Citation
Glory

Material Information

Title:
Glory
Creator:
Synge, G.M ( Georgina M )
Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London ;
Edinburgh ;
New York
Publisher:
Thomas Nelson and Sons
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
122, [6] p., [1] leaf of plates : ill. ; 18 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children with disabilities -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Youth -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Parent and child -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Brothers and sisters -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Women dressmakers -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Interpersonal relations -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Widowers -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Dolls -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Self-reliance -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Friendship -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Rejection (Psychology) in children -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Alcoholism -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children and death -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Empathy -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Accidents -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Attitude change -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1899 ( rbgenr )
Prize books (Provenance) -- 1899 ( rbprov )
Juvenile literature -- 1899 ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1899
Genre:
Publishers' catalogues ( rbgenr )
Prize books (Provenance) ( rbprov )
Children's literature ( fast )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
United States -- New York -- New York
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Publisher's catalogue follows text.
General Note:
Pictorial cover; added title page, illustrated.
General Note:
Title page engraved.
Statement of Responsibility:
by G.M.S.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026942059 ( ALEPH )
ALH7382 ( NOTIS )
02135145 ( OCLC )

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Full Text




i; Att

Vanlivery Board School.

AES ASO og

/
J~ PRIZE

AWARDED TO
2

AGL Ee tee NK

AS
[ i TS is
A. J. YATES,

Head Teacher.





Gib.O IR W,







GLOTY on



GLORY AT WORK.

ge IL

Thomas Nelson and Sons



GLORY ex

BY

GoM Ss

Author of “A Ride through Wonderland,’ “ Beryl,”

&e. &e.



THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
London, Edinburgh, and New York



1899





Il.

III.

Ivy.

v.

Vi,

CONTENTS.

++

THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER, ....

GLORY’S FRIEND,

TEM

GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR,
REJECTED, .... a S

THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY,

34

49

67

93

- 111



Gar @ hk 7



CHAPTER I.
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

‘ HE isn’t a bit like other children—isn’t
Glory. She’s the hardest little thing
you ever see.”

Mrs. Millar wiped the cornérs of her eyes i
‘with her apron, and sighed. She always |
sighed. An afflicting life with an intemper-
ate husband had been sufficient cause for
melancholy; and now the trials of widow-
hood were not lessened by the disappointing
character of her only daughter.

“One would think, with her affliction an’



e

10 THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMA KER.

all, she would be wanting a little cosseting
and sympathy. Not she! She never wanted
it. She was that tart and off-hand! She
flew into a passion if any one so much as
‘said a, pitying word. ‘I don’ _ want none of
their pity,’ she would cry in her shrill little
voice. ‘I can earn my living just as well
as any of them, for all their straight backs.’
And she would give a toss of her beautiful
silky hair as she spoke.”

Glory lived with her mother and her little
brother Jim in a large manufacturing town
in one of the Midland counties.. They in-
habited a small flat in a model lodging-
house, which stood in a street called Mason’s
Row, on the outskirts of the town. They
were fairly well-to-do. Mrs. Millar was a
‘very good cook, and took temporary jobs in
the large houses and country places around.

But though, when she was working, she

was very well paid for her services, yet there



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. Il

were often weeks when she had nothing to
do at all, and they would not have been so
comfortable if it had not been for the money
Glory earned. For. the child had her occu-
pation too. Ew temper may not have been
sweet, but she was very industrious; and
seven or eight shillines a week, and some-
times more, were generally added to the
household account by her clever, active
fingers.

For as dressmaker to dolls no one could
touch Gloriana. From the most hopeless
medley of materials she would contrive and
she would invent; she would create really
marvellous artistic effects. And her waxen
children always held their own. They
always held their price in the different toy-
shops which gave her employment. They
were picked out and bought by discriminat-
ing purchasers, to the discomfiture of all

other rivals; and they were adimired by those



12 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

who couldn’t buy, as they adorned the shop-
windows.

And the outward effect was not all.
Though the latest fashion was strictly ad-
hered to, and the colours harmonious and
well chosen, yet the under apparel was not
neglected. Indeed, the beautiful neat stitches
in these garments were worthy of minute
examination.

And she was so quick! A box of forlorn
young persons, clothed only in their flaxen
hair and an inadequate chemise, became, be-
neath her nimble fingers, creatures of fashion
-in an incredibly short time.

A corner of the little living-room was de-
voted to Glory’s trade. Here she had her
little low chair, a table, and a shelf within
reach of her hand. The shelf had a rim
round the edge—her own idea—to catch the
feet of the finished dolls, as they sat in

complacent rows with their backs to the



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 18

wall, awaiting their translation to the neigh-
bouring shops.

People used often to drop in to look at
the dolls. They had even been known to
basely imitate a puffed sleeve or a gathered
front for their children’s Sunday frocks.

“No touching allowed,” Glory had written
in a clear, round hand, and pinned against
the wall, so that all could see. And it was
generally admitted that there was some-
thing to be said on her side. Indiscriminate
fingers, all bent on an interested examination,
might not improve these dainty articles. —

And then, too, every one was somewhat ~
afraid of Glory. They thought her un-
canny. And she was so different from them-
selves. She was so small and yet so
spirited, with her pale, intelligent face and
her fearless, dark-brown eyes. And then
she was deformed. Her poor little back

was twisted and bent, and she would never



14 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

grow to be like other girls. You could not
take offence with a poor little afflicted child,
though indeed her tongue could be very
sharp sometimes. She could take care of
herself uncommonly well. Not even the
rudest and roughest boy in the street cared
to meddle with Gloriana; it did not pay.
Something was sure to happen to him sooner
or later—after weeks or months perhaps,
but judgment was certain to follow. Some-
thing would descend from an open window
upon his luckless head as he passed; in-
visible hands administered a cold-water
douche; or his bundle of evening papers
would be jogged out of his arms in a crowd
into the muddy road; or his head would
suddenly find itself deprived of its only
respectable covering. And so she was
treated with a respect which persons of
double her age and size failed to inspire. - a :

And then, too, the whole Row took



THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER. 15

somewhat of a pride in Miss Glory. Even
the rough boys used to exclaim, “My eye!
look at ’er “air!” with a certain show of
uncouth admiration. The women used to
say it made them think of heaven and
angels to see her pass by. i

For Glory’s hair was surpassingly beauti-
ful. It seemed as if nature, to compensate
for her poor crooked back, had lavished
with unsparing hand upon her hair. It was
long, and it was thick. It waved and rippled
all around her like living gold. When the
sun caught it, it gleamed- and shone, and
surrounded her with a halo of glory.

That her name should suit her so well
was a matter of some comment in the
neighbourhood. She had been christened
Gloriana with a little bald pate, and no idea
of the coming justification for the choice.
She had always been called Glory for short ;

and-when, after two or three years, her



16 THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER.

head was clustered with golden curls, every
one agreed that the name became her well.

“Though, indeed, hair is not everything,”
her mother used pathetically to remark,
when the child, whose temper was by no
means angelic, used to throw herself upon
the floor in paroxysms of rage.

The only person her father had ever
“minded” was his daughter Glory. He
was afraid of her. If he had been drinking
more than’ usual, he would slink home in a
real and genuine fear. She always knew.
She would come and stand over him and
sniff with her spirited, little upturned nose,
- and a look of anger and disgust would come
over her face.

“OQ you bad, wicked man,” she would
ery, “how dare you drink up our money
that we want for boots, and bread, and coals,
and lots of other things besides! If you

don’t improve, I will go away! I won't
(085)



THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER. i7

support you any longer--no, I won't! Do
I sit dressing dolls all day to feed a man
like you?—no, I don’t!” And she would
take hold of his arm and give it a fierce
little shake. And she was so small, so
white, so. fragile! She hardly reached
_ higher than his elbow. And he would stare
stupidly at her, never uttering a word; or,
in a shamefaced manner, would look round
helplessly for his wife’ to come to his de-
fence.

This happened: one winter when Glory’s
httle earnings were their only regular in-
come. Her father had been discharged from
his situation for his intemperate habits, and
her mother had fewer jobs than she had
_ ever had before. They did not find the
position of dependence upon their. daughter
very enjoyable. There was too much self-
satisfaction in the way the child doled out

the shillings to be pleasant for the receiv-
(985) 9



18 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

ers; but it was better than going hungry
to bed, el they grew accustomed to the
situation.

It was towards the end, of that winter
that Glory’s father died. He fell under a
heavy wagon during a drunken fit, and was
taken to the hospital, where he remained
till he passed away. The manner in which
Glory bore her father’s death was one of
her mother’s grievances against her. She
refused to shed so much as a tear, and
made impStient remarks at her mother’s
lamentations.

“T don’t see what it’s for,’ she would
say in her clear, decided manner. “He
wouldn’t work. He drank up all our money.
He was only a worry to us both, We
shall get on much better now.”

But this matter-of-fact view of the situa-
tion filled Mrs. Millar with horror. “To
think I should be mother to a child—-and a



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 19

little girl—to say such dreadful things,” she
would bemoan. ‘“ What will happen to her, I
don’t ever inom?

For Mrs. Millar’s grief for her husband
was perfectly genuine. She had loved him
once ; and now death had obliterated all the
trying intervening years—wiped away all
the cruelty, the neglect. And so she wept
and mourned and refused to be comforted,
and thought of him as one whose loss she
would never cease to regret.

And that Glory should manifest so little
sympathy, not only grieved her, it moved
her to anger. That her own flesh and
blood should be so different from herself
appeared to her as most extraordinary.
That her own child was capable of sitting
there stolid and unconcerned, whilst her
mother was bowed down with sorrow,
seemed absolutely inhuman. She could not

understand it at all, and was inclined to



20 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

treat her as if her want of feeling was an
affront to -herself, as if it were almost a
matter of offence between them. Not that
she was not fond of Glory. She was very
fond of her in her way, and she was proud
of her cleverness, and her spirited, self-
helpful ways. But it was to Jim, though
he was four years younger, to whom she
turned for sympathy and consolation, and on
whom she lavished the chief share of her
affections.

Jim was eleven years old. He was lazy,
he was mischievous, he was always tearing
his clothes; but he was charmingly affection-
ate and good-tempered, and used to sit on
her lap and give her a hug whenever she
felt inclined.

But if Jim was to his mother a joy, he
was to his sister a most particular thorn.
Her only peaceful moments were when he

‘was safe at school. But when four o'clock



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 21

had come and gone, and she heard his foot-
steps upon the stairs, she used to set her
small white teeth together and frown.

He was such a tease! He was so mis-
chievous, so untidy! He used to borrow her
things and never return them, and muddle
her drawer, and make a dust and a racket
when she was doing her most particular
work,

And he was so disrespectful to the im-
portant business she plied. He was disre-
spectful and he was rude; though no one
enjoyed more than he did the luxuries it
helped to bring—the hot sausages for
supper, the bloaters, the meat pies.

“Tm sick of all them stupid girl dolls,”
he would say, as he stood with his hands
in his pockets surveying a row of these
fair creatures on their own particular shelf.
“Why can’t you do some boys—sailor

ones, and red-coats, and such? I see ’em



922 THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER.

in the shops, and they’re a sight better
worth than these.”

“ There’s too many boys about by half,” his
sister would loftily reply. “I ain’t going to
bring any more of such bothers as boys into
the place—you needn’t think.” And she
tossed her head disdainfully as she pinned
into position a sash.

“Theyre always staring and grinning
and stickin’ in their toes,” continued Jim,
quite unperturbed at. the taunt, “and look-
ing so pleased with themselves. It makes
an awful lot of women in the place. Why,
theres eleven in petticoats in this very
room,” he added, with a shrill whistle of
disdain.

“And a poor little miserable good-for-
nought youd be if there was no women
in this place,” answered Glory angrily.
“Who'd see to yer clothes and yer food

and yer manners—which wants a lot of



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 28

seeing to—if it wasn’t for we, I'd like to
know ?” ;

“Women is so vain,” said Jim, stolidly.

He got out his knife and whittled at a
chip of wood. The trying part of Jim was
that he never lost his temper. She often
wished he would. It would make them
more even.

“Come here, Jim darling,” called Mrs.
Millar from the inner room, before Glory
could reply; ‘come here and wash your
face, and don’t be riling your sister—and
she not like other girls, as you know,” she
added under her breath, so that Glory
should not hear.

But Glory always heard; her sharp ears
never lost a word. And if there was one.
thing she hated, it was her affliction being
spoken of as a reason of toleration from
the enemy.

“JT hear you,” she cried; “you needn’t



24 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER-

think I don’t hear that! Yes, I hear—I
ain't like other girls. No, I ain’t; and I
hope I never shall be like ’em—leastways
them in this street.” |

And then she sulked for the rest of the
evening; while Jim made interesting con-
versation respecting his doings at “school
and elsewhere, and his mother listened
admiringly as she mended his clothes, or
prepared the evening meal.

Yes, Jim was very trying. He knew how
to hug and kiss his mother just in the way
she liked. He could get round her for
anything he wanted. Of course it was all
done for that. And his mother was so soft
and yielding. He was becoming dreadfully
spoiled. Glory used to feel it was very
unfair. She who toiled and slaved to keep
the family in comforts was not loved like
Jim, was not considered as he was. She

used to brood over it, and feel angry with



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 25

an unjust world. It used to make her feel
more hard and snappish towards the two as
she saw how well they got on together.
How well they could get on if she wasn't
there—except for her earnings! And she
derived some consolation from this thought.
They could get on without her, but they
could not get on so well without her
money. They would miss that.

She sometimes imagined herself running
away and leaving them, just to let them
see how badly they would manage without
her help. She quite enjoyed thinking it
over, and pictured them sitting down to a
very plain supper, and each vainly wishing
in their hearts that she was there.

These were rather morbid thoughts for a
little girl of only fourteen, but the child
was inclined to think too much about
herself. She was always imagining that

people meant to slight her, or did not



9% THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

care about her; and all this is a great
mistake. .

She had not learned, poor child, that
people do not often mean to slight us, and
that if they do, it is very often a passing
mood, for which they are very sorry after-
wards; and that the best way is to laugh
off any thing we do not like, or to take
no notice, or think of something else.

It warms people’s hearts towards us if
we never take their aggravating words
seriously, if we treat them as if they had
never been said. It takes away all inclina-
tion to say aggravating things any more.

But to some natures it is very difficult
to do this, and it takes a great deal of
painful experience to teach them that this
is the better way, or even to make them
understand what it means.

And some never learn it at all, but go

through life making unhappiness out of



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 27

things that were not worth a moment's
thought, and miseries out of things that
ought never to be thought of at all—things
that ought to be taken as, for instance,
the result of a disordered digestion, or
worries of which we do not know.

Now Glory, poor little child, had a nature
which took herself very seriously. And she
took other people seriously too, and espec-
ially Jim—a person who ought never to
have been taken seriously at all. Instead
of laughing at his teasing remarks, or
taking no notice of his tiresome tricks, she
became offended at once; and as Jim was
a lad who took to mischief like a duck to
water, this only made him worse. It gave
just the encouragement which is given to
a teasing nature by the snarls of an animal
at a playful prodding stick. It acted as an
incentive to continuing the game.

Poor little Glory! and she had such

oy



28 THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER.

admirable points. In her small, frail body
was the fine spirit that goes on till it drops.
She would never give in.

She would work, however tired she felt;
and if she had promised anything by a
certain day, she never broke her word.

And though she loved her. work, there
were other things she loved better still,
and which she steadfastly denied herself
except at odd moments, and. on Sundays,
when she rested from the dolls.

