• TABLE OF CONTENTS
HIDE
 Front Cover
 Half Title
 Frontispiece
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The flown bird
 Picked up
 "A stranger and ye took me in"
 The daybreak of the heart
 The prodigal's return
 Aunt Ann again
 New joys and sorrows
 "He giveth his beloved sleep"
 Advertising
 Back Cover
 Spine














Group Title: Carrie and the cobbler : : a story of Bell's Rents
Title: Carrie and the cobbler
CITATION THUMBNAILS PAGE TURNER PAGE IMAGE ZOOMABLE
Full Citation
STANDARD VIEW MARC VIEW
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00082640/00001
 Material Information
Title: Carrie and the cobbler a story of Bell's Rents
Physical Description: 64, 6 p. : ill. (some col.) ; 15 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Page, Jesse
S. W. Partridge & Co. (London, England)
Publisher: S.W. Partridge and Co.
Place of Publication: London
Publication Date: [1894?]
 Subjects
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Kindness -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Poverty -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Orphans -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Aunts -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Temper -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Cruelty -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Temperance -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance) -- 1894   ( rbprov )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1894   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1894
Genre: Prize books (Provenance)   ( rbprov )
Publishers' catalogues   ( rbgenr )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
 Notes
Statement of Responsibility: by Jesse Page.
General Note: Date of publication from prize inscription.
General Note: Frontispiece printed in colors.
General Note: Publisher's catalogue follows text.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00082640
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002235284
notis - ALH5728
oclc - 222013553

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Half Title
        Page 1
    Frontispiece
        Page 2
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Table of Contents
        Page 5
        Page 6
    The flown bird
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
    Picked up
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
    "A stranger and ye took me in"
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
    The daybreak of the heart
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
    The prodigal's return
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
    Aunt Ann again
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
    New joys and sorrows
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
    "He giveth his beloved sleep"
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
    Advertising
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
    Spine
        Spine
Full Text





















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Home ,riJJ Forc; Io' Mi-. ;:m;narry Society

/ j prs,,int6 to


in recognition of h.. s ervices as a ?
Collector for this Society.

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he ....Bald.. b ryn
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CARRIE AND THE COBBLER.





TI


"CLOSE BY THE WALL STOOD LITTLE CARRIE.'









CARRIE AND THE COBBLER


A STORY OF BELL'S RENTS



By
JESSE PAGE
AUTHOR OF "THAT OY Y BOB," "THE STORY OF A ROSE," ETC.










LONDON
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
8 & 9 PATERNOSTER Row














CONTENTS.





CHAPlTER PAGE
I. THE FLOWN BIRD, 7

II. PICKED UP, 15

III. "A STRANGER AND YE TOOK ME IN," 22

IV. THE DAYBREAK OF THE HEART, 29

V. THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN, 38

VI. AUNT ANN AGAIN, 46

VII. NEW JOYS AND SORROWS, 51

VIII. "HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP,". .56











HARRIE AND THE &OBBLER.



CHAPTER I.
THE FLOWN BIRD.

" .', ,t HAT has become of the child ?"
S The speaker was one of a
S--, group of pale, poorly-clad
women who were standing
I'-,. earnestly talking together at
one of the wretched doors of
Bellarby's Rents, or Bell's Rents, as the in-
habitants usually called this miserable court.
Few people passing along the broad thorough-
fare would be likely to notice the narrow, dark
archway which led to the Rents, still fewer
would care to venture into its disreputable
precincts where want and misery reigned
supreme. In the warm weather, when the
close dwellings became insupportable, even





Carrie and the Cobbler.


to those who were long inured to such un-
healthy surroundings, a squalid throng of
noisy children and their miserable parents
gathered on the dirty pavement of the court.
From window to window stretched slack lines
of tattered garments which scarcely moved in
the stagnant air. On this winter's evening a
murky darkness had already begun to fill
up the narrow passage, and the keen east
wind blew in fitful gusts, causing the women
to clasp closer their thin shawls, but still in
the shadows they talked on4 Somebody was
missing; that was, however, nothing very
marvellous in the history of the Rents, where
the lodgers had a habit of disappearing so often
that their neighbours cared little for their
going, and no one noticed their absence except
old Biggs, who lived in the corner near the gate
and received the rents-when he could get
them. But as Mrs. Slack, in the faded widow's
cap, observed, If it had bin old Biggs' un' as
had took it in his head to run away, or them
grumbling folks at No. 3, we shouldn't so much
a' minded, but to lose that poor little gal, as
we all took to so much, makes me feel real
bad."





The Flown Bzrd.


"But where's she gone to?" again asked
Mrs. Barker, the laundress; "surely some-
body's seen the child since this blessed morn-
ing?"
My 'pinion is, my dear," whispered an old
woman, dressed in rusty black, and very much
down at heel, my 'pinion is, that there harnt
of hers knows something about it and won't
tell us. I've often heard the dear child a-cry-
ing and begging of her to leave off beating' her,
and I shouldn't wonder at all if she'd took the
poor creature away and just lost her."
"Well, I shall go and ask her myself," said
the little laundress with energy. Her com-
panions assured her that the aunt was a
roughish customer to deal with, and warned
her to mind what she was about.
Do you think I'm afraid ?" spoke up the
honest woman; I can tell you this, ever since
the day I lost my poor boy I never took to
any child as I did to Carrie, and I'll foller
the dear and find her, please God, if I can."
Mrs. Barker wiped a tear from her eye as
she hurried away, followed by three or four of
the women at a safe distance, who had, how-
ever, determined to "see it out." She had not





Carrie and the Cobbler.


far to go, for the wretched cellar which was
misnamed the home of little Carrie was only
half way up the court. Cold as it was, the
door at the bottom of the steps stood ajar, and
without ceremony the visitor walked in. At
the fireless grate sat a woman well advanced
in years, who looked up with a gesture of
angry inquiry. Old Ann had known better
days, so people said, and this accounted in
some degree for her harsh temper and bitter
words. She had never married, and lived a
lonely existence, the friend of nobody, speaking
to none, and would have been scarcely noticed
at all had it not been for Carrie, a little fair-
haired girl of about seven years of age, who
was supposed to be in her care, but really led
a wretched life of neglect and misery. And
when Aunt Ann let slip to somebody to-day
that "she was glad the child was gone, she
hoped for good and all," the intense excite-
ment had culminated in the little council of
neighbours, as we have seen.
"What do you.want?" fiercely she asked,
after a few seconds of steadily gazing at her
intruder.
What do I want, indeed! I should think





