outside up under the roof where I could hide it away if I go out. That's what I have to do with most things as it is."

Meg seated herself on the box by the child's side and looked down on his little face. She put his wavy hair back from his forehead and said tenderly--

"Poor little dear, you have a bad cough!"

"Yes," said the child; "me cough all de time."

"Yes," pursued his sister. "d.i.c.kie's been bad this five weeks, and if it hadn't been for father having a bit of work, and bringin' home a little for once, he'd ha' died."

d.i.c.kie did not seem to mind being thus spoken of, but he turned his head wearily away, as if it were too much trouble to think.

"I like bein' ill," he whispered, as Meg bent over him.

"Like it, dear?" she questioned, thinking she had not heard aright.

He nodded ever so slightly, and then added in a little determined voice--

"'Cause then they don't _hurt_ me no more."

Meg would have asked for an explanation, but Jem was unfolding the blanket, and the girl was absorbed in wonder at its comfort and whiteness.

"d.i.c.kie, look!" she exclaimed in a low joyful tone.

But the child was too ill to be interested. He did not turn his head again, and Cherry said, with all the life gone out of her eyes, which had so quickly lighted up at sight of the blanket--

"That's how he is most times. Sometimes I wish he was safely in heaven with mother."

Jem put his hand gently on the girl's arm.

"Ah, my dear, that's how we feel when we're sad; but if we understand that G.o.d loves us, we'll be willing to wait, so as we may do His will."