For what Glory loved better than any-
thing in the world was a story-book. Whilst
she was reading, she forgot all her woes.
She lived the lives of those she read
about; she laughed, she mourned with
them. No paradise of the imagination
surpassed the glorious scenes she weaved
for herself from the word-pictures out of
books. She, who had never seen anything

.more beautiful than the public parks, or



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 29

the flat country roads and fields which
lay beyond the city—she, when she was
- reading, lived amongst silvery lakes and
snowy mountains, amongst forests full of
birds and flowers, and every entrancing sight.

She always chose books which described
these beautiful things, and she had been
fortunate in having a friend who helped her
in her choice. The mistress of the school
which she had attended until the last two
years always.lent her books, or chose them
for her from the public library when her
own were read.

But Glory had in some matters much
self-control. She read a great deal on
Sunday, and, if the dolls were finished,
she read a little after tea. But though
she looked longingly at some delightful
story put away on her shelf, yet she rarely
opened it until her work was done.

She had a tiny collection of books of her



30 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

own—-some prizes when she was at school,
a few presents from ladies who were kind
to her, and a very few she had bought
herself, when her mother was earning
plenty of money, and did not need hers so
much. They stood in the middle of the
doll-shelf, beautifully neat, and new, and
clean, without finger-marks or “ dogs’ ears,”
or signs of anything but fostering care.
I fear that the notice of “No touching
allowed” was considered by Glory to apply
to the books as well as to the dolls. She
had indeed been known, once or twice, to
lend a book to a particular friend, a very
careful little girl who lived in the next
block. But other people were not en-
couraged to do more than look at the out-
side. And Jim in particular was never
allowed to handle them, or even turn over
the leaves. He did not often try to do so,
either. He retaliated by pretending he



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 31

didn’t care. They were only silly girl-books
after all; not the sort of thing a boy
wanted to read. 7

He liked stories with dash—where “they
rip you up with their daggerses, or roast
and eat you on the sand; where they gag
and carry you off to sea, with manakills on
yer hands; where they light little jires
under yer feet, so you confess the horrid
things you haven’t been and done. That’s
the sort of thing a boy likes to read.”

To tell the truth, Glory liked these
stories too. She liked the strange, wild
places they described—the wonderful moun-
tains and rivers, the animals and flowers
and trees. But she never asked Jim to
lend her one. She used to listen when
he read bits out loud to his mother from
the books he brought from the school
library ; and whilst he was away, she would

occasionally dip into them when working



32 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

at her dolls; but she did not care to appear
interested in Jim’s concerns. And if she
borrowed his books, he might want to
make free with hers, and that idea made
her shudder. Careless Jim, who generally
forgot to wash his hands; and after he had
finished reading, left his book on the floor !
And it was not only with books that
Glory was particular’ She was particular
with all her things. Her clothes were
always neat and tidy, and showed taste and
even a certain amount of fashion as a rule.
Tt would not do to be a disgrace to the
dolls. And she was very particular about
her friends. None but the most superior
little girls were ever admitted to intimacy
by Glory. No one that had not well-brushed
hair and neat shoes, not to speak of irre-
proachable manners, was ever noticed by her.
And so, though Glory was looked upon

as a rather wonderful little person, it is not



THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 38

surprising that she was not exactly popular.
She was admired by some for her clever-
ness, by others for her beautiful hair; several
people were kind to her, more or less; but,
at the present, Glory was not particularly
loved by any living soul, nor by any living
creature. No dog or cat or bird or mouse
had ever been taken to her heart, as they
are with most children. There was no
httle, insignificant, dumb friend to pine if
she were not there.

But at present she hardly knew how
much she missed; or if she did, it was in an
unrecognized manner, and it did not lead
her to act so as to win affection, any more
than it led her to show it.

There was one exception, indeed. There
was one person who had touched the appar-
ently hard little heart, and had found some’
promise of a fine response; but she was the

only one.
(985) 3



CHAPTER II.
GLORY’S FRIEND.

T was a busy day for Glory. She had
been working hard since early morning,
and now six dolls lay finished in all

their brave attire, and were waiting to be
packed up and carried off to Mrs. Norman’s
emporium of fancy goods and toys.

Glory was brushing her hair. She took
great care of her hair, and bestowed a good
deal of time and attention upon it. It gave
her intense pleasure to hear admiring re-
‘marks as she passed upon its length and
upon its beauty. She wore it quite loose
down her back. It hid, as an obscuring

golden veil, her deformity. And though



GLORY’S FRIEND. 35

she was rather small, well, other people
with straight, strong backs were sometimes
not very tall. There was nothing in
that.

It was one .of her.. secret grievances
against Jim that he used to tease her about
her hair. He was always trying to catch
hold of it and twist it into a rope, or snip
pieces off it surreptitiously from behind,
when she was occupied with her dolls. If
ever he married, he used to say, his chil-
dren should have short hair,- so they
shouldn’t be stuck up and vain, and staring
at themselves in the looking-glass all day.

But amongst the outside world there was
plenty of consolation. It was delightful to
see the tall, grown girls look enviously upon
it, and the women’s eyes soften as they turned
round to gaze upon it as she passed. Once a
gentleman—a well-known artist, people said

—had wanted to paint it. But some one else



38 GLORY’S FRIEND.

was to sit for the face and figure, and so
Glory was offended, and withdrew.

She brushed it out this morning with
extra care, and put on her neat black cape
and straw hat, and got out a pair of gloves.

Then she did up the dolls, each in clean
tissue paper, with precise professional folds,
and laid them in a cardboard box, which
she carefully tied up with string. One half-
finished young lady was left on her back
upon the shelf, and covered with a piece of
~muslin to keep off the dust. And, before
she left, the tabby cat, comfortably snoozing
in front of the fire, was hustled out into the
cold, because once in its extreme youth it
had been known to knock down one of
these waxen personages-on to the floor.

She walked quickly along with her parcel
under her arm, up one street and down
another, until she came to the chief part of

the town, where all the best shops were to



GLORY’S FRIEND. 87.

be found. She stopped at last at a large
corner shop, one side of which was full of
toys, and. with “Mrs. Norman” written in
small gold letters over the door.

If there was one person in the world
whom Glory admired with all her soul, it
was Mrs. Norman. In her eyes she was
altogether beautiful, and altogether good
and kind. She often longed to tell her
what she felt—how grateful she was. But
somehow the words would never come; they
seemed locked up within. her. She could
only talk of something else. She, who
generally found some fault with most people,
she, who troubled herself about no one very
much, she would have turned upon any one
who said a word against her friend. It was
enough for. Glory if she were only in the
same room. It gave her a delicious sense of
peace. It seemed as if all her ‘hard, discon-

tented feelings melted away, and she too,



38 GLORY’S FRIEND.

for the time, had only. gentle thoughts, and
was only good and kind.

Mrs. Norman was a widow. She was well
educated, and she had a rarely understand-
ing and comprehensive mind. Her father
had been a doctor in a neighbouring town.
But he had been able to leave her very
little money, and she had not married suc-
cessfully from a worldly point of view. She
found herself, a few years after marriage,
a widow with a very small capital in hand,
and, being spirited and determined, with
no foolish pride, she had invested it in
stocking a shop, nor heeded the disgust of
many of her friends. Fortunately she pos-
sessed the happy combination of good taste
and a business-like head, and she had made
it answer very well.

People were attracted by Mrs. Norman—
they hardly knew why. There was a seren-

ity about her—the serenity of a person who



GLORY’S FRIEND. 39

has cl storms and knows there may
be more coming, and yet can be serene.

And then she always understood—under-
stood what people wanted, when they ‘did
not know themselves; understood what
they did not want; understood the fussy
elderly ladies, the difficult-to-please young
men; understood the little frightened chil-
dren, who, finding courage to push through
the door, stood speechless in the entrance
with perhaps only a penny clutched in a
- little, hot hand, to spend.
; She understood. They came to her, these
‘little beings, watching through the window
till she should be there. They looked up
into her face and smiled, and knew that she
understood. |

And of all the little creatures in which
she had taken an interest and helped in her
quiet way, I think that Glory appealed to

her the most. Perhaps the isolation of the



~ 40 GLORY’S FRIEND.

child amidst her surroundings, her difficult
and unadaptable nature, moved her sym-
pathy. And then her spirited independence,
her proud honesty of soul, were qualities she
particularly admired. She’ thought she saw
possibilities of what might turn into some-
thing fine, something heroic, in that small,
stunted frame. She experienced a feeling
of expectancy about the child; she had an
idea she might surprise everybody some day.

She always made her welcome, and when-
ever Glory brought her finished dolls, she
was expected to stay to. tea. -

The child looked forward to those visits
with an eagerness which she showed for-
nothing besides. It was a bitter disappoint-
ment to her if, for any reason, she was
prevented from going. a

To-day, indeed, her face did not a ‘so
bright as usual, though, as she came into

the sitting-room, and sat: down in her own



GLORY’S FRIEND. : Al

particular chair in front of the cosy tea-
table, she cheered up a little.

Everything was so delightful here!. The
hot muffins were delicious, and the tea out
of the pretty pink rosebud cup tasted very
good.

And when it was over, the dolls had to
be displayed. It was an especial order for
a shop window—a bride and four brides-
maids, with everything complete. They
certainly looked very imposing and _ lifelike
as they stood in a stately group upon a
newspaper spread out upon the floor.

Every detail was correct—the white satin
dress, the veil, and the wreath, and even the
bouquet of the bride. "And the bridesmaids
were dressed in pink liberty silk, and carried
miniature baskets of pink flowers, and each
wore a locket, presumably the bridegroom’s
gift.

Mrs. Norman knelt down on the floor



42 GLORY’S FRIEND.

beside them, and surveyed them with approv-
ing eyes. She examined the petticoats and
underclothes, and took stock of the cut of
the bodices and set of the train, without a
suggestion that any of them could be im-
proved.

“You have surpassed yourself, dear,” she
said warmly, as she stroked the child’s hair.
“T shall have to give you extra to the price
agreed.”

Glory looked up with bright, pleased
eyes.

“No,” she answered quickly, ‘not a
halfpenny more. You employ me regular
all the year, and at other sorts of work
when people aren’t wanting so many dolls.
And I aren't going to be grasping of your
money now. ‘Ten shillings for the dressing
of the lot, and all the materials from you, is
plenty to pay.”

“Well, it shall be as you wish,” said Mrs.



GLORY’S FRIEND. 43

Norman, “but I think they are worthy of
more. How have you been getting on
lately?” she said presently, as, having
helped Glory to pack the dolls away, she
seated herself by the fire and took up her
knitting.

“‘Middlin’,” answered the child. She
was sitting in a small, low chair oppdésite
her friend, her head resting in her propped-
up hands, her hair falling in a dusky yellow
mass around her. “ But not very well,” she
continued presently. “Jim is so_bother-
some. And mother spoils him something
dreadful. They are as friendly as they can
be. He'll grow up something bad, I should
say.” She stared into the fire with a little
frown.

“J like. to see them good to their
mothers,” said Mrs. Norman meditatively ;
“and he has a nice open sort of face. I

should think he was a truthful sort of boy.”



44, GLORY S FRIEND.

“Oh, -yes, he’s truthful enough,” said
Glory impatiently; “but as for being good
to his mother, it’s just for what he can get
—I know that.” a

“Maybe, and maybe not,” answered Mrs.
Norman. She got up and peeped into the
shop; but there was only one customer
there, to whom the assistant young lady
was attending. So she came and sat down
again opposite the child.

“Tt’s nothing better than that,’ Glory
repeated, decidedly.

“Well,” said Mrs. Norman, “it’s beyond
me to tell people’s motives for what they do.
I can hardly tell my own, they’re so mixed,
so I always try to give credit for good
ones. It’s much the best way. If you sort
_ of expect good motives of people, they get
to suit what you expect, almost without
knowing it.”

“Do they really?”



GLORY’S FRIEND. 45

“Yes, I’ve often seen it so. Try it now
with Jim. ‘Treat him as if you expected
him to be considerate and kind, as if he
wanted to please you instead of being a
plague. Youll see he'll grow to what you
expect—in time. It will take time.”

Glory listened attentively. She was very
quick. She understood the reasoning per-
fectly well. a

“Yes,” she said, “it might do with some
—I can believe that. But it wouldn’t do
with Jim; he’d only laugh for one’s pains.”

“JTt’s worth trying,” said Mrs. Norman,
as she bent over her knitting to pick up a
stitch. _

“There’s another thing against it,” con-
tinued the child, after a pause; “there’s
myself. I -get cross so quick. I answer
him back. If I’m near: enough, I box his
ears, or I push him regular hard.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Norman sym-



46 GLORY’S FRIEND.

pathetically, “one’s self is a great impediment
sometimes. I find it so, as well ag you.
But’ one’s self can be cured.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. But it’s
not very easy when one’s made so. Why
- Weren’t we all made good, and never wanting
to slap people, and be cross to them ?”

“Tt’s .the struggling that’s good for us,
I think,” said Mrs. Norman, as she laid
down her knitting and gazed out of the
window into the gathering darkness—“ the
struggling against our weaknesses and the
things that tempt us to do wrong. Don’t
give in, Glory dear. Try and be brave—a
brave soldier of the Cross. The Great
Commander knows where our difficulties
lie. He knows what temptation is. He
can make allowance. But we must strive
our best.”

“It’s very hard work. I hope He

knows. I suppose He knows I’ve a hard,



GLORY’S FRIEND. 47

wicked “heart,” said Glory thoughtfully.
“He's heard mother say so scores of times.
There’s nothing’ll melt it nohow.”

“Never mind about its melting, or any-
thing else; just try and think about other
people’s hearts, and whether a little love and
sympathy wouldn’t help them a little.
There’s a lot of love wanted to make up
for all the sad things people have to
bear.”

“What's the use? They wouldn’t love
me,” answered Glory rather dolefully.

“ Never mind about whether they love you
or not. You try and love them. There’s
such pleasure in loving people. Think of
One who loved us all so well—who died to
show His love.”

The child nodded her head.
“Yes, I know,” she said.
“And as for people not loving you—it's

a great deal your own imagination, dear.



48 GLORY’S FRIEND.

I don’t find it difficult to love you myself
—not at all.”

Glory didn’t answer for a minute. She
sat with her yellow-gold locks tumbling
half over her face, staring into the fire.
Then suddenly she got up, and, coming close
to her friend, leaned for an instant over
her hand.

But she only touched it with her hair.
Then she returned hurriedly to her séat.
Soon afterwards an influx of customers
came ine and Mrs. Norman had to say
good-bye, and take her place behind the
counter of Berlin wools which occupied one
side of the shop. And Glory, taking up

a parcel of undressed dolls, returned home.



CHAPTER III.
JIM.

HEN Glory reached their little

flat she found it empty. Neither

Jim nor her mother was there.

She took off her things in the little inner
room, tidied up everything, and began to
prepare the table for supper. She had
bought some fresh herrings as she came
along, and she placed them all ready upon
the frying-pan, to await her mother’s re-
turn. She was so occupied with her own
thoughts that she observed nothing unusual
about the place, and it was only as she
moved in the direction of her own particu-

lar corner that she noticed that something
(985) 4



50 JIM.

had happened. She stopped stock-still, with
the broom, with which she had been sweep-
ing up some litter, held stiffly in her hand.
She stood staring upon her own little shelf.
Her cheeks were red; her eyes flashed
fire.

For there was the half-finished doll she
had so carefully put away, propped up
against the wall. On-her legs were some
clumsily-arranged trousers, on her delicate
pink cheeks was smeared a great black
moustache. Her hair was cut short, and
parted on one side, and a bit of wood in
the form of a pipe was stuck between her
cherry lips. There she stood, with bold
mien, and striding legs, and arms set as
much akimbo as the joints would allow.