T/e Flown Bird.


you don't need to ask that ma'am. What's
become of that sweet child ? That's what
I want to know."
That's no business of yours, Mrs. Barker,
so you had better go."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am it is my
business, and the business of all of us, and we
mean to find out what you've done with
Carrie."
Old Aunt Ann rose from her seat, and as
she stood in the dim light of the flickering
candle a little of her former dignity could be
seen through all her poverty-stricken surround-
ings. She walked to the door and looked her
visitor steadily in the face with a keen and
searching gaze.
Look here," she said, I daresay you and
yourset think mebad enough foranything; per-
haps you are right, but I won't hear any more
of this about the child ; I tell you I've done
nothing with her. She went away last night,
when and where the Lord only knows. Now
you have your answer, and you can go."
Something in the manner and look of the
speaker told Mrs. Barker that this was a piece
of advice worth taking. She returned to her





Carrie and the Cobbler.


friends hardly satisfied with the result of her
visit, and a few minutes later, when the police-
man on his beat passed the entrance of Bell's
Rents, all was quiet and deserted.
The kind-hearted women had gone back
to their miserable homes, where, doubtless,
each had her burden of care to take up, and
soon nearly all the lights in the windows were
extinguished save one.
That was down in the cellar where Aunt
Ann still sat brooding in sullen silence. The
candle sputtered away in the bottle on the
chimney-piece and finally went out; but the
woman never noticed it, for her heart was full
of deep and angry feelings. She had tasted
no food that day and was hunger-bitten, but
that was not her trouble now.
Where was Carrie, her sister's child ?
Everybody said it would come to this, and
everybody was right, it seemed. She had
been pretty severe with the little lass, and let
her temper get the better of her too often
when the child could not help to keep the
wolf from the door, and old Biggs was
clamouring for his rent, and go where she
would, there was no work to be had.





7Te Flown Bird.


For Aunt Ann was not the woman to sit
idle, with folded hands. Her old family
spirit, which the people in Bellarby's Rents
could not understand, kept her troubles to
herself, and urged her to leave no stone
unturned in earning a living honestly, how-
ever hard. "She's a cross old stick, that's
what I think about her!"
This was the verdict of Katie Crimps, the
only girl who had much to do with Carrie,
and who had heard from time to time what a
life the child led. And doubtless Katie was
right.
But in that dark cellar many thoughts
rushed into the mind of Aunt Ann as she sat,
her head in her hands, in the old broken chair
that night. She was thinking of Carrie's
mother, her own younger sister, who had
married unhappily, and dying, had asked her
to look after the helpless little one she was
leaving behind.
"Ann," she said, and how well the words
came back to her mind now, "Ann, I've
nobody in the wide world that cares for me
now but you, and we haven't forgotten how
when our mother died we said that nothing





14 Carrie and the Cobbler.


should part us from each other. Take the
baby, Ann ; I've called it Carrie, after myself,
and when I'm gone you will not forget me in
the face and by the name of my child."
The tears trickled between Aunt Ann's
fingers as she recalled these words, for she had
loved her fair-haired sister, and could not help
confessing to herself that she had not done
her duty to Carrie.
"And yet, God knows, she's always shared
my crust when I've had a bit, and many a
time I've walked the hard streets, hungry and
tired, because I couldn't bear to see the child
starve."
But hunger, the proverb says, is a sharp
thorn, and it had hurt the nature of Aunt
Ann, had made her temper worse and worse,
had soured and hardened her, so that, as Katie
Crimps said, it was only a cat and dog life"
poor Carrie led.
But we must leave Aunt Ann to her bitter
thoughts in the dark cellar, and try to find
out where the missing bird has flown.





8


CHAPTER II.


PICKED UP.

S the shadows fell in the court
./AI already referred to, the lamps were
T being lighted on Pentonville, and
f the glow of gaslight from the shops
*'. which line the bottom of the hill
shone on the crowd of people
ceaselessly passing to and fro. Busy men
hurrying to catch the train, workmen and
their wives sauntering along in grave debate
about their purchases, errand boys dodging in
and out with their packages, street vendors
shouting the excellence of their wares with
flaring naphtha lamps hanging to their
barrows; cabs dashing along, heavy waggons
rumbling slowly over the stones; miserable
half-starved beggars, holding out their hands
piteously to the passers-by, or standing with
wistful gaze at the windows of the cookshops;





16 Carrie and the Cobbler.


voices of laughter and cries of displeasure and
grief; faces anxious and sorrowful, and faces
full of hope and happiness-all the noise, bustle
and variety of a London crowd. Beyond the
shops was a churchyard, looking very dark
and lonely to-night,*and close by the wall and
railings, cold and crying, stood little Carrie.
Several people had noticed the child, and one
or two sympathetic women stopped and asked
the cause of her grief, but soon hurried on
again with words of inquiry and sympathy.
Poor Carrie wept on; she had tasted nothing
all the live-long day, and so sad and faint was
she that she almost wished for the shelter of
the wretched cellar from which she had
escaped that morning.
Presently, at the corner, close by, a crowd
of people collected, and the laughter of some
rude boys at the ineffectual efforts of a man
to make his way by the railings was heard.
He had evidently been drinking, and from his
dress was a working-man, but it was too clear
that the public-house saw far too much of
his company, at any rate for his own character
and comfort.
"Hallo, Bill, what have yer been doing now?"





Picked Up.


Bill was too far gone to answer, but his
friend, a strong-looking fellow with an open
face, took him by the arm in a kindly fashion.
It's a blessing if that man hasn't got no
wife or children at home, I thinks," said a
woman in the crowd. His friend answered,
"Well, mum, I quite agrees with you. He
ain't got no wife for she's been dead nigh on
seven year ago, and p'raps, as you say, it's
quite as well as his little gal, if she's living,
ain't anywhere near him."
"Ah, well-a-day! it's the old story, the
drink again."
"That's right enough; there was a time
when I wasn't much better, but, thank God,
I never touches a drop of the nasty stuff now."
All this time Bill held on to the railings,
half asleep and unable to understand the
talk of which he was the subject.
Helped by his kind-hearted mate, who had
known him in better days, when he looked far
different from the Bill of this evening; when
no home was brighter, no wife happier, and no
work better done than his; before the terrible
drink thus came to waste his money, break
down his good name, and finally lead him to
B





18 Carrie and the Cobbler.


abandon his poor wife and the helpless little
baby; and the thought would cross the mind
of his helper as, with much exertion, he kept his
insensible companion from falling, what might
have been if Bill had given his heart to the
Lord and never tasted the hateful drink again.
And little did that good man imagine, still
less did it enter into the confused mind of
Bill, that there, within a few yards, stood his
little Carrie, once the baby about which
the woman had just heard, and whose father,
now a confirmed drunkard, staggered on his
way.
She stood looking through her tears at the
bright lights 'of the public-house on the
opposite side of the street, when a kindly
voice made her quickly turn her eyes to the
speaker. He was a tall man, very plainly but
neatly dressed, and evidently well advanced in
years. A good-natured, furrowed face looked
down upon her from beneath the well brushed
but rather shabby hat, and the hand which
was laid upon her shoulder was roughened
by his trade of mending shoes. "What's the
matter, little lass, what are ye crying for,
dear?"