Glory choked and gasped. She turned
round, as if seeking for a victim on whom
to vent her wrath. The door was half open,

and from behind she heard a smothered



JIM. 51

gigole. She knew right well who the
culprit was. There was no difficulty in
guessing that. She rushed to the door and
looked out. There stood Jim on the land-
ing, at the head ‘of the stairs. The hight
from the room fell full upon him as he
tried to smother his mirth with his two
hands held over his mouth.

“ Ain’t he a nice sort of chap, that smart
friend 0” yours im there?” he said wag-
gishly,

“Tl teach you to—to—” gasped Glory.
She could say no more. But she darted
forward and raised her arm, in which was
the broom, as if to strike.

It took him by surprise. He started
backwards to avoid the blow, and grasped
at the balustrade by his side. But he only
clutched the air, and fell with a heavy,
dull thud upon the hard stone stairs.

She could hear him bumping down, and



52 JIM.

' then silence as he stopped at the turn of
the landing. He neither cried nor called
out. There was not a moan. Glory’s heart
beat in strangling throbs. Her head swam.
She tottered back into the room and lit a
candle, and carried it down to where he
lay. Was he dead? Had she killed him?
Is that what her horrid temper had done?
She shuddered.

She knelt over him, holding the candle
to his face, and held his hand in hers. His
eyes were shut. No blood was to be seen.
Only his face looked very lifeless, and dull
and grey.

She got up and went to a door on the
floor below them, and knocked with loud,
impatient raps. A man opened it, and
asked who was there.

“OQ Mr. Jackson, do come—Jim’s tumbled
down the stairs, and he may be dead!” she

cried, in a shaking voice.



JIM. 53

The man strode up the stairs. He picked
up the boy, and carrying him to his little
room, laid him upon the bed.

“He’s bad, I reckon,” he said, as he
watched him for a moment. “Td best go
and fetch the doctor at once.” And he
hurried out of the house.

He had hardly been gone a minute when .
Mrs. Millar returned. When she saw Jim
lying white and still upon the bed, she |
looked questioningly at Glory—a look full
of reproach, the child thought. Then she
flung herself down by his side.

“Jim, my little Jim, speak to your
mother—say. you aren't dead!” she cried.
«What is it?—what has happened? Will
no one tell me what has happened? What
has happened?” she repeated almost savagely,
as she turned round and looked at Glory.

“He fell on the stairs. It was dark, and

he couldn’t see.”



54 JIM.

“Where were you standing when he
fell?” she cried sharply...

“In the doorway, or only just outside
I never touched him. He fell off himself,”
added the child, as if half-guessing her
mother’s thoughts.

Mrs. Millar did not reply. “My little
Jim,” she said softly over and over, as she
moistened his brow with cold water, and
listened anxiously for the doctor’s step.

At last he came—a kindly man, with a
quiet, sympathizing manner; a man who
spent his life amongst the suffering poor.

He examined the boy very carefully, and
gave several directions to his mother which
were to be stringently carried out. He also
wrote a prescription upon a slip of paper
which he tore from his pocket-book.

“Fle will very likely not be conscious for
some while,” he said. “He must be kept

“very quiet. The blow on the head may





JIM. 55

cause concussion of the brain. But we
must hope for the best,” he added in more
cheerful tones, as he left the room.

For several days Jim lay with hardly a
sign of being alive. He swallowed the
food that was put in his mouth, and
. moaned a little now and then.

And Glory used to watch him through
the half-open door between his room and
where she sat, watched him as he lay,
with his mother. by his side day and night.
And as she watched, the horrible fear hung
over her that Jim was going to die. Through
her—it would be she who had killed him.
There was no doubt about that. She had
- not touched him indeed, but she had
meant to strike him. She had raised her
hand to do so, only he fell back.

It was a dreadful thought.

And even if he did not die, he might be

injured. He might be a cripple all his



56 JIM.

days, like her—bright, lively Jim, who never
for a moment was still, who was so active
and so gay. The fear was always with
her. It haunted her all the day. - She
could not put her heart into the dolls. The
pretty dresses refused to evolve themselves
under her hands. She actually hemmed a
petticoat on the wrong side, and cut an un-
even gore in a pink silk skirt. She who
had so rarely been seen to cry since baby days,
sprinkled a pale-blue velveteen with tears !

It was one evening after the fever had
set in. The doctor had looked very grave,
and said the boy’s temperature was danger-
ously high. He had ice on his head, and
had to be held down in bed, for he tossed
and turned and nearly threw himself out
' upon the floor.

“Mother, can’t I help?” she had said
piteously, coming to her side from time to

time, with her anxious, frightened face.



JIM. 57

“No, there’s nothing for you to do,” her
mother answered, without so much as look-
ing round. “Go and do your dolls—you're
best at that.” :

And then at last the fever left him, and
he lay white and weak—white as the
‘sheets, and with no more strength than a
new-born child.

He must have nourishment every hour,
the doctor said—beef-tea and port wine— .
else he: would never pull through.

Then Glory determined. She saw a
gleam of light. She would work extra
hard to earn more money. That would go
a little way towards making up to Jim. It
would buy him extra things. Her mother
had not been able to work since the acci-
dent. It would be hard to get him all
these luxuries unless she worked extra time.
Fortunately it was close upon Christmas,

and there was a good demand for dolls in



58 JIM.

the shops. She got up early, and she
“stayed up late. And when she next visited
Mrs. Norman, it was with a double-sized
bundle under her arm.

“You don’t look very well, dear child,”
said her friend, as she unwrapped the
maken children and laid them on. the
counter one by one. “How is your
brother getting on? You've been very
anxious about him, I know.”

“He's better,” said Glory with a sigh,
“but he’s dreadful weak. That’s why I’ve
done a few more of them. He is to have
lots of nourishment to eat. And. they’re
not near so handsome as they ought to be.
J couldn’t think out their frocks, anyhow.
That mauve one there isn’t right, I know.
Her bodice puckers on the chest, and her
skirt don’t hang as it should. I oughtn’t
to have more than half the pay.”

“T’m sure I don’t see anything wrong at,



a JIM. 59

all. They're a very nice lot, and will sell
just the same. People are in too much of
a hurry at Christmas time to notice the
set of a skirt. And I am sure the chil-
dren who get them won't care. Don't
worry, dear. Bring me as many as you
like. They sell so fast, the window gets
empty before I know where I am.”

“Have you got a few minutes to spare?”
said Glory in a whisper. She did not wish
the young lady assistant to hear.

“Yes, its dinner-time, or very near, so
I can be spared.”

She opened the door of the little sitting-
room, and they went in together.

“It’s this,” said Glory, as she stood in front
of her friend looking into her face. ‘“ Sup-
pose you had been in a rage with some one—
some one who had behaved very mean;
and suppose you had wished to hit him,

but hadn’t hit him, because before | you



60 JIM.

could do it he fell back and nearly killed
himself—would you feel as if you had
killed him, and ought to be hanged?”

Her small, thin face, in its setting of
golden hair, looked very pathetic.

Mrs. Norman stooped suddenly and kissed
her. She put her arm around her and
smoothed her hair.

“No,” she said, “I should not. Because
it was an accident I could not foresee.
But I should feel that I had caused it in
a way, and it would make me very un-_
happy.” |

“Yes, that’s how I am—I’m awful un-
happy.”

«Well, but still I should not let myself
be nothing but unhappy—at least I hope
not. I should try and see what I could do
to make up. I should make up my mind,
to begin with, that my hasty temper must
be conquered. And then I should see if I



JIM. 61

could not love the person I had injured so
well, that his life would be happier in con-
sequence—I hope I might. I should try to.”

“Fancy your saying J,” said Glory de-
precatingly. “Why, you never have done
wicked things—not one!”

Mrs. Norman smiled a little sadly.

“J have done my share, dear, of wicked
things, as you call them. But I don't
worry myself about it. I think hopefully
of the future, and plan out that I am going
to succeed.”

“JT suppose, now, youd tell what you'd
done?” asked Glory, after a pause. “It
would be quite true to say you hadn’t

>

touched him, and yet—” She stopped and
waited anxiously for a reply. |

“Yes, I. think it would be right to tell.
It is true just by the words that you
didn’t touch him; but you intended to do

so, and that caused the accident. You did



62 JIM.

not mean it, of course. But it happened.
Things often do.”

“T must tell mother?” asked Glory in a
voice of despair.

«“T think it would be the right 5 ier to
do. It would be brave and right.”

“Would it all be forgiven—if—if it’s
known how hard it is?”

“We are forgiven always. He who said,
‘They know not what they do’ of His
murderers, knows how to forgive. But He
tells us we must be true and honest with
each other. So we must obey.”

“Tt isn’t easy,” said Glory. She wondered
if there was anything else she could do—
something difficult and painful instead.
She could not confess. To tell her mother
that she had been the cause of the acci-
dent after all—the accident which nearly
cost the life of Jim, her darling Jim—she

" couldn’t do it. It was too much to ask.



JIM. 63

She turned silently away.

“You will do what is brave and right in
the end, I’m quite sure of that,” said Mrs.
Norman cheerfully. “Come and see me
again soon, in a few days. And, by the
way, I have a bottle of nice port wine—the
very thing for Jim. I had some when I
was ill last winter, and there is just that
one bottle left, waiting for somebody. Stop
there till I fetch it, and you can carry it
with the dolls. Take only one or two this
time, and come again soon.”

As Glory walked home she thought over
all she had to do. There were her temper
and her hard heart, both difficult things to
take in hand. But the most difficult thing
of all was telling her mother the truth
about the accident. But it would have to
be done; she began to see that. She
could not disappoint her friend. Mrs.
Norman had distinctly said, ““You will do



64, JIM.

what is brave and right,” as if there was
no doubt at all about it.
~ Now Glory rather prided. herself upon
being brave. She was afraid of hardly any-
thing. Dark nights, savage dogs, drunken
men, had no effect upon her. And she
could endure pain or fatigue without a sign.
When Mrs. Fellowes’ little boy was run
over in the Row, Glory was passing by.
She wiped away the blood, and told a boy
to run for a doctor, and sent the rest about
their business, without a tremor. Having
done this, however, she did not take much
further interest; and when she learned
afterwards that the child was dead, she
only remarked it was no more than she
expected.

But Glory dreaded her mother’s wrath.
Like many easy-going women whose affec-
tions are centred on one person, Mrs. Millar

could be terribly and unreasonably angry



JIM. 65

about anything to do with that one person.
She was always especially ready to suspect .
Glory of wishing Jim ill. She even gave
her credit for bad motives towards him
when she had no motives at all.

On the present occasion she would be
dreadfully upset. It was difficult to imagine
what she would not think or do. At last,
after much pondering, Glory decided that
she would write it down. It would be the
safest way.

It was not very brave. It was not so
fine a thing as making a clean breast of it
—face to face. But there was her own bad
temper to remember. She might get angry
in the middle of this fine act, and spoil it
all. It might be better to give up trying
to be splendidly brave when your temper
might break down, and just be content
with plain duty, without anything ees
about it at all.

(985) 5



_ &6 JIM.

So one day, when the dolls and the
pieces were cleared away, and Jim was
asleep in the inner room, she got out her
little inkstand and her writing-case, and
wrote with slow strokes and many pauses,
on a clean sheet of paper, her confession.
She made no excuses. She told exactly
how it happened. She explained it all.
Then she folded it carefully up, and put it
in her pocket. She would wait till Jim
was just a little better; then she would give

it, and they would know all.



CHAPTER IV.
GLORY 'S GOLDEN HAIR.

ND now Jim was getting better.
\ His mother went out to work once
"more. She went regretfully ; but
the expenses of his illness had to be met
somehow, and Glory could wait on her
brother.
He was still very weak, and he didn’t
care to talk much. He appeared as if he
had forgotten all about the accident. She
was glad of that.
But he was cross and irritable, and often
refused to eat his food. He used to say
he’d wait till mother came in, and turn

away.



68 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

Sometimes he would lie and watch her
as she sat reading by his side. He would
stealthily twist his fingers in and out of her
long golden hair, as it fell in a shower by
his pillow. It seemed to give him pleasure.

col suppose they have hair like this in
heaven,” he said one day; though he added
quickly, “Of course they ain’t like you. It’s
only your hair is like the angels, people say.”

Or he would mutter to himself, “She
aint like mother. Her fingers feel hard,
and she’s wanting to leave off and go to
her dressing all the time.”

Now all this was very trying when she
was doing her best. She had skimmed all
the grease off his beef-tea ; she shook up
his pillows; she read to him out of his
school magazine.

But Glory was feeling very humble. She
did not complain. She went on with what-

ever she was doing for him just the same.



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 69

But, unfortunately, if one has been sharp
and unloving with one’s tongue to persons
all their lives, a few days’ or even weeks’
amendment does not produce much effect.
It creates a little surprise—that is all A
glimmer of the truth was beginning to dawn
upon Glory now. Her perception, sharpened
by the trial she had gone through, was in-
terpreting many things to which she had
hitherto been blind. Had she ever been
loving to Jim? Had she ever cared whether
he was loving to her? She feared not.

It must be rather nice to be loved. She
admitted as much as this, though to her it
was quite new. She had often despised
Jim’s affectionate ways. She had considered
her mother weak and deluded in adoring
him as she did. Now she began to feel
there was something in it after all. It
might be weak, but it must be very

pleasant. Some one to love you, to mourn



70 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

you when you were away, to welcome you
back again.

“Mrs. Norman is right,” she said to her-
self. “It is a good thing to love people.
I must begin to try. I suppose I have
been loving myself too much, and the dolls,
all this time, and nothing besides.”

‘And for a commencement, it was a good
thing to start in a small way—to try, for
instance, what a little affection would do
with poor Jinny, the tabby cat.

She took it on her knee one day, and
stroked it gently, and tickled its ear, in just
the way cats like. But it was very dis-
appointing. Only main force could keep it
in her lap. It neither curled itself round
nor purred, as it did with Jim, whose lap
was nothing like so comfortable as hers.

It certainly never refused a saucer of
milk; but that could hardly be regarded as |

a favour, and no blandishments would pre-



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 7

vent its slinking away if it saw her approach.
It was very disheartening.

Perhaps it was too late to change.
Besides, it was so difficult to change one’s
conduct, when everybody, even the cat, ex-
pected it to be im certain lines. No one
ever seemed to expect any sympathy or
interest in their affairs. .Her mother never
told her what the doctor said, if she had
not been there. When Jim was at his
worst, she cried with her head turned the
other way.

She seemed pleased indeed with the extra
money Glory earned, but she seemed to
look upon it as if done to please the doer,
not as an offering to any one else.

What could she do to convince them of
her longing to atone? What could she do?

One day she was returning from an ex-
pedition along the principal streets. She

had been busy gathering ideas from the



.

72 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

costume-makers’ and the milliners’ shops for
her waxen family at home. Her quick eyes
noted everything they saw, and she altered
and adapted in her mind to suit the attire
of these little personages.

Presently she came to a window in which
was displayed a magnificent assortment of
ladies’ hair. Auburn, black, brown, and fair
tresses in every shade and texture adorned
the interior. Two beautiful waxen heads,
with the latest style of hair-dressing, turned
slowly on a clockwork pedestal from side to
side. Curled fronts, waved sides, coiled back
pieces, filled every available space. She
watched them for a few minutes with ad-
miring eyes. .

Then an idea struck her.

A pink colour came to her cheeks. She
breathed very fast. She could see an indis-
tinct image of herself reflected in the pol-

ished glass through which she was looking.



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 73

She turned a little sideways, so she could
see her hair. Yes, it was longer than any.
hanging up in the shop. It was thick
enough to make several wavy tails like
those she saw. But could she do it?

Her hair, that was her one pride, that
she kept so beautifully brushed and smooth,
that hid her like a cloak from inquisitive
eyes; her hair, that made up for her being
—unlike other girls—that people turned
round to look at as they passed, that
people liked to stroke with their hands and
feel—could she do it?

It would be a tremendous sacrifice, but it
would prove to them—if nothing else would
—that she was sorry, that she really wanted
to. atone. It would show them that she
was beginning to try to think less of her-
self, that she wanted to please them and
gain their love. Perhaps it would make

them forget all her sharp words and hard-



74 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

hearted ways, and think kindly of her at
last.

For it would mean quite a large sum of
money for Jim. She knew, by the prices.
.In the window, that she would get a good
deal for it. It would be enough to buy
delicacies for weeks to come. They were
getting very short of money just now.
Jim’s illness had been expensive, and his
mother had only lately returned to work.
A vision rose before her of the golden
sovereigns she might count on getting for
such extra good hair. A girl she knew,
with hair not half so thick and long, had
sold it for quite a large sum.

After all, it was nothing very wonderful
to do. People had often done a great deal
more to show their penitence or their love.
They had cheerfully had their lees and arms
chopped off, or given up their food and

drink, and all sorts of things much harder



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 75

than just losing your hair—a thing which
didn’t hurt, and would grow again some day.
‘Of course it was hard. It was hard to
part with the only pretty thing about you
—that made people like to look at you,
instead of turning away to hide their pity.
But it could hardly be called very brave.
Oh, no. It was just a little thing to try
to please them—that was all.

But it must be done at once.

She looked into the shop. Two ladies |
were examining some tortoise-shell combs,
and were taking up first one, then another.
At last they made up their minds, paid the
money, and went away.

Now was her opportunity.

She walked in, and went up to a thin
elderly man, with spectacles upon his nose,
who stood behind the counter.

“Tf you please, do you sometimes buy

people’s hair?” she asked a little timidly.



76 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

It seemed such a different matter to bar-
gaining about the dolls.

“ Certainly, miss,” said the man, as he
rested his two hands on the counter and
eyed her curiously. ‘“ But of course it de-
pends on the hair.”

“Yes,” answered Glory. She compressed
her lips and clasped her hands together
beneath her cape. “It’s nicely-kept hair.
It’s long, and people say the colour is—is
good.” She turned round, so as to display
the wavy masses to better advantage.

“You want. to sell your own hair?”
asked the man. He came from behind the
counter and lifted some of the golden strands,
letting them filter through his fingers.

“Yes,” said Glory, looking round a little
anxiously. “I want a good price; it weighs
heavy.”

“Yes, its a fine head,” said the man

2?

meditatively, “but it seems a pity.



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 77

The displaced hair revealed her. poor little
awkward frame and crooked back.

“Maybe it’s a pity,” answered Glory
shortly, “but it must be done. There isn’t
no other way. Please tell me how much
you could give me for it, cut off pretty
short, but leaving a little.”

“Well,” he replied, “I should have to
weigh it before I could say for certain; but
it’s good hair, I don’t deny, and there’s
plenty of it. I have no doubt I can give
you a fair price, a very fair price. Not but
what the colour is almost too—too uncom-
mon,” he added, as he held a piece up to
the light. “There isn’t a lady in a thou-
sand. has that shade.”

“Ttll dye another shade, won’t it?” said
the child, quickly. She glanced at the
many-coloured wigs and plaits around.
There was plenty of choice.

“Yes, it'll dye, though we prefer to keep



78 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

the natural colour when we can. Were you
thinking of parting with it soon?” he asked
after a moment’s pause.

“Yes, to-day. I should like it done at
once—as quick as you can.”

“In which case will you step into the
back room? Theres no one there at
present, and I will take it off just the
length you wish.”

He opened the door of a small inner
room, arranged with hair-cutting and sham-
pooing apparatus. He placed a chair in
front of a large looking-glass, and asked her
to be seated.

Glory looked at herself for a moment in
the glass, then she turned away. “I think
I will sit with my back to it, if you please,”
she said.

A faint colour had come to her cheeks.

* «To be sure,” replied the man in an en-:

couraging tone.



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. | 79

He really felt sorry for the child, for she
looked little more. He hardly liked the job.
“Her one beauty,” he said to himself. “It
seems a shame; but I suppose she wants
the money, poor little soul. Ill pay her
well.”

“T suppose your mother, or those you
live with, won’t object? They know what
you are doing?” he said presently, as he
fetched a large pair of scissors from a
shelf.

“Oh, no! my mother won't mind. There's
no one else except my brother, who is ill.
We want the money,” she added des-
perately.

She began to fear he would refuse.

“Don’t be afraid, my dear; you shall
have its value—I promise you that. Four
full switches, and perhaps five, and some
curl-fronts from the combings,” he said half

to himself as he brushed it carefully out.



80 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

“How short shall it be?” he continued

presently, measuring out a length in his
hand.
_“ About to my collar,” said Glory quickly.
She had meant to say “shoulder,” but the
price would be better to the collar. The
switches must not be curtailed. She had
noticed in the window before she came in
how an inch of greater length added several
shillings to the price, and it was no good
doing things by halves.

“Just below the collar, we will say,” re-
plied the man, as he gave a_ preparatory
snip in the air; “and tapered nicely, so the
ends will turn, and look quite pretty in a
few weeks’ time.”

“Thank you,” said Glory. She settled
herself in the chair and shut her eyes.
Her hands were locked together beneath
the pink and white wrapper with which she

was enveloped.



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 81

“ Now you can begin,” she added under
her breath. ,

She sat quite still.

The scissors soon did their work. A.
great soft yellow mass lay in a pile on the
table by her side. Her head felt strangely
light and cool.

“ Now we will get to business,” said her
shearer cheerfully, and for a moment he left
the room.

Glory sat motionless in her chair. She
did not look round. Her eyes instinctively
avoided the looking-glasses which surrounded
her. She put up her hand, however, and
felt, and a little shudder passed. over her.

The man returned presently with some
weights and a pair of scales. He took up
the hair in large handfuls, and carefully
adjusted the ounces and the pounds.

It was surprisingly heavy.

“I#s the best head I’ve seen erowing
(985) 6



82 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

natural!” he exclaimed, in a_ burst of
admiration. “The young ladies in the
windows haven’t better; and not one of
them has the colour.”

He considered a minute. His hand
grasped a bunch of the hair, his lips moved
in calculation.

Glory gazed up at him in anxious ex-
pectation, Her cheeks were flushed and
‘ her eyes shone; the “wrapper covered all
bodily defects. Though her hair was gone,
she almost looked pretty.

“J will give you three pounds,” he said.
He had intended offering fifty shillings, but
he was carried away; and, after all, it
would not go against him that he had been
generous to a poor cripple child.

“Three pounds!” cried Glory delightedly.
Then she stopped. She, a business woman, to
talk in that tone, as if she had never earned

money, or handled more than a copper-plece.



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 83

“ Very well,” she said slowly; “I will con-
sider the price. It is good hair, and you will
make a good thing out of it, I am sure.”

This was a proper and_ professional
manner. She felt pleased with herself; a
faint smile illuminated her face. |

“Yes,” he answered good-humouredly ;
“it’s a nice lot, and the price is fair. I
won't say but what it isn’t a little more
than fair—that is to say, the strict market
value. But we won’t touch that. We can
feel we have done our duty by each other.
We close with satisfaction, I hope, on both
sides—I hope so.”

“Yes, I think I can accept the offer,”
answered the child, as she got up from the
chair, and slipping off the wrapper, stood,
in all her pathetic disability, in front of
him.

He looked at her quickly, and turned
away. He got out his handkerchief and



84 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

wiped his spectacles, and coughed two or
three times. Then he went into a small inner
room, and the sound of a key in a drawer
and the clink of money were heard.

He returned presently, and, having cleared
his throat, said apologetically,—

“Tve been thinking it over, and I am
sure I have underrated the amount. Iti
make half a dozen switches, Ill be bound,
so I must pay you rather more.”

“More!” cried Glory. She felt over-
whelmed. “Thank you; I am very much
obliged,” she added quietly. It certainly
was unbusinesslike to manifest surprise.

“Well, my dear, here’s four pounds for
you, well earned. Good luck to you with
it ; and—and I shouldn’t wonder if your
hair took quite a pretty curl in a few days’
time. I quite believe it will.”

“Oh, thank you; you are very kind,”
said the child. The four golden sovereigns



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 85

were in her hand. Four golden sovereigns!
She had never touched, nor even seen, so
much money before. She could hardly
believe her eyes. She clutched them
tightly as she said “ good-day” to the
owner of the shop, and went out into the
street.

What a lot of things they would buy !—
nice things for Jim for weeks and weeks.
And all this money for just having got rid
of some mere hair !

Such a simple little act!

And, after all, it had been a great trouble
to brush. When you combed it, you had
to pull to get the tangles out; and in
summer it was rather hot and heavy, and
perhaps made her head ache. If she had
no headaches next hot weather, she would
know it had been her hair, and she would
feel quite glad.

Fancy—quite glad!



86 GLORY’S. GOLDEN HAIR.

Then, suddenly, she gave a little cry—
a smothered, almost inaudible cry.

No passer-by noticed that anything had
happened. There was nothing to attract
attention in a little hunchback girl with
closely -cropped hair, leaning up against a
shop window, while she gazed at something
inside.

Glory had seen.

She had studiously avoided looking at
herself in the hairdresser’s shop. Now,
casually, as she glanced into a window full
of overmantels and pier-glasses, she had
seen |

Oh, yes! she had seen, multiplied, re-
peated, half a dozen little figures with that
horribly distinct outlme. No golden cover-
ing any more; ali bare, and ugly, and
repulsive to the eye.

She had not realized what it would be.

She stood limply, leaning against the



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 87

framework of the window, her head turned
so as no one could see, while a few silent
tears coursed down upon the four golden
sovereigns lying in her hand.

Tt was so hard; it was almost more than
she could bear. Why was she made like
that, when all those people passing by were
made all right? Not one of them was
made like her. Was it kind of God? She
looked up into the dull, leaden sky—for it
had been raining most of the day—and
frowned.

But, after all, He had given her her hair.
It had been kind of ‘Him to make up by
giving her such very nice hair. And she
had parted with it of her own free will. It
hadn’t dropped out in an illness, or been
cut off by some one else without her con-
sent.

It was entirely of her own accord,—and

perhaps God was pleased. Perhaps Efe



88 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

might possibly look upon it as a brave
deed; not, of course, to be classed with
great brave deeds, but a small brave deed,
—just mentioned at the end of the list.

She pictured to herself all the heroes of
the world—the people who had endured,
who had suffered tortures and privations
‘for Christ's sake—in an endless, long, long
line. And last—the very last—a good deal
behind, small and insignificant, and hardly
noticeable, she came.

“OQ God!” she whispered, “I will not
mind, if you will let me be there with them,
the last of all; but, please, let me be there.”

There was a brightness from behind the
clouds; the sun for a moment pierced the
gloom, and shone warmly down upon the
damp, dull world. Glory looked up and-
smiled.

Then she wrapped her cloak tightly

around her, and after considering for a



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 89

moment, she turned down into a smaller
street and walked rapidly along.

Presently she stopped at a grocer’s shop.
She purposely chose one where she was not
known, where they would not know or
notice anything—no curious eyes.

She began to feel more cheerful. as she
stood and ordered, in a _ lavish manner,
sundry delicacies that Jim would enjoy—
some lemon jelly, and oranges, and a nice
sponge-cake; and at another shop some
beef for beef-tea. She had a basket with
her in which to stow these good things,
and when she had completed her purchases,
she turned her steps towards home.

It was nearly the dinner-hour when she
arrived at Mason’s Row. She was glad of.
that. There would not be so many people
about. Perhaps she would slip through
unobserved. She hoped she might. There

were no boys to be seen; only a woman



90 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

who lived in the same house came out as
she went in. Of course she was surprised.
She started as she looked at the child;
her mouth opened: wide.

“Well, I declare! and whatever have
you been and gone and done with your
hair?” she cried.

But Glory did not reply.

She walked quickly upstairs. There was
no one at home except Jim. He was a
good deal better, and lay, for a change,
upon two chairs in front of the fire.

He was turning over the leaves of a
story-book, and did not look up as she
came in. She hesitated a moment, then she
went up to him and opened her basket, and
held it so that he could see inside.

“Took, Jim,” she said; “ oranges and
sponge-cake and lots of nice things, and
money to buy more besides !”

Jim turned and glanced up at her.



GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 91

His eyes opened wide, he stared blankly
at her for a moment without speaking; then
suddenly he leaned forward and pushed her
away.

“It ain’t Glory,” he cried ; ccicarctinetaeliers
at all. Go away!” His voice raised itself
into a shrill, high key. He turned angrily
from her,.and pulled the knitted covering
which lay over him up over his face.

Glory’s head swam. She clutched hold
of the back of the chair.

“Jim,” she said, “it 7s me—it’s Glory!
TPve done it for you. I’ve sold it to buy
you nice things to eat, so as to make you
get well.”

Jim kicked impatiently with his feet.

“Go away,” he said, from beneath the
clothes. “Tt ain’t Glory at all. I don’t
want no supper or sponge - cakes, nor
nothing. Jt ain’t Glory without her yellow

hair—no, it ain’t.”



92 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

Glory stared at him speechlessly for a
minute, then suddenly she dropped the
basket on the floor. The oranges rolled
out, and the cake, freed from its wrapping,
lay in two pieces under the chair.

But Glory did not heed. She gave one
last despairing look at the muffled-up figure
lying there, then she turned and fled from

the room.



CHAPTER V.

REJECTED.

OR a long time she wandered on she
JP mess noticed where. She went
' further and further from home, her
only idea being to get away from every-
body she knew, whom she had ever seen
before. She began to feel very tired. She
never could walk very far without fatigue,
and she had never been so far as this
before. She could hardly drag one leg
after the other, and yet she felt compelled
to struggle on. She had no plans. She
knew nothing of what she was going to do.
She felt as if she would like to lie down

by the roadside in some dark, quiet place,



94, REJECTED.

and sleep, and forget everything that had
happened.

She had tried so hard to do what was
right, she had given up what she valued
most in the world, and it was all no good
at all. Her offering was refused—rejected.
She was not wanted. She was thrust away.

For she took it very seriously. It ap-
peared to her a solemn, permanent rejection.
That it might be only the mood of a sick
child did not occur to her. She had none
of that quick perception of human nature
which would have enabled her to under-
stand whims and moods. That would have
saved her all this misery.

Poor little Glory! ©

At last she could go no further. She
had wandered beyond the town, into the
surrounding country, to where there were
green fields and farms and cattle, and

hedges flanked the road.



REJECTED. 95:

She sat down on a grassy bank, and
leaned against the trunk of a bleak old elm,
which formed one of a long, straight row
on either side. She sat in a little discon-
solate heap, her face resting upon her
propped-up hands, while she watched the
occasional passers-by in a dull, uninterested
way. It came on to rain—a fine misty
rain. She shivered and cowered close be-
neath the tree. inquiring eyes, put its head over the hedge
and breathed upon her from above. The
wet sparrows twittered in subdued notes
from the branches overhead. A. frog came
out from under a big dock leaf, looked at
her, and hopped away.

By-and-by a pony-carriage appeared, com-
ing round the turn of the road towards the
town, A boy was driving a small black
pony, and a lady was seated by his side.
As they passed she glanced at the little



96 REJECTED.

figure under the tree, and turned to look
back at her again. They had not gone far
when the carriage stopped, and she got out,
and coming to where the child was crouch-
ing, laid her hand upon her arm.

“Why, Glory, is it really you?” she
exclaimed. “I felt it couldn’t be you, and
yet I was obliged to come and see!”