Picked Up. 19

"I am so cold," she sobbed.
"Well, go home then, child; I'll take you
along the way a bit if you're frightened at
being out so late."
Please, sir, I haven't any home, and Aunt
'Ann beats me so."
"That's a shame to hurt a small slip like
you, dear, but you mustn't stand here in the
old."
Then you won't take me back, will you?"
And the child looked into the face of the
all man with a terrified gaze, quite prepared
o run away if her appeal was not responded
o. But she was soon reassured.
"Bless the child, you needn't be afraid.
I'll not take you back to old what's-her-name.
It's a poor bit of a home I've got to ask you
to share; but if you like to, you may come
along with ime."
Poor Carrie thankfully trotted along by the
side of Old Dottles, and did not notice how
carefully he was observing her, and what a
look of sympathy he cast at her almost bare
feet, so wet and begrimed with her long tramp.
The truth is, the old shoemaker's heart was
deeply touched by the story and aspect of the






20 Carrie and the Cobbler.


child, and so busy were his thoughts that,
with the exception of a word or two of kind
caution at the crossings, there was little con-
versation as the pair urged their way along
the busy streets. Past the "Angel," with its
flaring lamps and frivolous bystanders, across
the broad High Street, and-then, having flitted
through the glare of light which was flung
across the pavement by the door of the
theatre, they entered a narrow passage run-
ning parallel with the broad and noisy highway.
A few small shops here exposed their wares
for sale, but the old man and his charge did
not linger, but entered a doorway in a quiet,
dark street close by.
"Mind how you come up these stairs; it's
rather dark, my dear, but we'll get a light
directly."
No wife welcomed his return as he opened
the door of the back room on the first floor,
and Carrie wondered what sort of a place it
would look when her protector -and host
should have lighted his candle. This done,
various articles of furniture appeared in sight,:
notably an old roomy sofa, which evidently
contrived to supply the place of a bedstead,





Picked Up. 21

and several pictures hanging on the walls,
which latter called forth the wonder of the
child, for her acquaintance with art had, up to
the present, been of a very slight character.
Scarcely, however, had Carrie had time to notice
these when she felt giddy and faint, the room,
with Old Dottles, the candle, and the pictures,
all began to turn slowly round, and then, as
they disappeared in a mist, she sank senseless
to the floor. Her long privations and fasting,
the wearisome walking in the streets all day,
together with the exhaustion of long weeping,
had borne its fruit, and poor little Carrie lay in
a swoon.












CHAPTER III.


"A STRANGER AND YE TOOK ME IN."

HE landlady of old Mr. Dottles was
summoned to the scene, and with
motherly tenderness laid the poor
child on the couch, bathed her cold
and swollen feet, smoothed the
tangled fair hair from her fore-
head, and gently brought her to consciousness.
A kind-hearted, good soul was Mrs. Meadows,
and the cares and anxieties of many years
had not spoilt either her sympathies or
manners. A stout, rather little, woman, with
bright, quick eyes, and hair always kept care-
fully brushed upon a brow not without its
lines of trouble ; and as she leaned over Carrie
with her kindly face and quiet word, the child
thought her the best and finest ladyshe had ever
seen, though her dress was of plain print and her
hands were evidently accustomed to hard work.
22


~i~6~iF~b-





"A Stranger and ye took Mfe in." 23

She had seen trouble enough, poor woman,
as we have said. Her husband, who was none
of the kindest, left her a widow six years ago,
and her only son, a fine lad, enlisted in the
army, and had not been heard of since. But
she bravely worked on, by odd jobs of charming
and washing keeping the wolf from the door,
doing her duty by her lodgers, who too often
neglected to pay her their modest rent; and
among the neighbours it was a common saying
that they "wished there was more folks in
the world like Mrs. Meadows, and then it
would be a very different sort of place to live
in."
Fortunately, amid many changes, honest
John Dottles had remained her tenant ever
since her husband's death, and was her greatly
valued friend and adviser. So that we may
safely say that little Carrie had fallen into
very good hands at No. 33 in this quiet, humble
street at Islington.
When Mrs. Meadows had gone downstairs
again, the old man sat by the fire watching
his young charge. He had prepared a cup of
warm tea for her, and had, by infinite pains,
with his own shaky hand, made her some toast,





24 Carrie and the Cobbler.
and these viands he waited to offer. At first
she kept glancing round the room towards the
door, with a look of terror, but found rest in
noticing the good-natured face of her host
observing her.
Aren't you the nice gentleman as talked
to me in the street, sir?"
"Yes, dear," he answered, half smiling at
his new dignity.
And now, with an eagerness which showed
her appreciation and necessity, she ate her
supper; often with her mouth full, making him
promise not to take her back to Aunt Ann.
Yet she said little about herself, much as he
wanted to know her history, and sometimes
when his questions troubled her and the blue
eyes filled with tears, he kissed her cheek and
stroked her head, scolding himself for grieving
her. Poor little thing," he thought, "if God
has sent her to me, why should I worry the
dear child about the past ; it's bad enough,
I daresay, and she will tell me one day."
But while he ceased to inquire her ques-
tions, he found, were perplexing, and often
amused him as he sat by the fire. She was
evidently a quick, bright child, very much





"A Stranger and ye took Me zn." 25

untaught, but on the constant look-out for
information.
Don't you think toast real lovely, grand-
father?" she asked, using the name he gave
her in answer to one of her questions.
"Yes, dear, it's a great treat to you, isn't
it?"
Ever so; why I never tasted it before, and
I suppose that kings and queens and such like
grand people are always having it."
"Ah, Carrie, it's one of our blessings, for
which we must be very thankful."
"What's 'blessings,' grandfather ?"
"Well, darling, they are the good things
which come from heaven to us poor unworthy
folks."
If all the nice things come from heaven, as
you say, wouldn't it be nice, grandfather, to
live there, all among them, don't you see ?"
Please God, one day, Carrie, I hope we
shall both be there."
"Shall we? Ain't that good news, not as
I knows much, grandfather, what sort of a
place it is, 'cept that there's lots of 'bless-
ings,' but if you take me it's sure to be
lovely."