It was her friend. She stooped over the
child, and stroked her cold little hand.

“You must just come back with me,”
she said, without waiting for a reply. ‘“ Tm
going straight home. You shall have a rest
and tea with me.”

Glory said nothing. She looked round
for an instant with quick, wild eyes, as if
she wanted to run away.

“JT don’t want to go with any one,” she
muttered—“ no one at all.”

“Oh, yes, I think you want to come with

”

me,” said Mrs. Norman gently. .“I’m sure



REJECTED. 97

you do.” She took the child’s hand in
hers, though she did not try to draw her
in any way.

Glory hesitated a moment. Then she got
up slowly, and looked up the road towards
the town. “Yes,” she said simply, “I
think I do want to go with you.”

They walked to the carriage together.
And the child sat between them, next to
her friend. — |

The boy whipped up the pony, and they
started briskly on. It was very pleasant.
The air fanned her cheeks, and the carriage
sped along with an easy, soothing motion.

A. feeling of restfulness crept over her.
Her eyes closed; her head leaned against
the arm of her friend. She thought she
was at the gate of heaven. But she
couldn’t go in. She looked longingly at
all the wonderful things she saw, but she

shrank back—she could not pass through.
(985). ~ : 7



98 REJECTED.

It was not for her. She did not even
wish to go in. She was not fit for heaven,
for every one in heaven had golden hair.
The little angels had golden curls. They
all had beautiful golden hair.

Then, as she was gazing wistfully down
the streets of gold, one of them saw her.
An angel with outspread wings flew down,
stooped over her, and touched her as softly
as a breath of air.

And, behold, she was changed! She too
had glorious golden hair—more beautiful,
far, than what she had had before! It
shone and sparkled like sunny rays.

And then she heard some one say, “ Poor
child, she’s tired. I will lift her in—”

In—into heaven !

Then she opened her eyes.

It wasn’t exactly heaven. But it was
next best. She was lying on the sofa in a

sitting-room she knew; soft slippers were



REJECTED. 99

upon her feet; her hat and cloak were
taken away. She felt an indescribable peace.

She gave a contented sigh, as she
watched Mrs. Norman put a small brass
kettle upon the cheerfully blazing fire, and
arrange upon the table two cups and saucers
and two plates.

Her friend did not talk to her much.
She made a remark now and then as she
prepared the tea, or made the nice crisp
toast. And when all was ready she put a
cup of tea on a chair by Glory’s side.
“You look so tired, dear,” she said, ‘you
had better not get up.”

It was very luxurious. She had never
done anything so comfortable before. And
there were no questions to answer. The
comfort of that!

And then it was such a pretty room!
It was the prettiest room she'd ever seen.
And Glory loved pretty things. The



100 “REJECTED.

draping of the blue serge curtains, with
their soft ball-fringe, pleased her eye. The
pictures hanging on the pale-yellow walls
were different from any pictures she knew;
they were photographs from what Mrs.

?

Norman spoke of as “old Masters” in a
reverential tone. Some of them were of
the Virgin Mary, with the Child on her
knee. One was of child-angels looking up-
wards, with little fluttering wings. Another
was the face of a girl looking round, with
unshed tears in her eyes. And there were
pictures of great churches with wonderful
windows and spires; and of lakes and
mountains, such as the fairy stories talked
about, or which in her dreams she some-
times could see. All these things appealed
to the child in a particular, indescribable
way. She felt that if she could live
amongst those serene and beautiful faces,

and all those other beautiful things, she



REJECTED. 101

should always feel quite gentle and good.
To live in such a room must make any
one feel good.

It was not so easy in other rooms—plain
rooms, with only an almanac, and a dresser
full of plates against the wall, and un-
tidy, littering little boys, and no cushions
or sofa or soft carpet on the floor. But,
on the other hand, the Lord had nowhere
to lay His head. She had forgotten that.
Nowhere at all! He must understand the
trials of people who hadn’t pretty things
to help them to be good, and the trials
of people who weren’t quite like other
people. He surely must feel for that!

The picture of Him over the mantelpiece
as a child upon His mother’s knee, looked
as if He. understood a great deal more
than you would expect.

Though He was only a little child, He

-looked as though He knew! Yes, when



Full Text


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/
J~ PRIZE

AWARDED TO
2

AGL Ee tee NK

AS
[ i TS is
A. J. YATES,

Head Teacher.


Gib.O IR W,

GLOTY on



GLORY AT WORK.

ge IL

Thomas Nelson and Sons
GLORY ex

BY

GoM Ss

Author of “A Ride through Wonderland,’ “ Beryl,”

&e. &e.



THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
London, Edinburgh, and New York



1899


Il.

III.

Ivy.

v.

Vi,

CONTENTS.

++

THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER, ....

GLORY’S FRIEND,

TEM

GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR,
REJECTED, .... a S

THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY,

34

49

67

93

- 111
Gar @ hk 7



CHAPTER I.
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

‘ HE isn’t a bit like other children—isn’t
Glory. She’s the hardest little thing
you ever see.”

Mrs. Millar wiped the cornérs of her eyes i
‘with her apron, and sighed. She always |
sighed. An afflicting life with an intemper-
ate husband had been sufficient cause for
melancholy; and now the trials of widow-
hood were not lessened by the disappointing
character of her only daughter.

“One would think, with her affliction an’
e

10 THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMA KER.

all, she would be wanting a little cosseting
and sympathy. Not she! She never wanted
it. She was that tart and off-hand! She
flew into a passion if any one so much as
‘said a, pitying word. ‘I don’ _ want none of
their pity,’ she would cry in her shrill little
voice. ‘I can earn my living just as well
as any of them, for all their straight backs.’
And she would give a toss of her beautiful
silky hair as she spoke.”

Glory lived with her mother and her little
brother Jim in a large manufacturing town
in one of the Midland counties.. They in-
habited a small flat in a model lodging-
house, which stood in a street called Mason’s
Row, on the outskirts of the town. They
were fairly well-to-do. Mrs. Millar was a
‘very good cook, and took temporary jobs in
the large houses and country places around.

But though, when she was working, she

was very well paid for her services, yet there
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. Il

were often weeks when she had nothing to
do at all, and they would not have been so
comfortable if it had not been for the money
Glory earned. For. the child had her occu-
pation too. Ew temper may not have been
sweet, but she was very industrious; and
seven or eight shillines a week, and some-
times more, were generally added to the
household account by her clever, active
fingers.

For as dressmaker to dolls no one could
touch Gloriana. From the most hopeless
medley of materials she would contrive and
she would invent; she would create really
marvellous artistic effects. And her waxen
children always held their own. They
always held their price in the different toy-
shops which gave her employment. They
were picked out and bought by discriminat-
ing purchasers, to the discomfiture of all

other rivals; and they were adimired by those
12 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

who couldn’t buy, as they adorned the shop-
windows.

And the outward effect was not all.
Though the latest fashion was strictly ad-
hered to, and the colours harmonious and
well chosen, yet the under apparel was not
neglected. Indeed, the beautiful neat stitches
in these garments were worthy of minute
examination.

And she was so quick! A box of forlorn
young persons, clothed only in their flaxen
hair and an inadequate chemise, became, be-
neath her nimble fingers, creatures of fashion
-in an incredibly short time.

A corner of the little living-room was de-
voted to Glory’s trade. Here she had her
little low chair, a table, and a shelf within
reach of her hand. The shelf had a rim
round the edge—her own idea—to catch the
feet of the finished dolls, as they sat in

complacent rows with their backs to the
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 18

wall, awaiting their translation to the neigh-
bouring shops.

People used often to drop in to look at
the dolls. They had even been known to
basely imitate a puffed sleeve or a gathered
front for their children’s Sunday frocks.

“No touching allowed,” Glory had written
in a clear, round hand, and pinned against
the wall, so that all could see. And it was
generally admitted that there was some-
thing to be said on her side. Indiscriminate
fingers, all bent on an interested examination,
might not improve these dainty articles. —

And then, too, every one was somewhat ~
afraid of Glory. They thought her un-
canny. And she was so different from them-
selves. She was so small and yet so
spirited, with her pale, intelligent face and
her fearless, dark-brown eyes. And then
she was deformed. Her poor little back

was twisted and bent, and she would never
14 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

grow to be like other girls. You could not
take offence with a poor little afflicted child,
though indeed her tongue could be very
sharp sometimes. She could take care of
herself uncommonly well. Not even the
rudest and roughest boy in the street cared
to meddle with Gloriana; it did not pay.
Something was sure to happen to him sooner
or later—after weeks or months perhaps,
but judgment was certain to follow. Some-
thing would descend from an open window
upon his luckless head as he passed; in-
visible hands administered a cold-water
douche; or his bundle of evening papers
would be jogged out of his arms in a crowd
into the muddy road; or his head would
suddenly find itself deprived of its only
respectable covering. And so she was
treated with a respect which persons of
double her age and size failed to inspire. - a :

And then, too, the whole Row took
THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER. 15

somewhat of a pride in Miss Glory. Even
the rough boys used to exclaim, “My eye!
look at ’er “air!” with a certain show of
uncouth admiration. The women used to
say it made them think of heaven and
angels to see her pass by. i

For Glory’s hair was surpassingly beauti-
ful. It seemed as if nature, to compensate
for her poor crooked back, had lavished
with unsparing hand upon her hair. It was
long, and it was thick. It waved and rippled
all around her like living gold. When the
sun caught it, it gleamed- and shone, and
surrounded her with a halo of glory.

That her name should suit her so well
was a matter of some comment in the
neighbourhood. She had been christened
Gloriana with a little bald pate, and no idea
of the coming justification for the choice.
She had always been called Glory for short ;

and-when, after two or three years, her
16 THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER.

head was clustered with golden curls, every
one agreed that the name became her well.

“Though, indeed, hair is not everything,”
her mother used pathetically to remark,
when the child, whose temper was by no
means angelic, used to throw herself upon
the floor in paroxysms of rage.

The only person her father had ever
“minded” was his daughter Glory. He
was afraid of her. If he had been drinking
more than’ usual, he would slink home in a
real and genuine fear. She always knew.
She would come and stand over him and
sniff with her spirited, little upturned nose,
- and a look of anger and disgust would come
over her face.

“OQ you bad, wicked man,” she would
ery, “how dare you drink up our money
that we want for boots, and bread, and coals,
and lots of other things besides! If you

don’t improve, I will go away! I won't
(085)
THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER. i7

support you any longer--no, I won't! Do
I sit dressing dolls all day to feed a man
like you?—no, I don’t!” And she would
take hold of his arm and give it a fierce
little shake. And she was so small, so
white, so. fragile! She hardly reached
_ higher than his elbow. And he would stare
stupidly at her, never uttering a word; or,
in a shamefaced manner, would look round
helplessly for his wife’ to come to his de-
fence.

This happened: one winter when Glory’s
httle earnings were their only regular in-
come. Her father had been discharged from
his situation for his intemperate habits, and
her mother had fewer jobs than she had
_ ever had before. They did not find the
position of dependence upon their. daughter
very enjoyable. There was too much self-
satisfaction in the way the child doled out

the shillings to be pleasant for the receiv-
(985) 9
18 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

ers; but it was better than going hungry
to bed, el they grew accustomed to the
situation.

It was towards the end, of that winter
that Glory’s father died. He fell under a
heavy wagon during a drunken fit, and was
taken to the hospital, where he remained
till he passed away. The manner in which
Glory bore her father’s death was one of
her mother’s grievances against her. She
refused to shed so much as a tear, and
made impStient remarks at her mother’s
lamentations.

“T don’t see what it’s for,’ she would
say in her clear, decided manner. “He
wouldn’t work. He drank up all our money.
He was only a worry to us both, We
shall get on much better now.”

But this matter-of-fact view of the situa-
tion filled Mrs. Millar with horror. “To
think I should be mother to a child—-and a
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 19

little girl—to say such dreadful things,” she
would bemoan. ‘“ What will happen to her, I
don’t ever inom?

For Mrs. Millar’s grief for her husband
was perfectly genuine. She had loved him
once ; and now death had obliterated all the
trying intervening years—wiped away all
the cruelty, the neglect. And so she wept
and mourned and refused to be comforted,
and thought of him as one whose loss she
would never cease to regret.

And that Glory should manifest so little
sympathy, not only grieved her, it moved
her to anger. That her own flesh and
blood should be so different from herself
appeared to her as most extraordinary.
That her own child was capable of sitting
there stolid and unconcerned, whilst her
mother was bowed down with sorrow,
seemed absolutely inhuman. She could not

understand it at all, and was inclined to
20 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

treat her as if her want of feeling was an
affront to -herself, as if it were almost a
matter of offence between them. Not that
she was not fond of Glory. She was very
fond of her in her way, and she was proud
of her cleverness, and her spirited, self-
helpful ways. But it was to Jim, though
he was four years younger, to whom she
turned for sympathy and consolation, and on
whom she lavished the chief share of her
affections.

Jim was eleven years old. He was lazy,
he was mischievous, he was always tearing
his clothes; but he was charmingly affection-
ate and good-tempered, and used to sit on
her lap and give her a hug whenever she
felt inclined.

But if Jim was to his mother a joy, he
was to his sister a most particular thorn.
Her only peaceful moments were when he

‘was safe at school. But when four o'clock
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 21

had come and gone, and she heard his foot-
steps upon the stairs, she used to set her
small white teeth together and frown.

He was such a tease! He was so mis-
chievous, so untidy! He used to borrow her
things and never return them, and muddle
her drawer, and make a dust and a racket
when she was doing her most particular
work,

And he was so disrespectful to the im-
portant business she plied. He was disre-
spectful and he was rude; though no one
enjoyed more than he did the luxuries it
helped to bring—the hot sausages for
supper, the bloaters, the meat pies.

“Tm sick of all them stupid girl dolls,”
he would say, as he stood with his hands
in his pockets surveying a row of these
fair creatures on their own particular shelf.
“Why can’t you do some boys—sailor

ones, and red-coats, and such? I see ’em
922 THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER.

in the shops, and they’re a sight better
worth than these.”

“ There’s too many boys about by half,” his
sister would loftily reply. “I ain’t going to
bring any more of such bothers as boys into
the place—you needn’t think.” And she
tossed her head disdainfully as she pinned
into position a sash.

“Theyre always staring and grinning
and stickin’ in their toes,” continued Jim,
quite unperturbed at. the taunt, “and look-
ing so pleased with themselves. It makes
an awful lot of women in the place. Why,
theres eleven in petticoats in this very
room,” he added, with a shrill whistle of
disdain.

“And a poor little miserable good-for-
nought youd be if there was no women
in this place,” answered Glory angrily.
“Who'd see to yer clothes and yer food

and yer manners—which wants a lot of
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 28

seeing to—if it wasn’t for we, I'd like to
know ?” ;

“Women is so vain,” said Jim, stolidly.

He got out his knife and whittled at a
chip of wood. The trying part of Jim was
that he never lost his temper. She often
wished he would. It would make them
more even.

“Come here, Jim darling,” called Mrs.
Millar from the inner room, before Glory
could reply; ‘come here and wash your
face, and don’t be riling your sister—and
she not like other girls, as you know,” she
added under her breath, so that Glory
should not hear.

But Glory always heard; her sharp ears
never lost a word. And if there was one.
thing she hated, it was her affliction being
spoken of as a reason of toleration from
the enemy.

“JT hear you,” she cried; “you needn’t
24 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER-

think I don’t hear that! Yes, I hear—I
ain't like other girls. No, I ain’t; and I
hope I never shall be like ’em—leastways
them in this street.” |

And then she sulked for the rest of the
evening; while Jim made interesting con-
versation respecting his doings at “school
and elsewhere, and his mother listened
admiringly as she mended his clothes, or
prepared the evening meal.

Yes, Jim was very trying. He knew how
to hug and kiss his mother just in the way
she liked. He could get round her for
anything he wanted. Of course it was all
done for that. And his mother was so soft
and yielding. He was becoming dreadfully
spoiled. Glory used to feel it was very
unfair. She who toiled and slaved to keep
the family in comforts was not loved like
Jim, was not considered as he was. She

used to brood over it, and feel angry with
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 25

an unjust world. It used to make her feel
more hard and snappish towards the two as
she saw how well they got on together.
How well they could get on if she wasn't
there—except for her earnings! And she
derived some consolation from this thought.
They could get on without her, but they
could not get on so well without her
money. They would miss that.

She sometimes imagined herself running
away and leaving them, just to let them
see how badly they would manage without
her help. She quite enjoyed thinking it
over, and pictured them sitting down to a
very plain supper, and each vainly wishing
in their hearts that she was there.

These were rather morbid thoughts for a
little girl of only fourteen, but the child
was inclined to think too much about
herself. She was always imagining that

people meant to slight her, or did not
9% THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

care about her; and all this is a great
mistake. .

She had not learned, poor child, that
people do not often mean to slight us, and
that if they do, it is very often a passing
mood, for which they are very sorry after-
wards; and that the best way is to laugh
off any thing we do not like, or to take
no notice, or think of something else.

It warms people’s hearts towards us if
we never take their aggravating words
seriously, if we treat them as if they had
never been said. It takes away all inclina-
tion to say aggravating things any more.

But to some natures it is very difficult
to do this, and it takes a great deal of
painful experience to teach them that this
is the better way, or even to make them
understand what it means.

And some never learn it at all, but go

through life making unhappiness out of
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 27

things that were not worth a moment's
thought, and miseries out of things that
ought never to be thought of at all—things
that ought to be taken as, for instance,
the result of a disordered digestion, or
worries of which we do not know.

Now Glory, poor little child, had a nature
which took herself very seriously. And she
took other people seriously too, and espec-
ially Jim—a person who ought never to
have been taken seriously at all. Instead
of laughing at his teasing remarks, or
taking no notice of his tiresome tricks, she
became offended at once; and as Jim was
a lad who took to mischief like a duck to
water, this only made him worse. It gave
just the encouragement which is given to
a teasing nature by the snarls of an animal
at a playful prodding stick. It acted as an
incentive to continuing the game.

Poor little Glory! and she had such

oy
28 THE LITTLE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER.

admirable points. In her small, frail body
was the fine spirit that goes on till it drops.
She would never give in.

She would work, however tired she felt;
and if she had promised anything by a
certain day, she never broke her word.

And though she loved her. work, there
were other things she loved better still,
and which she steadfastly denied herself
except at odd moments, and. on Sundays,
when she rested from the dolls.

For what Glory loved better than any-
thing in the world was a story-book. Whilst
she was reading, she forgot all her woes.
She lived the lives of those she read
about; she laughed, she mourned with
them. No paradise of the imagination
surpassed the glorious scenes she weaved
for herself from the word-pictures out of
books. She, who had never seen anything

.more beautiful than the public parks, or
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 29

the flat country roads and fields which
lay beyond the city—she, when she was
- reading, lived amongst silvery lakes and
snowy mountains, amongst forests full of
birds and flowers, and every entrancing sight.

She always chose books which described
these beautiful things, and she had been
fortunate in having a friend who helped her
in her choice. The mistress of the school
which she had attended until the last two
years always.lent her books, or chose them
for her from the public library when her
own were read.

But Glory had in some matters much
self-control. She read a great deal on
Sunday, and, if the dolls were finished,
she read a little after tea. But though
she looked longingly at some delightful
story put away on her shelf, yet she rarely
opened it until her work was done.

She had a tiny collection of books of her
30 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

own—-some prizes when she was at school,
a few presents from ladies who were kind
to her, and a very few she had bought
herself, when her mother was earning
plenty of money, and did not need hers so
much. They stood in the middle of the
doll-shelf, beautifully neat, and new, and
clean, without finger-marks or “ dogs’ ears,”
or signs of anything but fostering care.
I fear that the notice of “No touching
allowed” was considered by Glory to apply
to the books as well as to the dolls. She
had indeed been known, once or twice, to
lend a book to a particular friend, a very
careful little girl who lived in the next
block. But other people were not en-
couraged to do more than look at the out-
side. And Jim in particular was never
allowed to handle them, or even turn over
the leaves. He did not often try to do so,
either. He retaliated by pretending he
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 31

didn’t care. They were only silly girl-books
after all; not the sort of thing a boy
wanted to read. 7

He liked stories with dash—where “they
rip you up with their daggerses, or roast
and eat you on the sand; where they gag
and carry you off to sea, with manakills on
yer hands; where they light little jires
under yer feet, so you confess the horrid
things you haven’t been and done. That’s
the sort of thing a boy likes to read.”

To tell the truth, Glory liked these
stories too. She liked the strange, wild
places they described—the wonderful moun-
tains and rivers, the animals and flowers
and trees. But she never asked Jim to
lend her one. She used to listen when
he read bits out loud to his mother from
the books he brought from the school
library ; and whilst he was away, she would

occasionally dip into them when working
32 THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER.

at her dolls; but she did not care to appear
interested in Jim’s concerns. And if she
borrowed his books, he might want to
make free with hers, and that idea made
her shudder. Careless Jim, who generally
forgot to wash his hands; and after he had
finished reading, left his book on the floor !
And it was not only with books that
Glory was particular’ She was particular
with all her things. Her clothes were
always neat and tidy, and showed taste and
even a certain amount of fashion as a rule.
Tt would not do to be a disgrace to the
dolls. And she was very particular about
her friends. None but the most superior
little girls were ever admitted to intimacy
by Glory. No one that had not well-brushed
hair and neat shoes, not to speak of irre-
proachable manners, was ever noticed by her.
And so, though Glory was looked upon

as a rather wonderful little person, it is not
THE LITTLE DOLLS DRESSMAKER. 38

surprising that she was not exactly popular.
She was admired by some for her clever-
ness, by others for her beautiful hair; several
people were kind to her, more or less; but,
at the present, Glory was not particularly
loved by any living soul, nor by any living
creature. No dog or cat or bird or mouse
had ever been taken to her heart, as they
are with most children. There was no
httle, insignificant, dumb friend to pine if
she were not there.

But at present she hardly knew how
much she missed; or if she did, it was in an
unrecognized manner, and it did not lead
her to act so as to win affection, any more
than it led her to show it.

There was one exception, indeed. There
was one person who had touched the appar-
ently hard little heart, and had found some’
promise of a fine response; but she was the

only one.
(985) 3
CHAPTER II.
GLORY’S FRIEND.

T was a busy day for Glory. She had
been working hard since early morning,
and now six dolls lay finished in all

their brave attire, and were waiting to be
packed up and carried off to Mrs. Norman’s
emporium of fancy goods and toys.

Glory was brushing her hair. She took
great care of her hair, and bestowed a good
deal of time and attention upon it. It gave
her intense pleasure to hear admiring re-
‘marks as she passed upon its length and
upon its beauty. She wore it quite loose
down her back. It hid, as an obscuring

golden veil, her deformity. And though
GLORY’S FRIEND. 35

she was rather small, well, other people
with straight, strong backs were sometimes
not very tall. There was nothing in
that.

It was one .of her.. secret grievances
against Jim that he used to tease her about
her hair. He was always trying to catch
hold of it and twist it into a rope, or snip
pieces off it surreptitiously from behind,
when she was occupied with her dolls. If
ever he married, he used to say, his chil-
dren should have short hair,- so they
shouldn’t be stuck up and vain, and staring
at themselves in the looking-glass all day.

But amongst the outside world there was
plenty of consolation. It was delightful to
see the tall, grown girls look enviously upon
it, and the women’s eyes soften as they turned
round to gaze upon it as she passed. Once a
gentleman—a well-known artist, people said

—had wanted to paint it. But some one else
38 GLORY’S FRIEND.

was to sit for the face and figure, and so
Glory was offended, and withdrew.

She brushed it out this morning with
extra care, and put on her neat black cape
and straw hat, and got out a pair of gloves.

Then she did up the dolls, each in clean
tissue paper, with precise professional folds,
and laid them in a cardboard box, which
she carefully tied up with string. One half-
finished young lady was left on her back
upon the shelf, and covered with a piece of
~muslin to keep off the dust. And, before
she left, the tabby cat, comfortably snoozing
in front of the fire, was hustled out into the
cold, because once in its extreme youth it
had been known to knock down one of
these waxen personages-on to the floor.

She walked quickly along with her parcel
under her arm, up one street and down
another, until she came to the chief part of

the town, where all the best shops were to
GLORY’S FRIEND. 87.

be found. She stopped at last at a large
corner shop, one side of which was full of
toys, and. with “Mrs. Norman” written in
small gold letters over the door.

If there was one person in the world
whom Glory admired with all her soul, it
was Mrs. Norman. In her eyes she was
altogether beautiful, and altogether good
and kind. She often longed to tell her
what she felt—how grateful she was. But
somehow the words would never come; they
seemed locked up within. her. She could
only talk of something else. She, who
generally found some fault with most people,
she, who troubled herself about no one very
much, she would have turned upon any one
who said a word against her friend. It was
enough for. Glory if she were only in the
same room. It gave her a delicious sense of
peace. It seemed as if all her ‘hard, discon-

tented feelings melted away, and she too,
38 GLORY’S FRIEND.

for the time, had only. gentle thoughts, and
was only good and kind.

Mrs. Norman was a widow. She was well
educated, and she had a rarely understand-
ing and comprehensive mind. Her father
had been a doctor in a neighbouring town.
But he had been able to leave her very
little money, and she had not married suc-
cessfully from a worldly point of view. She
found herself, a few years after marriage,
a widow with a very small capital in hand,
and, being spirited and determined, with
no foolish pride, she had invested it in
stocking a shop, nor heeded the disgust of
many of her friends. Fortunately she pos-
sessed the happy combination of good taste
and a business-like head, and she had made
it answer very well.

People were attracted by Mrs. Norman—
they hardly knew why. There was a seren-

ity about her—the serenity of a person who
GLORY’S FRIEND. 39

has cl storms and knows there may
be more coming, and yet can be serene.

And then she always understood—under-
stood what people wanted, when they ‘did
not know themselves; understood what
they did not want; understood the fussy
elderly ladies, the difficult-to-please young
men; understood the little frightened chil-
dren, who, finding courage to push through
the door, stood speechless in the entrance
with perhaps only a penny clutched in a
- little, hot hand, to spend.
; She understood. They came to her, these
‘little beings, watching through the window
till she should be there. They looked up
into her face and smiled, and knew that she
understood. |

And of all the little creatures in which
she had taken an interest and helped in her
quiet way, I think that Glory appealed to

her the most. Perhaps the isolation of the
~ 40 GLORY’S FRIEND.

child amidst her surroundings, her difficult
and unadaptable nature, moved her sym-
pathy. And then her spirited independence,
her proud honesty of soul, were qualities she
particularly admired. She’ thought she saw
possibilities of what might turn into some-
thing fine, something heroic, in that small,
stunted frame. She experienced a feeling
of expectancy about the child; she had an
idea she might surprise everybody some day.

She always made her welcome, and when-
ever Glory brought her finished dolls, she
was expected to stay to. tea. -

The child looked forward to those visits
with an eagerness which she showed for-
nothing besides. It was a bitter disappoint-
ment to her if, for any reason, she was
prevented from going. a

To-day, indeed, her face did not a ‘so
bright as usual, though, as she came into

the sitting-room, and sat: down in her own
GLORY’S FRIEND. : Al

particular chair in front of the cosy tea-
table, she cheered up a little.

Everything was so delightful here!. The
hot muffins were delicious, and the tea out
of the pretty pink rosebud cup tasted very
good.

And when it was over, the dolls had to
be displayed. It was an especial order for
a shop window—a bride and four brides-
maids, with everything complete. They
certainly looked very imposing and _ lifelike
as they stood in a stately group upon a
newspaper spread out upon the floor.

Every detail was correct—the white satin
dress, the veil, and the wreath, and even the
bouquet of the bride. "And the bridesmaids
were dressed in pink liberty silk, and carried
miniature baskets of pink flowers, and each
wore a locket, presumably the bridegroom’s
gift.

Mrs. Norman knelt down on the floor
42 GLORY’S FRIEND.

beside them, and surveyed them with approv-
ing eyes. She examined the petticoats and
underclothes, and took stock of the cut of
the bodices and set of the train, without a
suggestion that any of them could be im-
proved.

“You have surpassed yourself, dear,” she
said warmly, as she stroked the child’s hair.
“T shall have to give you extra to the price
agreed.”

Glory looked up with bright, pleased
eyes.

“No,” she answered quickly, ‘not a
halfpenny more. You employ me regular
all the year, and at other sorts of work
when people aren’t wanting so many dolls.
And I aren't going to be grasping of your
money now. ‘Ten shillings for the dressing
of the lot, and all the materials from you, is
plenty to pay.”

“Well, it shall be as you wish,” said Mrs.
GLORY’S FRIEND. 43

Norman, “but I think they are worthy of
more. How have you been getting on
lately?” she said presently, as, having
helped Glory to pack the dolls away, she
seated herself by the fire and took up her
knitting.

“‘Middlin’,” answered the child. She
was sitting in a small, low chair oppdésite
her friend, her head resting in her propped-
up hands, her hair falling in a dusky yellow
mass around her. “ But not very well,” she
continued presently. “Jim is so_bother-
some. And mother spoils him something
dreadful. They are as friendly as they can
be. He'll grow up something bad, I should
say.” She stared into the fire with a little
frown.

“J like. to see them good to their
mothers,” said Mrs. Norman meditatively ;
“and he has a nice open sort of face. I

should think he was a truthful sort of boy.”
44, GLORY S FRIEND.

“Oh, -yes, he’s truthful enough,” said
Glory impatiently; “but as for being good
to his mother, it’s just for what he can get
—I know that.” a

“Maybe, and maybe not,” answered Mrs.
Norman. She got up and peeped into the
shop; but there was only one customer
there, to whom the assistant young lady
was attending. So she came and sat down
again opposite the child.

“Tt’s nothing better than that,’ Glory
repeated, decidedly.

“Well,” said Mrs. Norman, “it’s beyond
me to tell people’s motives for what they do.
I can hardly tell my own, they’re so mixed,
so I always try to give credit for good
ones. It’s much the best way. If you sort
_ of expect good motives of people, they get
to suit what you expect, almost without
knowing it.”

“Do they really?”
GLORY’S FRIEND. 45

“Yes, I’ve often seen it so. Try it now
with Jim. ‘Treat him as if you expected
him to be considerate and kind, as if he
wanted to please you instead of being a
plague. Youll see he'll grow to what you
expect—in time. It will take time.”

Glory listened attentively. She was very
quick. She understood the reasoning per-
fectly well. a

“Yes,” she said, “it might do with some
—I can believe that. But it wouldn’t do
with Jim; he’d only laugh for one’s pains.”

“JTt’s worth trying,” said Mrs. Norman,
as she bent over her knitting to pick up a
stitch. _

“There’s another thing against it,” con-
tinued the child, after a pause; “there’s
myself. I -get cross so quick. I answer
him back. If I’m near: enough, I box his
ears, or I push him regular hard.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Norman sym-
46 GLORY’S FRIEND.

pathetically, “one’s self is a great impediment
sometimes. I find it so, as well ag you.
But’ one’s self can be cured.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. But it’s
not very easy when one’s made so. Why
- Weren’t we all made good, and never wanting
to slap people, and be cross to them ?”