Carrie and the Cobbler.


He kissed her on the cheek, for it pleased
him to hear her artless prattle, and to feel tha'
the child had already got so fond of him.
Bless you, little woman, what a lot you've
got to learn yet! Hasn't anybody ever told
you about going to heaven ?"
"No, but I've often heard poor old Granny
Grigsby, when she was very poorly and her
back ached, say she wished she was in heaven,
but I always thought it was the hospital sh6
meant."
Old Dottles went up to the little table by
the fire-place, which held his stock of books
and carefully selecting one, came back to opera
it on his knee.
What's that book you've got there, grand-
father?"
"The Bible, Carrie."
I suppose it's got lots of pictures; that'
why you like it."
"No, dear, not for that; it's God's book
that is why I like it."
"Oh, then, it isn't your very own, -grand-
father?"
Yes, my child, but it's full of the words of
the good Lord, and it makes me happy to





"A Stranger and ye took Me in."


read how He loves me and takes care of even
me, Carrie."
"I shouldn't think there's anybody half so
nice and kind as you, though."
"Oh yes, there is One ever so much kinder
than old Dottles, my dear,-a thousand times
better. I can't tell you how good He is."
He's not better than you," said the child,
with energy. "You're the goodest, bestest,
grandfather that ever was."
"Hush, Carrie, you must not talk so," said
the old shoemaker solemnly. "Don't you
really know who God is?"
Carrie shook her head.
Some day, dear, if spared, I will tell you
more about Him, but it's getting late now,
and you must go to sleep; but remember,
Carrie, that God is our loving Father in
heaven."
The candle was burning low, for John
Dottle's guest had kept him awake far beyond
his usual hour, and when the light went out,
the bright eyes of Carrie watched the old
man with increasing wonder as he knelt and
talked reverently to the Great Father. Tired
out, but thoughtful and happy, he made him-





28 Carrie and the Cobbler.

self comfortable in the old arm-chair and fefl
asleep. And in his dreams he thought one
sat by his side whom he had laid many years
ago in the quiet churchyard, but now looking
her dear old self, just in the cap and srinw-
white apron she always wore. And he told
her about the child he had found with the
fair hair and blue eyes, and he thought they
went together to the bed and looked into the
sleeping face, and then she kissed the child,
and putting her hand upon his shoulders, said
with a tender smile, She's a bright little lass,
and will look after you a bit, John dear,
now you haverFPme."
Then he awoke with a start to find all dark,
and himself chilly and stiff with his sitting
posture, but after listening to the low breathing
of Carrie he composed himself to sleep again,
even happier now than ever that God had sent
him the child to care for.












CHAPTER IV.


THE DAYBREAK OF THE HEART.

SHE old man slept late next morning,
S and slowly opened his eyes at a
touch from Carrie.
She had risen almost with the
sun, and had been occupied ever
since with a minute inspection of
the apartment. Poor as it was, and scantily
and humbly furnished, it seemed a wonderfully
comfortable place to its new inhabitant. She
climbed on her bed to obtain a nearer view of
the faded pictures on the wall, and closely
examined the principal ornament on the
mantelpiece, which was a china shepherdess,
of florid complexion, leaning rather stiffly on
a green rock, with a pink sheep, headless, at
her -feet. In the course of her survey she
reached a corner of the apartment, near the
window, which still more excited her interest.
29





30 Carrie and the Cobbler.


Here was a low wooden seat, once an old
chair, now bereft of its back, placed in front
of a bench thickly strewn with pieces of
leather, nails, beeswax, a hammer, two knives,
and sundry other evidences of the shoe-
making craft, and close by, on the floor, was
half-a-dozen boots and shoes, in various stages
of respectability and repair. By these Carrie
easily guessed what was the trade of her
protector. The thought of him recalled her
to a sense of duty, and without loss of time
she lighted the fire and prepared the morning
meal. Old Dottles woke and smiled at his
little housekeeper's industry, still thinking of
his dream.
He hammered away with a lighter heart
than he had known for many years, and look-
ing up from time to time found the watchful
Carrie ready to hand him whatever he
required. So the day wore on; and the
snow was softly falling in the street, as,
towards evening, the old shoemaker sallied
forth for an hour or two, leaving his young
charge to await his return.
Left thus to herself, the child made up the
fire, tidied the room with evident pleasure,






.- .


N -


" He hammered away with a lighter heart."


'1


~~";J





The Daybreak of the Heart.


leaving, of course, untouched the shoemaking
department, and then sat down in the big
arm-chair to think. How thankful she was
that she was no longer in that dark and
miserable court under the scolding rule of
Aunt Ann; and how good, how very good,
dear old Mr. Dottles was to her. And then
her thoughts recurred to the words he had
spoken last night, words which had set her
curious mind astir all day wondering what
they could mean. She could not read, so the
big book lying on the table by her side was
of little service, and yet she would just look
at the pictures in the firelight; perhaps they
might help her a little. Very tenderly she
held the old volume in her hands, for between
the leaves were all sorts of strange book-
marks, scraps of patent leather, leaflets, old
letters, faded ribbons, and other odds and
ends. She noticed, too, that here and there
by the side of the printed page were black,
wavy strokes, marks in ink made evidently by
a shaky hand, and crosses and deep lines
drawn under some of the words.
Four pictures rewarded her search, all at
the latter end of the book. The first was of
C





34 Carrie and the Cobbler.


a stable in which some cows were feeding in
the background, but there, in the middle, by
the manger, sat a mother with a little baby on
her knee, and around the child a beautiful
light seemed to shine. Some men with long
beards were kneeling on the ground, and in
the distance the stars were shining in the sky
overhead.
The second picture scarcely pleased her so
well. It represented a man with.the same
glory round his head standing in what looked
like a wild wood, and before him was a dread-
ful figure with a tail and huge wings, offering
him a stone.
With childish fascination she gazed on this
picture, wondering greatly what it could
mean, and then, waking up from her reverie,
glanced round the room, half afraid at she did
not know what, and turned over the page.
The next, however, allayed all her fears. It
was the same kind-looking man, with a bright
circle round his head, seated under a tree, and
on his knee was a little boy who looked up
into his face with the confidence of love.
Other children stood near with their
mothers, and some men also, whose dis-