“Tt’s .the struggling that’s good for us,
I think,” said Mrs. Norman, as she laid
down her knitting and gazed out of the
window into the gathering darkness—“ the
struggling against our weaknesses and the
things that tempt us to do wrong. Don’t
give in, Glory dear. Try and be brave—a
brave soldier of the Cross. The Great
Commander knows where our difficulties
lie. He knows what temptation is. He
can make allowance. But we must strive
our best.”

“It’s very hard work. I hope He

knows. I suppose He knows I’ve a hard,
GLORY’S FRIEND. 47

wicked “heart,” said Glory thoughtfully.
“He's heard mother say so scores of times.
There’s nothing’ll melt it nohow.”

“Never mind about its melting, or any-
thing else; just try and think about other
people’s hearts, and whether a little love and
sympathy wouldn’t help them a little.
There’s a lot of love wanted to make up
for all the sad things people have to
bear.”

“What's the use? They wouldn’t love
me,” answered Glory rather dolefully.

“ Never mind about whether they love you
or not. You try and love them. There’s
such pleasure in loving people. Think of
One who loved us all so well—who died to
show His love.”

The child nodded her head.
“Yes, I know,” she said.
“And as for people not loving you—it's

a great deal your own imagination, dear.
48 GLORY’S FRIEND.

I don’t find it difficult to love you myself
—not at all.”

Glory didn’t answer for a minute. She
sat with her yellow-gold locks tumbling
half over her face, staring into the fire.
Then suddenly she got up, and, coming close
to her friend, leaned for an instant over
her hand.

But she only touched it with her hair.
Then she returned hurriedly to her séat.
Soon afterwards an influx of customers
came ine and Mrs. Norman had to say
good-bye, and take her place behind the
counter of Berlin wools which occupied one
side of the shop. And Glory, taking up

a parcel of undressed dolls, returned home.
CHAPTER III.
JIM.

HEN Glory reached their little

flat she found it empty. Neither

Jim nor her mother was there.

She took off her things in the little inner
room, tidied up everything, and began to
prepare the table for supper. She had
bought some fresh herrings as she came
along, and she placed them all ready upon
the frying-pan, to await her mother’s re-
turn. She was so occupied with her own
thoughts that she observed nothing unusual
about the place, and it was only as she
moved in the direction of her own particu-

lar corner that she noticed that something
(985) 4
50 JIM.

had happened. She stopped stock-still, with
the broom, with which she had been sweep-
ing up some litter, held stiffly in her hand.
She stood staring upon her own little shelf.
Her cheeks were red; her eyes flashed
fire.

For there was the half-finished doll she
had so carefully put away, propped up
against the wall. On-her legs were some
clumsily-arranged trousers, on her delicate
pink cheeks was smeared a great black
moustache. Her hair was cut short, and
parted on one side, and a bit of wood in
the form of a pipe was stuck between her
cherry lips. There she stood, with bold
mien, and striding legs, and arms set as
much akimbo as the joints would allow.

Glory choked and gasped. She turned
round, as if seeking for a victim on whom
to vent her wrath. The door was half open,

and from behind she heard a smothered
JIM. 51

gigole. She knew right well who the
culprit was. There was no difficulty in
guessing that. She rushed to the door and
looked out. There stood Jim on the land-
ing, at the head ‘of the stairs. The hight
from the room fell full upon him as he
tried to smother his mirth with his two
hands held over his mouth.

“ Ain’t he a nice sort of chap, that smart
friend 0” yours im there?” he said wag-
gishly,

“Tl teach you to—to—” gasped Glory.
She could say no more. But she darted
forward and raised her arm, in which was
the broom, as if to strike.

It took him by surprise. He started
backwards to avoid the blow, and grasped
at the balustrade by his side. But he only
clutched the air, and fell with a heavy,
dull thud upon the hard stone stairs.

She could hear him bumping down, and
52 JIM.

' then silence as he stopped at the turn of
the landing. He neither cried nor called
out. There was not a moan. Glory’s heart
beat in strangling throbs. Her head swam.
She tottered back into the room and lit a
candle, and carried it down to where he
lay. Was he dead? Had she killed him?
Is that what her horrid temper had done?
She shuddered.

She knelt over him, holding the candle
to his face, and held his hand in hers. His
eyes were shut. No blood was to be seen.
Only his face looked very lifeless, and dull
and grey.

She got up and went to a door on the
floor below them, and knocked with loud,
impatient raps. A man opened it, and
asked who was there.

“OQ Mr. Jackson, do come—Jim’s tumbled
down the stairs, and he may be dead!” she

cried, in a shaking voice.
JIM. 53

The man strode up the stairs. He picked
up the boy, and carrying him to his little
room, laid him upon the bed.

“He’s bad, I reckon,” he said, as he
watched him for a moment. “Td best go
and fetch the doctor at once.” And he
hurried out of the house.

He had hardly been gone a minute when .
Mrs. Millar returned. When she saw Jim
lying white and still upon the bed, she |
looked questioningly at Glory—a look full
of reproach, the child thought. Then she
flung herself down by his side.

“Jim, my little Jim, speak to your
mother—say. you aren't dead!” she cried.
«What is it?—what has happened? Will
no one tell me what has happened? What
has happened?” she repeated almost savagely,
as she turned round and looked at Glory.

“He fell on the stairs. It was dark, and

he couldn’t see.”
54 JIM.

“Where were you standing when he
fell?” she cried sharply...

“In the doorway, or only just outside
I never touched him. He fell off himself,”
added the child, as if half-guessing her
mother’s thoughts.

Mrs. Millar did not reply. “My little
Jim,” she said softly over and over, as she
moistened his brow with cold water, and
listened anxiously for the doctor’s step.

At last he came—a kindly man, with a
quiet, sympathizing manner; a man who
spent his life amongst the suffering poor.

He examined the boy very carefully, and
gave several directions to his mother which
were to be stringently carried out. He also
wrote a prescription upon a slip of paper
which he tore from his pocket-book.

“Fle will very likely not be conscious for
some while,” he said. “He must be kept

“very quiet. The blow on the head may


JIM. 55

cause concussion of the brain. But we
must hope for the best,” he added in more
cheerful tones, as he left the room.

For several days Jim lay with hardly a
sign of being alive. He swallowed the
food that was put in his mouth, and
. moaned a little now and then.

And Glory used to watch him through
the half-open door between his room and
where she sat, watched him as he lay,
with his mother. by his side day and night.
And as she watched, the horrible fear hung
over her that Jim was going to die. Through
her—it would be she who had killed him.
There was no doubt about that. She had
- not touched him indeed, but she had
meant to strike him. She had raised her
hand to do so, only he fell back.

It was a dreadful thought.

And even if he did not die, he might be

injured. He might be a cripple all his
56 JIM.

days, like her—bright, lively Jim, who never
for a moment was still, who was so active
and so gay. The fear was always with
her. It haunted her all the day. - She
could not put her heart into the dolls. The
pretty dresses refused to evolve themselves
under her hands. She actually hemmed a
petticoat on the wrong side, and cut an un-
even gore in a pink silk skirt. She who
had so rarely been seen to cry since baby days,
sprinkled a pale-blue velveteen with tears !

It was one evening after the fever had
set in. The doctor had looked very grave,
and said the boy’s temperature was danger-
ously high. He had ice on his head, and
had to be held down in bed, for he tossed
and turned and nearly threw himself out
' upon the floor.

“Mother, can’t I help?” she had said
piteously, coming to her side from time to

time, with her anxious, frightened face.
JIM. 57

“No, there’s nothing for you to do,” her
mother answered, without so much as look-
ing round. “Go and do your dolls—you're
best at that.” :

And then at last the fever left him, and
he lay white and weak—white as the
‘sheets, and with no more strength than a
new-born child.

He must have nourishment every hour,
the doctor said—beef-tea and port wine— .
else he: would never pull through.

Then Glory determined. She saw a
gleam of light. She would work extra
hard to earn more money. That would go
a little way towards making up to Jim. It
would buy him extra things. Her mother
had not been able to work since the acci-
dent. It would be hard to get him all
these luxuries unless she worked extra time.
Fortunately it was close upon Christmas,

and there was a good demand for dolls in
58 JIM.

the shops. She got up early, and she
“stayed up late. And when she next visited
Mrs. Norman, it was with a double-sized
bundle under her arm.

“You don’t look very well, dear child,”
said her friend, as she unwrapped the
maken children and laid them on. the
counter one by one. “How is your
brother getting on? You've been very
anxious about him, I know.”

“He's better,” said Glory with a sigh,
“but he’s dreadful weak. That’s why I’ve
done a few more of them. He is to have
lots of nourishment to eat. And. they’re
not near so handsome as they ought to be.
J couldn’t think out their frocks, anyhow.
That mauve one there isn’t right, I know.
Her bodice puckers on the chest, and her
skirt don’t hang as it should. I oughtn’t
to have more than half the pay.”

“T’m sure I don’t see anything wrong at,
a JIM. 59

all. They're a very nice lot, and will sell
just the same. People are in too much of
a hurry at Christmas time to notice the
set of a skirt. And I am sure the chil-
dren who get them won't care. Don't
worry, dear. Bring me as many as you
like. They sell so fast, the window gets
empty before I know where I am.”

“Have you got a few minutes to spare?”
said Glory in a whisper. She did not wish
the young lady assistant to hear.

“Yes, its dinner-time, or very near, so
I can be spared.”

She opened the door of the little sitting-
room, and they went in together.

“It’s this,” said Glory, as she stood in front
of her friend looking into her face. ‘“ Sup-
pose you had been in a rage with some one—
some one who had behaved very mean;
and suppose you had wished to hit him,

but hadn’t hit him, because before | you
60 JIM.

could do it he fell back and nearly killed
himself—would you feel as if you had
killed him, and ought to be hanged?”

Her small, thin face, in its setting of
golden hair, looked very pathetic.

Mrs. Norman stooped suddenly and kissed
her. She put her arm around her and
smoothed her hair.

“No,” she said, “I should not. Because
it was an accident I could not foresee.
But I should feel that I had caused it in
a way, and it would make me very un-_
happy.” |

“Yes, that’s how I am—I’m awful un-
happy.”

«Well, but still I should not let myself
be nothing but unhappy—at least I hope
not. I should try and see what I could do
to make up. I should make up my mind,
to begin with, that my hasty temper must
be conquered. And then I should see if I
JIM. 61

could not love the person I had injured so
well, that his life would be happier in con-
sequence—I hope I might. I should try to.”

“Fancy your saying J,” said Glory de-
precatingly. “Why, you never have done
wicked things—not one!”

Mrs. Norman smiled a little sadly.

“J have done my share, dear, of wicked
things, as you call them. But I don't
worry myself about it. I think hopefully
of the future, and plan out that I am going
to succeed.”

“JT suppose, now, youd tell what you'd
done?” asked Glory, after a pause. “It
would be quite true to say you hadn’t

>

touched him, and yet—” She stopped and
waited anxiously for a reply. |

“Yes, I. think it would be right to tell.
It is true just by the words that you
didn’t touch him; but you intended to do

so, and that caused the accident. You did
62 JIM.

not mean it, of course. But it happened.
Things often do.”

“T must tell mother?” asked Glory in a
voice of despair.

«“T think it would be the right 5 ier to
do. It would be brave and right.”

“Would it all be forgiven—if—if it’s
known how hard it is?”

“We are forgiven always. He who said,
‘They know not what they do’ of His
murderers, knows how to forgive. But He
tells us we must be true and honest with
each other. So we must obey.”

“Tt isn’t easy,” said Glory. She wondered
if there was anything else she could do—
something difficult and painful instead.
She could not confess. To tell her mother
that she had been the cause of the acci-
dent after all—the accident which nearly
cost the life of Jim, her darling Jim—she

" couldn’t do it. It was too much to ask.
JIM. 63

She turned silently away.

“You will do what is brave and right in
the end, I’m quite sure of that,” said Mrs.
Norman cheerfully. “Come and see me
again soon, in a few days. And, by the
way, I have a bottle of nice port wine—the
very thing for Jim. I had some when I
was ill last winter, and there is just that
one bottle left, waiting for somebody. Stop
there till I fetch it, and you can carry it
with the dolls. Take only one or two this
time, and come again soon.”

As Glory walked home she thought over
all she had to do. There were her temper
and her hard heart, both difficult things to
take in hand. But the most difficult thing
of all was telling her mother the truth
about the accident. But it would have to
be done; she began to see that. She
could not disappoint her friend. Mrs.
Norman had distinctly said, ““You will do
64, JIM.

what is brave and right,” as if there was
no doubt at all about it.
~ Now Glory rather prided. herself upon
being brave. She was afraid of hardly any-
thing. Dark nights, savage dogs, drunken
men, had no effect upon her. And she
could endure pain or fatigue without a sign.
When Mrs. Fellowes’ little boy was run
over in the Row, Glory was passing by.
She wiped away the blood, and told a boy
to run for a doctor, and sent the rest about
their business, without a tremor. Having
done this, however, she did not take much
further interest; and when she learned
afterwards that the child was dead, she
only remarked it was no more than she
expected.

But Glory dreaded her mother’s wrath.
Like many easy-going women whose affec-
tions are centred on one person, Mrs. Millar

could be terribly and unreasonably angry
JIM. 65

about anything to do with that one person.
She was always especially ready to suspect .
Glory of wishing Jim ill. She even gave
her credit for bad motives towards him
when she had no motives at all.

On the present occasion she would be
dreadfully upset. It was difficult to imagine
what she would not think or do. At last,
after much pondering, Glory decided that
she would write it down. It would be the
safest way.

It was not very brave. It was not so
fine a thing as making a clean breast of it
—face to face. But there was her own bad
temper to remember. She might get angry
in the middle of this fine act, and spoil it
all. It might be better to give up trying
to be splendidly brave when your temper
might break down, and just be content
with plain duty, without anything ees
about it at all.

(985) 5
_ &6 JIM.

So one day, when the dolls and the
pieces were cleared away, and Jim was
asleep in the inner room, she got out her
little inkstand and her writing-case, and
wrote with slow strokes and many pauses,
on a clean sheet of paper, her confession.
She made no excuses. She told exactly
how it happened. She explained it all.
Then she folded it carefully up, and put it
in her pocket. She would wait till Jim
was just a little better; then she would give

it, and they would know all.
CHAPTER IV.
GLORY 'S GOLDEN HAIR.

ND now Jim was getting better.
\ His mother went out to work once
"more. She went regretfully ; but
the expenses of his illness had to be met
somehow, and Glory could wait on her
brother.
He was still very weak, and he didn’t
care to talk much. He appeared as if he
had forgotten all about the accident. She
was glad of that.
But he was cross and irritable, and often
refused to eat his food. He used to say
he’d wait till mother came in, and turn

away.
68 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

Sometimes he would lie and watch her
as she sat reading by his side. He would
stealthily twist his fingers in and out of her
long golden hair, as it fell in a shower by
his pillow. It seemed to give him pleasure.

col suppose they have hair like this in
heaven,” he said one day; though he added
quickly, “Of course they ain’t like you. It’s
only your hair is like the angels, people say.”

Or he would mutter to himself, “She
aint like mother. Her fingers feel hard,
and she’s wanting to leave off and go to
her dressing all the time.”

Now all this was very trying when she
was doing her best. She had skimmed all
the grease off his beef-tea ; she shook up
his pillows; she read to him out of his
school magazine.

But Glory was feeling very humble. She
did not complain. She went on with what-

ever she was doing for him just the same.
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 69

But, unfortunately, if one has been sharp
and unloving with one’s tongue to persons
all their lives, a few days’ or even weeks’
amendment does not produce much effect.
It creates a little surprise—that is all A
glimmer of the truth was beginning to dawn
upon Glory now. Her perception, sharpened
by the trial she had gone through, was in-
terpreting many things to which she had
hitherto been blind. Had she ever been
loving to Jim? Had she ever cared whether
he was loving to her? She feared not.