The Daybreak of the Heart. 35

pleased expression of countenance, however,
she could not understand. Quite as long as
over the last picture, but with such different
feelings, did Carrie linger in her gazing on
the face with the glory round ; she could not
help wishing that she had been there, and
perhaps he might have said to her, What is
your name, little girl ?" Then she could
have said, Carrie, please, sir," and she would
tell him all about Aunt Ann and how good
old Mr. Dottles was to her. But then, she
thought, it would have been ever so many
years ago, and of course she might not have
known her aunt and the old shoemaker, and
Carrie smiled at her inconsistency.
But now she has come to the last picture,
which again excites her curiosity and amaze-
ment. The kind man again, with the glory
round his head as before, but hung up by his
hands to a cross, and upon his brow some
sharp leaves, and such a sorrowful look on his
face. Two others are hung up, one on each
side of him, and below is a crowd of people,
soldiers and weeping women, and in the
distance the clouds looked very dark, and
lightning flashed upon the city. Why did he





Carrie and the Cobbler.


suffer so? Surely somebody would take him
down and say how sorry they were. How
grieved the little girls and boys would be when
their mothers told them how cruel the people
had been. What had he done? Nothing
wrong, she felt sure; she would as soon think of
old Mr. Dottles being unkind as that dear man
with the glory round his head who loved the
little children. Then she remembered how
gravely the old shoemaker had spoken when
she said something like that last night.
Could it be that this was the Friend who
loved him, and was a thousand times better
than he? And the sight of old Dottles
kneeling by that very chair speaking to his
Friend, in the dark hours of the night, rose
before her, and after a long, earnest gaze into
the fire, Carrie got up and knelt down in the
same place. For a minute or two she hid her
face in her hands, and when she lifted it again
her eyes were wet with tears.
Kind man that Mr. Dottles loves, and was
so good to the children in the picture, please
let little Carrie speak to you. I 'm, oh, so
sorry that those men were so unkind, and
hurt you so ; what did they do it for? Please





The Daybreak of the Heart. 37

sir, I'm a poor little girl, and very. naughty,
but if you wouldn't mind loving me like those
children, I would try, oh, ever so hard, to be
good. Please love me, and don't let Aunt
Ann come here, and bless dear Mr. Dottles,
who is so good to me. For ever and ever,
Amen."
Thus ended Carrie's first prayer with words
she had remembered hearing the night before,
and, just as she rose from her knees, the door
opened, and old Dottles himself, shaking the
snow off his hat and coat, stood before her.






- f )'


CHAPTER V.


THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

"-OHN DOTTLES had what he called
his own private customers, some of
-,. them living a long way from his
__ Islington abode, who still kept to
S the old man and refused to give
their custom to any other shoemaker
while he lived. But, besides these, he had his
regular work from a certain shop in Caledonian
Road, where boots which had seen their best
days, and had been sold by their owners at an
alarming sacrifice were so much improved and
" translated," that, with a cheap ticket on
them, they soon found other customers among
the poor.
Carrie had been with him only a few days
when, one night, he was waiting in this shop
as usual, receiving his various shoes and boots
for the next week's work.
38






The Prodigal's Return. 39

A man came in for a strong pair; he was a
regular buyer at this establishment, and having
money in his pocket, could generally afford a
decently good pair.
Now, let's have 'em regular wearers, Mr.
Potts, I've got a lot of work to get out of 'em
this winter, for there's a job out at Hornsey
which means footing it, and no mistake."
All right, sir; I'11 serve you well, and am
not likely to deceive you after all these years
of custom, Mr. Walmsley." The shopman, a
tall, pale individual, with short smooth hair
and spectacles, was always very polite to this
customer for the reason stated.
By the way, Potts, do you remember a
fellow who used to come with me years ago, a
decent workman, but, poor chap, he went all
wrong and has quite gone to the bad."
Ay, Mr. Walmsley, you bring him to my
mind, he took large eights with toe caps and
spriggs, I'm sorry things 'as gone wrong with
him."
He 'll want no more boots, Potts, from you
or anybody else, it's all up with him, and the
doctor says he mustn't be surprised if the
spasms take him any time, and he goes."





Carrie and the Cobbler.


What, has it come to that ? "
Aye, and if yer happen to know of a good
man who could read him a bit of the Bible
and that-like, please tell him to go as soon as
he can to No. 4 Ccokham Alley, top floor
back, Bowles is the name."
Another moment the man had gone, and
old Dottles, who waiting, his bag in his hand,
had heard it all, told Mr. Potts that he would
go that very evening and see the poor man.
The landlady told him that Mr. Bowles did
live there; he might go up, and had no need to
knock, as he could not come to open the room
door.
What a sight met the eye of the kind old
shoemaker as he entered the chamber! There,
on an old bedstead, the room otherwise almost
bare, lay a man worn out and almost breath-
less, who just turned his eyes to Dottles, but
uttered no word.
My friend, I've come to see if I can help
you in any way; you're bad enough, that's
evident."
"'That's evident,' ay it is, and I've no
friend in the world now."
Don't say that; there's a Friend who loves





The Prodigal's Return.


you, has indeed died for you, and will now, if
you repent, forgive all your sins and cleanse
you in His precious blood."
"Are you a parson ? "
"No, I'm a poor shoemaker that loves
Christ, and my Master has sent me with a
message of love and mercy to you."
It's no use coming here; go to them as is
pretty good, but as for me, I've wasted my
life, broke my wife's heart, and do yer mean
to say that Christ loves such a villain as that?"
Yes, His love is much greater than your
sin, Mr. Bowles, and in His Word we read,
'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be
white as snow, though they be red like
crimson they shall be as wool,' so you may
say with confidence and thankfulness, 'Though
I the chief of sinners am, still Jesus died for
me.'"
Many other words did old Dottles say to
the dying man, reading him passages from the
glorious and old unfailing message of the Son,
and then kneeling down upon the bare floor,
and holding one of the hands of poor Bowles
in his, he poured out his soul for the sufferer's
forgiveness and rest.





42 Carrie and the Cobbler.
As he turned to go, the sick man thanked
him so fervently and with such a light in his
eyes, that old Dottles began to glorify God,
and, stooping down, listened to the last word
his poor friend had to say.
"It's in my mind and I must say it,
though I never saw you before. You've done
more for me than any one I ever met, and God
bless you for it. But we shan't meet again,
for I've an idea them spasms are coming back
to me; but here's a bit of paper with some hair
in it as belonged to my dear wife, her name's
inside; keep it, and if ever you meet with my
child give it her with her father's love, but
perhaps she's dead now, for she was a weakly
baby, as I well remember. At any rate, if you
never meets the lass, put it in your Bible as a
bookmark, and please let it lie against those
words, I will arise and go to my Father,
and say unto him, Father, I have sinned
before heaven, and in thy sight, and am no
more worthy to be called thy son.'"
His voice grew fainter, and Dottles saw the
end was near, and just catching in a whisper
the words, Just as I am, I come, I come," he
watched the spirit of poor Bowles pass away.





The Prodigal's Return.


Full of thought, and praising God for the
opportunity of saying any word to help a poor
soul to its Saviour, Dottles hurried homewards,
his little legacy safely in his breast-pocket.
It was growing late when he arrived at his
door, and his little housekeeper was asleep in
his chair, where she had been watching and
waiting his return for the long hours. He
would not wake her just then, but, hanging up
his coat and hat, noiselessly he sat down at
the table to look at the little parcel in the
lamplight.
The paper was worn and soiled, in many
folds, but at last slowly unwrapping, he came
upon a bit of note paper on which, in a
woman's handwriting, were these words-
For William, with the love of his affection-
ate wife, Carrie."
Within, as the dying man had told him, was
a lock of hair, fair, glcrsy, and slightly curled,
tied with a bit of faded blue ribbon. Still
holding the tender memorial in his hand, old
Dottles fell into deep thought.
Could it be after all," he said to himself,
"that this child whom, like an angel unawares,
he had entertained was really the child of





44 Carrie and the Cobb/er.
poor repentant Bowles ? It was singular that
the name should be the same, and surely this
bit of hair was wonderfully like the fair locks
which fell round the face of the sleeping child
yonder. Ought he to wake her and ask the
question, showing her the lock ? Perhaps it
might unsettle the child, but then didn't it
really belong to her ?
Having made up his mind, he touched her
lightly on the arm and spoke her name. In a
moment she opened her eyes, and sprang upon
his knee with many kisses of welcome home.
Carrie, I've got something to show you,
dear, look what's in this bit of paper."
She turned it over with admiration, and of
course, not being able to read, her own name
did not catch her eye.
It's very pretty, grandfather, and cost lots
of money, didn't it ? '
No, darling, a pooc: man who died to-night
gave it me, and I'm going to give it you.
Do you know why, Carrie? "
No, grandfather."
It's because I think it is a lock of your
mother's hair."
Carrie opened her eyes with wonder, looked






The Prodigal's Return.


again at the hair with a new interest, and then,
after a few moments' silence, Dottles, who had
never taken his gaze off her face, saw a big
tear roll on to the bit of ribbon.
Don't cry, darling, your mother has gone
to heaven, and some day, please God, you
will meet her again."
Carrie dried her eyes, and feeling more
composed, told him that she never remem-
bered seeing her mother, but Aunt Ann in
her fits of temper sometimes spoke of her, and
now she saw this bit of hair, she did feel as
though she had a real, dear mother somewhere,
like other girls. Katie Crimps had a kind
mother who used to do her hair on Sunday
mornings, and how often she wished that she
had a mother too. Now it seemed as if her
own mother was quite close, and it made her
feel ever so happy, though she couldn't help
crying a bit.
That night, before Carrie went to sleep, she
passionately kissed the lock of hair again and
again, and closed her eyes with the thankful
words upon her lips-
"Kind man with the glory round your
head, I'm so, so glad that I've got a mother."












CHAPTER VI.
AUNT ANN AGAIN.

T,',EEKS passed away, and Carrie
Began to feel at home in her
new quarters, and under the
i-'^, 5 instruction of old Dottles she
p-, grew in knowledge about many
things, chiefest of all being the
story of the Cross, and the tender love of
the Lord. Very attached had the solitary
man become to his little friend and house-
keeper, and quite looked for her smiling face
to meet him on his return home, and the kiss
of welcome she had always ready. Many were
their quiet talks over his shoemaking, and by
the bright fireside, and when the old man knelt
by the arm-chair, he had a little fellow-worship-
per byhis sidewho had learnt to speak the Name
which is above every name, and to seek sympa-
thyand blessing from the Friend of the children.
Old Dottles often asked her about her
46





Aunt Ann Again.


experiences before he knew her, but she
seemed to remember little, only at the men-
tion of Aunt Ann her old look of terror
returned, and the little lip trembled at the
thought of being once more in her custody.
"Don't be afraid, my little lass, she shan't
fetch you away," said old Dottles soothingly.
Hitherto she had been much in the house;
now and then in the company of good
Mrs. Meadows she had visited some of the
little shops in the neighbourhood, and on one
Sunday evening had been privileged to go
with her to a chapel hard by. For while
Mrs. Meadows was not talkative on the
subject, she was deeply interested in the
welfare of this humble place of worship, and
it was here that she appeared in all her
carefully preserved but rather faded "Sunday
garments." And it was a time to be remem-
bered by Carrie, when for the first time she
sat in a pew and heard singing, which though,
perhaps, to critical ears not first class, was
to the appreciative attention of the young
listener a melody of Heaven.
But one morning Dottles told her he had a
nice little journey for her with a pair of boots





Carrie and the Cobbler.


to the house of a lady who lived in a square
not very far away. With many injunctions
to follow his directions, and return as quickly
as possible with the money she was to receive,
Dottles watched her in bright spirits start
out. A misgiving troubled him, however, as
he saw. her disappear; not that he had any
lack of confidence in his little messenger, but
he did not like losing her out of his sight and
protection.
It was a dull, cloudy morning, and the
streets were wet with recent rain. Along the
bustling thoroughfare the crowds hurried by,
little heeding the pale faced child who,
resolutely grasping her parcel, urged her way.
After walking some distance, hitherto through
perfectly strange streets, it suddenly struck
her that the surroundings were no longer
unfamiliar, and that she was, in fact, close to
the scene of her former troubles-Bell's
Rents. Scarcely had these thoughts passed
through her mind when she felt her arm
roughly seized, and a voice she knew too well
shouting shrilly in her ears-
"So I've found you at last, you little
minx! a nice dance you have led me. Come





Aunt Ann Again. 49

along And I '11 be bound to say you won't
run away again in a hurry."
Aunt Ann stood before her! In her first
alarm, Carrie let fall the brown paper parcel,
and at her cry the usual London crowd
gathered to hear and see what was the matter.
She earnestly begged them to protect her
from her aunt, who still held her tightly, and
in equally excited tones insisted upon her
right to take her away. One or two women
said it was a shame to use a child so, and a
butcher boy, whose heart was evidently
affected, called out, I say, mother, don't 'urt
the gal; you're not a-going to give'er wot for
while I'm a-standin' by." But Aunt Ann would
have surely succeeded had not a policeman
walked up at this juncture, and making his
way through the crowd, with an air of authority
insisted on the child's arm being released.
"Now, what's all this about?"
Aunt Ann saw his glance at the torn parcel
with the boots disclosed, and said," She's stolen
them, most likely, and I cannot get her home."
Indeed, good sir, I haven't; grandfather
has been mending 'em, and I am taking them
home to the lady. You can see the name on
the parcel, sir; I am sure it is the truth."





o5 Carrie and the -Cobbler.


"How dare you say so, Carrie? you never
had a grandfather. Why, she never knew
her own father and mother; she has nobody
in the world but me."
"Humph," said the policeman, "you're no
great shakes of a relative, I should say."
Still he was evidently puzzled whose tale to
credit, and had half a mind to advise the
child to go home quietly, when he suddenly
determined otherwise, replaced his little book
in his pocket, and told them both to follow
him to the station-house. Aunt Ann, with a
very bad grace, obeyed, and as the policeman
led the way along Holborn, holding Carrie
by the hand, she took the first opportunity
to slip away down a narrow turning and
escape. The preserver of the peace, who
pretended at first not to miss her, was really
relieved by her absence, and having asked
Carrie a few more questions, told her to run
away as hard as she could. Tired as she
was, this good advice was promptly taken,
and breathless and exhausted, but with a
thankful heart, she found herself shortly after-
wards at the door of the house in the square
to which she had been directed by Dottles.












CHAPTER VII.
NEW JOYS AND SORROWS.

-i. HE servant who opened the door in
answer to her knock, told her to
come in with such sharpness of
tone that whatever little courage
was left in her soon fled away from
her fluttering heart. Taking her
seat in the hall, while her parcel was carried
to its owner, Carrie, left to herself, fell asleep.
Margaret, the maid, a kind-hearted but
rather rough individual, soon returned, and
beheld, with astonishment, her sleeping visitor.
"Gracious me! does the child think it's
bed-time ? A nice time I should have of it if all
the tradesmen's folks went niddling-noddling
on that chair, and I had to wake them up."
She stood for a moment watching Carrie,
as all unconscious of this close inspection she
sat there, with her head resting on the hall
51





52 Carrie and the Cobbler.
table, and her fair locks carelessly falling upon
her folded hands.
"Poor little child!" mused Margaret. She's
not bad looking, either; but I can't say much
for her jacket and dress, poor thing. I wonder
what her mother's like. It seems a pity
there isn't a boy about to run on these errands
instead of employing a bit of a girl like her."
Carrie awoke with a bewildered look, and
the words, "Please don't whip me, aunt,
please don't!" on her lips.
"What's the matter, child ? I 'm not your
aunt, and I'm sure you needn't be afraid of
me whipping you, dear." Margaret spoke
with sympathy, and made up her mind not
to let the little messenger go until her mistress
had seen her. She went away for a minute
or two and returned with the news that the
lady wanted to speak to her before she went.
Margaret opened the drawing-room door and
told the child to enter. As she stepped upon
the soft carpet and beheld all the glitter of
mirrors and costly furniture, Carrie felt as if
she were dreaming, and this must surely be a
fairy land, too lovely to be real and true.
Especially a beautiful picture on the opposite





New Joys and Sorrows. 53

wall attracted her attention,- that of the
Eastern Shepherd, with his flock behind him,
and one little white lamb nestling in his arms.
Presently she heard a voice, and perceived for
the first time that she was not alone. A lady,
evidently in delicate health, was reclining on
a sofa by the window, and at her invitation
Carrie, with many blushes, drew near. The
tones with which she addressed her, however,
were so gentle and reassuring, and the face
which smiled upon her so fair and kind-
looking, that she grew courageous, and
answered her questions with artless simpli-
city. Something she felt constraining her
which she had not known even in her talks
with old Dottles. A gentle, loving persuasion
drew out her confidence, and she found her-
self quite freely telling all she knew of her
miserable childhood in Bell's Rents.
While they talked together, the short after-
noon of a winter's day drew to a close; the
patter and rattle of driving sleet against the
window-pane and the loud gusts of wind
made Carrie tremble at the thought of return-
ing home. Mrs. Macfarlane told her she
need not hurry, and, ringing the bell, gave her






Carrie and the Cobbler.


in charge of Margaret, with whom, in the com-
fortable kitchen downstairs, she took her tea.
In her absence the lady sat in deep thought.
She had been much impressed with the simple
recital of the ill-treatment and neglect which
the child had suffered in the past, and was
casting about in her mind for some method of
saving her future years. This worthy lady
had for years been an invalid, and, no longer
able to take an active part in working for the
poor, she appreciated the privilege of helping
any desolate life which came within her reach.
In her heart the love of Christ had subdued the
love of self, and the happiness of doing good,
the comforting of the sad, and the restoration
of the trampled and disfigured likeness of the
Divine in the lives and characters of men-
this was her mission, the subject of her
prayers, the object of her generous giving
After tea, Carrie was again brought to her,
and many tender, precious lessons were
imparted to her opening mind; the story of
the beautiful picture, and those of many others
were told, and when the time came for saying
Good-night," Carrie, escorted by Margaret,
departed from the house, wiser, happier, and





New Joys and Sorrows. 55

more hopeful than she had ever been before.
To her payment for the boots Mrs. Macfarlane
had added a bright shilling for Carrie herself,
and for a long time the walk home was
occupied with ever varying decisions as to
how so large and important a sum should be
expended. They reached the door and
walked upstairs to the old man's room only
to find it empty and dark, and to be told by
the kind Mrs. Meadows that its master had
gone in search of her.
Deep and sincere was the grief and dis-
appointment of Carrie, and bitterly she
blamed herself for staying so late, but it was
useless trying to follow him, so she began to
prepare a warm fire for his return. She had
plenty of time for thinking over the events of
the day, for it was some hours before his key
was heard in the door, and wet, weary, and very
haggard-looking, the old man sank into his
arm-chair. It was now her turn to tend him
as once he had so lovingly cared for her, and
all that night she sat by his bedside listening to
his low weary breathing and wandering words.
In the morning, to her sorrow, he found him-
self unable to rise.













CHAPTER VIII.


"HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP."

HE day which followed was a
Ssorrowful one for that house where
old Dottles lived, for as the doctor,
Tf who had been summoned, passed
out from the door, in answer to
Mrs. Meadows' anxious inquiry, he
shook his head and could only hope for the
best. The inclement weather and the exposure,
together with the fretting anxiety of his
search, had told upon the feeble strength
of the old man. His long life had been
one of toil and many privations; he had
worked hard from his earliest childhood;
those hands, hardened and worn with labour,
had striven to gain an honest livelihood,
sometimes against great odds. And now,
as the doctor intimated, he had not much
strength to fight with the terrible cold and
56


IX7 XY





"He giveth His Beloved Sleep."


fever which had laid him low. And now
around that humble apartment, not only the
deep interest and solicitude of those who
dwelt within the walls of the house had
gathered, but the sympathy of the neighbour-
hood was awakened. His fellow lodgers
were grieved to hear of his illness; the poor
Frenchman in the room above, who earned a
precarious subsistence by fiddling at public-
house concerts, furtively waited upon his
landlady on the stairs and begged, in damaged
English and with many bows, to know how
"ze tear old man" was getting on. And the
broken-down clerk, who with his distressed
family rented the back parlour, and too often
sought comfort in his troubles where the
Frenchman contributed his music, was also
deeply touched by the sad event, and offered
with impulsive sincerity to do his best in the
boot-mending way, with such jobs as remained
unfinished.
Carrie, it need scarcely be told, was almost
heartbroken to see her venerable protector
stretched on a bed of weakness and suffering,
but she bore bravely up, and if in the
course of her attentions upon him the tears





Carrie and the Cobbler.


would force themselves to her eyes, she con-
trived to find some occasion for looking out
of the window, where she could unburden her
heart in a flood of quiet weeping.
Her grief was that she could not read from
the big Bible, which he could not now do for
himself, but she did her best to comfort and
cheer him by repeating all the lady had said
to her about the Saviour, whose name had
already become a charm to her.
A new visitor appeared upon the scene one
day, a pale, pleasant gentleman, who was the
minister of the chapel which Mrs. Meadows
attended, and who at her request had gladly
called to see the good old man.
Carrie heard him pray with reverence and
wonder; the deep, earnest tones of his voice
as he talked with God impressed her ver)
much.
One night, just a week after the event which
had caused all the trouble, the child was
sitting by the fire full of thought, every now
and then cresting a glance to the bed where
the sufferer lay asleep. Presently the eyes
slowly opened, and in a tremulous voice he
called Carrie to his side.





He giveth His Beloved Sleep." 59

"Dear child, the wheels are going very
slowly now, and will soon, I think, stand
still."
"What do you mean, dear grandfather?
tell me if I can do anything for you."
"Nothing, dearest one, but just take hold
of my hand, for I want to say something to
you."
The two were silent for a few moments,
Carrie vainly endeavouring to suppress her
emotion.
"You've been a good girl, and made my
bit of a home very bright since I found you,
or rather God gave you to me."
Oh, grandfather, what should I have done
without you? What shall I do when you
are gone ?"
"'When my father and mother forsake me
then the Lord will take me up.' You have
learnt, dear child, to know Jesus and love
Him too, and into His hands I commit you,.
Carrie."
'; But, perhaps, you won't die. Isn't there
anybody who can do you good ?"
"I am afraid not, Carrie, and I can't say
that I want to remain any longer, except for





60 Carrie and the Cobbler.


you. When I am gone keep these bits of
things together, child, and don't leave
Mrs. Meadows, who has always been so good
to us."
Carrie promised faithfully, and watched
with streaming eyes the pallid face, with its
occasional expressions of pain and weakness
almost too much to be borne.
Don't light the candle, Carrie, I shall soon
be where the sun never goes down, 'where
the Lamb is the Light thereof,' where I shall
see the King in His beauty. Blessed Jesus,
how I long to look upon Thy face !"
Shall I tell you the Psalm Mrs. Macfarlane
taught me, grandfather dear? "
Do, my child."
And she, slowly, and with all the expression
of a sorrowful heart, repeated the 23rd Psalm.
At the words, "though I walk through the
valley," old Dottles pressed her hand and
slowly repeated, as to himself, Thou art with
me, Thou art with me."
"Kiss me, dear, and lay your hand on my
brow."
She did, and felt a cold moisture creeping
over it.








"II








fa;,,



I*'' IiII





"He giveth His Beloved Sleep." 63

"Good-bye, Carrie; you'll find a little
something in the writing-desk drawer-it's all
yours, child. The old shoemaker is nearly
home at last. I've always tried to do my
best at my work, to pay my way, and live
honest like; but what's the good of all that if
I hadn't a Rock under my feet? Jesus, my
Saviour-your Saviour, Carrie-is all in all to
me now; love Him, dear, and try to do right,
and He'll help you through."
After a few minutes without a word from
either, his mind seemed to wander, and he
kept asking Carrie to come closer-he could
not feel her hand tightly as she grasped his.
Then he spoke of a bright light, and seemed
to talk to someone he evidently recognized,
for he smiled and said, I was sure you would
be waiting for my coming." Then closing his
eyes, he whispered, "Thy rod and Thy staff
they comfort me," and passed away.
*
A few days later came the little funeral,
with its simple-minded and sincere mourners,-
Carrie, in decent black, taking hold of the tear-
ful- Mrs. Meadows; the old Frenchman, in his
evening attire, with a strip of crape tied in his





Carrie and the Cobbler.


buttonhole; the poor frail clerk, crying like a
woman, and many others who had known and
cherished the memory of honest old Dottles.
Carrie subsequently, with the kind help of her
new friend, Mrs. Macfarlane, lived on at the
old house, calling Mrs. Meadows by the sacred
name of mother, and grew up to be a faithful
and loving daughter to her. Aunt Ann died
in Bell's Rents, craving and freely obtaining
Carrie's forgiveness for the past, in the presence
of Mrs. Barker, the good-hearted laundress,
who had been unremitting in her attentions
to the poor woman in her last illness.
But in the cemetery beyond the northern
suburbs of the great city, was a quiet corner,
and a simple stone, which bore the name of
Dottles, and here Carrie would often lovingly
linger, with tender thoughts of her dear old
friend, and thankful prayers to the merciful
One "with the glory round His head," who
had taught her to love Him, and would bring
her one day to the same bright home where
Dottles was at rest with Him.

THE END.

S. W. PARTRIDGE AND CO., 9 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.






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