It must be rather nice to be loved. She
admitted as much as this, though to her it
was quite new. She had often despised
Jim’s affectionate ways. She had considered
her mother weak and deluded in adoring
him as she did. Now she began to feel
there was something in it after all. It
might be weak, but it must be very

pleasant. Some one to love you, to mourn
70 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

you when you were away, to welcome you
back again.

“Mrs. Norman is right,” she said to her-
self. “It is a good thing to love people.
I must begin to try. I suppose I have
been loving myself too much, and the dolls,
all this time, and nothing besides.”

‘And for a commencement, it was a good
thing to start in a small way—to try, for
instance, what a little affection would do
with poor Jinny, the tabby cat.

She took it on her knee one day, and
stroked it gently, and tickled its ear, in just
the way cats like. But it was very dis-
appointing. Only main force could keep it
in her lap. It neither curled itself round
nor purred, as it did with Jim, whose lap
was nothing like so comfortable as hers.

It certainly never refused a saucer of
milk; but that could hardly be regarded as |

a favour, and no blandishments would pre-
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 7

vent its slinking away if it saw her approach.
It was very disheartening.

Perhaps it was too late to change.
Besides, it was so difficult to change one’s
conduct, when everybody, even the cat, ex-
pected it to be im certain lines. No one
ever seemed to expect any sympathy or
interest in their affairs. .Her mother never
told her what the doctor said, if she had
not been there. When Jim was at his
worst, she cried with her head turned the
other way.

She seemed pleased indeed with the extra
money Glory earned, but she seemed to
look upon it as if done to please the doer,
not as an offering to any one else.

What could she do to convince them of
her longing to atone? What could she do?

One day she was returning from an ex-
pedition along the principal streets. She

had been busy gathering ideas from the
.

72 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

costume-makers’ and the milliners’ shops for
her waxen family at home. Her quick eyes
noted everything they saw, and she altered
and adapted in her mind to suit the attire
of these little personages.

Presently she came to a window in which
was displayed a magnificent assortment of
ladies’ hair. Auburn, black, brown, and fair
tresses in every shade and texture adorned
the interior. Two beautiful waxen heads,
with the latest style of hair-dressing, turned
slowly on a clockwork pedestal from side to
side. Curled fronts, waved sides, coiled back
pieces, filled every available space. She
watched them for a few minutes with ad-
miring eyes. .

Then an idea struck her.

A pink colour came to her cheeks. She
breathed very fast. She could see an indis-
tinct image of herself reflected in the pol-

ished glass through which she was looking.
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 73

She turned a little sideways, so she could
see her hair. Yes, it was longer than any.
hanging up in the shop. It was thick
enough to make several wavy tails like
those she saw. But could she do it?

Her hair, that was her one pride, that
she kept so beautifully brushed and smooth,
that hid her like a cloak from inquisitive
eyes; her hair, that made up for her being
—unlike other girls—that people turned
round to look at as they passed, that
people liked to stroke with their hands and
feel—could she do it?

It would be a tremendous sacrifice, but it
would prove to them—if nothing else would
—that she was sorry, that she really wanted
to. atone. It would show them that she
was beginning to try to think less of her-
self, that she wanted to please them and
gain their love. Perhaps it would make

them forget all her sharp words and hard-
74 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

hearted ways, and think kindly of her at
last.

For it would mean quite a large sum of
money for Jim. She knew, by the prices.
.In the window, that she would get a good
deal for it. It would be enough to buy
delicacies for weeks to come. They were
getting very short of money just now.
Jim’s illness had been expensive, and his
mother had only lately returned to work.
A vision rose before her of the golden
sovereigns she might count on getting for
such extra good hair. A girl she knew,
with hair not half so thick and long, had
sold it for quite a large sum.

After all, it was nothing very wonderful
to do. People had often done a great deal
more to show their penitence or their love.
They had cheerfully had their lees and arms
chopped off, or given up their food and

drink, and all sorts of things much harder
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 75

than just losing your hair—a thing which
didn’t hurt, and would grow again some day.
‘Of course it was hard. It was hard to
part with the only pretty thing about you
—that made people like to look at you,
instead of turning away to hide their pity.
But it could hardly be called very brave.
Oh, no. It was just a little thing to try
to please them—that was all.

But it must be done at once.

She looked into the shop. Two ladies |
were examining some tortoise-shell combs,
and were taking up first one, then another.
At last they made up their minds, paid the
money, and went away.

Now was her opportunity.

She walked in, and went up to a thin
elderly man, with spectacles upon his nose,
who stood behind the counter.

“Tf you please, do you sometimes buy

people’s hair?” she asked a little timidly.
76 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

It seemed such a different matter to bar-
gaining about the dolls.

“ Certainly, miss,” said the man, as he
rested his two hands on the counter and
eyed her curiously. ‘“ But of course it de-
pends on the hair.”

“Yes,” answered Glory. She compressed
her lips and clasped her hands together
beneath her cape. “It’s nicely-kept hair.
It’s long, and people say the colour is—is
good.” She turned round, so as to display
the wavy masses to better advantage.

“You want. to sell your own hair?”
asked the man. He came from behind the
counter and lifted some of the golden strands,
letting them filter through his fingers.

“Yes,” said Glory, looking round a little
anxiously. “I want a good price; it weighs
heavy.”

“Yes, its a fine head,” said the man

2?

meditatively, “but it seems a pity.
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 77

The displaced hair revealed her. poor little
awkward frame and crooked back.

“Maybe it’s a pity,” answered Glory
shortly, “but it must be done. There isn’t
no other way. Please tell me how much
you could give me for it, cut off pretty
short, but leaving a little.”

“Well,” he replied, “I should have to
weigh it before I could say for certain; but
it’s good hair, I don’t deny, and there’s
plenty of it. I have no doubt I can give
you a fair price, a very fair price. Not but
what the colour is almost too—too uncom-
mon,” he added, as he held a piece up to
the light. “There isn’t a lady in a thou-
sand. has that shade.”

“Ttll dye another shade, won’t it?” said
the child, quickly. She glanced at the
many-coloured wigs and plaits around.
There was plenty of choice.

“Yes, it'll dye, though we prefer to keep
78 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

the natural colour when we can. Were you
thinking of parting with it soon?” he asked
after a moment’s pause.

“Yes, to-day. I should like it done at
once—as quick as you can.”

“In which case will you step into the
back room? Theres no one there at
present, and I will take it off just the
length you wish.”

He opened the door of a small inner
room, arranged with hair-cutting and sham-
pooing apparatus. He placed a chair in
front of a large looking-glass, and asked her
to be seated.

Glory looked at herself for a moment in
the glass, then she turned away. “I think
I will sit with my back to it, if you please,”
she said.

A faint colour had come to her cheeks.

* «To be sure,” replied the man in an en-:

couraging tone.
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. | 79

He really felt sorry for the child, for she
looked little more. He hardly liked the job.
“Her one beauty,” he said to himself. “It
seems a shame; but I suppose she wants
the money, poor little soul. Ill pay her
well.”

“T suppose your mother, or those you
live with, won’t object? They know what
you are doing?” he said presently, as he
fetched a large pair of scissors from a
shelf.

“Oh, no! my mother won't mind. There's
no one else except my brother, who is ill.
We want the money,” she added des-
perately.

She began to fear he would refuse.

“Don’t be afraid, my dear; you shall
have its value—I promise you that. Four
full switches, and perhaps five, and some
curl-fronts from the combings,” he said half

to himself as he brushed it carefully out.
80 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

“How short shall it be?” he continued

presently, measuring out a length in his
hand.
_“ About to my collar,” said Glory quickly.
She had meant to say “shoulder,” but the
price would be better to the collar. The
switches must not be curtailed. She had
noticed in the window before she came in
how an inch of greater length added several
shillings to the price, and it was no good
doing things by halves.

“Just below the collar, we will say,” re-
plied the man, as he gave a_ preparatory
snip in the air; “and tapered nicely, so the
ends will turn, and look quite pretty in a
few weeks’ time.”

“Thank you,” said Glory. She settled
herself in the chair and shut her eyes.
Her hands were locked together beneath
the pink and white wrapper with which she

was enveloped.
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 81

“ Now you can begin,” she added under
her breath. ,

She sat quite still.

The scissors soon did their work. A.
great soft yellow mass lay in a pile on the
table by her side. Her head felt strangely
light and cool.

“ Now we will get to business,” said her
shearer cheerfully, and for a moment he left
the room.

Glory sat motionless in her chair. She
did not look round. Her eyes instinctively
avoided the looking-glasses which surrounded
her. She put up her hand, however, and
felt, and a little shudder passed. over her.

The man returned presently with some
weights and a pair of scales. He took up
the hair in large handfuls, and carefully
adjusted the ounces and the pounds.

It was surprisingly heavy.

“I#s the best head I’ve seen erowing
(985) 6
82 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

natural!” he exclaimed, in a_ burst of
admiration. “The young ladies in the
windows haven’t better; and not one of
them has the colour.”

He considered a minute. His hand
grasped a bunch of the hair, his lips moved
in calculation.

Glory gazed up at him in anxious ex-
pectation, Her cheeks were flushed and
‘ her eyes shone; the “wrapper covered all
bodily defects. Though her hair was gone,
she almost looked pretty.

“J will give you three pounds,” he said.
He had intended offering fifty shillings, but
he was carried away; and, after all, it
would not go against him that he had been
generous to a poor cripple child.

“Three pounds!” cried Glory delightedly.
Then she stopped. She, a business woman, to
talk in that tone, as if she had never earned

money, or handled more than a copper-plece.
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 83

“ Very well,” she said slowly; “I will con-
sider the price. It is good hair, and you will
make a good thing out of it, I am sure.”

This was a proper and_ professional
manner. She felt pleased with herself; a
faint smile illuminated her face. |

“Yes,” he answered good-humouredly ;
“it’s a nice lot, and the price is fair. I
won't say but what it isn’t a little more
than fair—that is to say, the strict market
value. But we won’t touch that. We can
feel we have done our duty by each other.
We close with satisfaction, I hope, on both
sides—I hope so.”

“Yes, I think I can accept the offer,”
answered the child, as she got up from the
chair, and slipping off the wrapper, stood,
in all her pathetic disability, in front of
him.

He looked at her quickly, and turned
away. He got out his handkerchief and
84 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

wiped his spectacles, and coughed two or
three times. Then he went into a small inner
room, and the sound of a key in a drawer
and the clink of money were heard.

He returned presently, and, having cleared
his throat, said apologetically,—

“Tve been thinking it over, and I am
sure I have underrated the amount. Iti
make half a dozen switches, Ill be bound,
so I must pay you rather more.”

“More!” cried Glory. She felt over-
whelmed. “Thank you; I am very much
obliged,” she added quietly. It certainly
was unbusinesslike to manifest surprise.

“Well, my dear, here’s four pounds for
you, well earned. Good luck to you with
it ; and—and I shouldn’t wonder if your
hair took quite a pretty curl in a few days’
time. I quite believe it will.”

“Oh, thank you; you are very kind,”
said the child. The four golden sovereigns
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 85

were in her hand. Four golden sovereigns!
She had never touched, nor even seen, so
much money before. She could hardly
believe her eyes. She clutched them
tightly as she said “ good-day” to the
owner of the shop, and went out into the
street.

What a lot of things they would buy !—
nice things for Jim for weeks and weeks.
And all this money for just having got rid
of some mere hair !

Such a simple little act!

And, after all, it had been a great trouble
to brush. When you combed it, you had
to pull to get the tangles out; and in
summer it was rather hot and heavy, and
perhaps made her head ache. If she had
no headaches next hot weather, she would
know it had been her hair, and she would
feel quite glad.

Fancy—quite glad!
86 GLORY’S. GOLDEN HAIR.

Then, suddenly, she gave a little cry—
a smothered, almost inaudible cry.

No passer-by noticed that anything had
happened. There was nothing to attract
attention in a little hunchback girl with
closely -cropped hair, leaning up against a
shop window, while she gazed at something
inside.

Glory had seen.

She had studiously avoided looking at
herself in the hairdresser’s shop. Now,
casually, as she glanced into a window full
of overmantels and pier-glasses, she had
seen |

Oh, yes! she had seen, multiplied, re-
peated, half a dozen little figures with that
horribly distinct outlme. No golden cover-
ing any more; ali bare, and ugly, and
repulsive to the eye.

She had not realized what it would be.

She stood limply, leaning against the
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 87

framework of the window, her head turned
so as no one could see, while a few silent
tears coursed down upon the four golden
sovereigns lying in her hand.

Tt was so hard; it was almost more than
she could bear. Why was she made like
that, when all those people passing by were
made all right? Not one of them was
made like her. Was it kind of God? She
looked up into the dull, leaden sky—for it
had been raining most of the day—and
frowned.

But, after all, He had given her her hair.
It had been kind of ‘Him to make up by
giving her such very nice hair. And she
had parted with it of her own free will. It
hadn’t dropped out in an illness, or been
cut off by some one else without her con-
sent.

It was entirely of her own accord,—and

perhaps God was pleased. Perhaps Efe
88 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

might possibly look upon it as a brave
deed; not, of course, to be classed with
great brave deeds, but a small brave deed,
—just mentioned at the end of the list.

She pictured to herself all the heroes of
the world—the people who had endured,
who had suffered tortures and privations
‘for Christ's sake—in an endless, long, long
line. And last—the very last—a good deal
behind, small and insignificant, and hardly
noticeable, she came.

“OQ God!” she whispered, “I will not
mind, if you will let me be there with them,
the last of all; but, please, let me be there.”

There was a brightness from behind the
clouds; the sun for a moment pierced the
gloom, and shone warmly down upon the
damp, dull world. Glory looked up and-
smiled.

Then she wrapped her cloak tightly

around her, and after considering for a
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 89

moment, she turned down into a smaller
street and walked rapidly along.

Presently she stopped at a grocer’s shop.
She purposely chose one where she was not
known, where they would not know or
notice anything—no curious eyes.

She began to feel more cheerful. as she
stood and ordered, in a _ lavish manner,
sundry delicacies that Jim would enjoy—
some lemon jelly, and oranges, and a nice
sponge-cake; and at another shop some
beef for beef-tea. She had a basket with
her in which to stow these good things,
and when she had completed her purchases,
she turned her steps towards home.

It was nearly the dinner-hour when she
arrived at Mason’s Row. She was glad of.
that. There would not be so many people
about. Perhaps she would slip through
unobserved. She hoped she might. There

were no boys to be seen; only a woman
90 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

who lived in the same house came out as
she went in. Of course she was surprised.
She started as she looked at the child;
her mouth opened: wide.

“Well, I declare! and whatever have
you been and gone and done with your
hair?” she cried.

But Glory did not reply.

She walked quickly upstairs. There was
no one at home except Jim. He was a
good deal better, and lay, for a change,
upon two chairs in front of the fire.

He was turning over the leaves of a
story-book, and did not look up as she
came in. She hesitated a moment, then she
went up to him and opened her basket, and
held it so that he could see inside.

“Took, Jim,” she said; “ oranges and
sponge-cake and lots of nice things, and
money to buy more besides !”

Jim turned and glanced up at her.
GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR. 91

His eyes opened wide, he stared blankly
at her for a moment without speaking; then
suddenly he leaned forward and pushed her
away.

“It ain’t Glory,” he cried ; ccicarctinetaeliers
at all. Go away!” His voice raised itself
into a shrill, high key. He turned angrily
from her,.and pulled the knitted covering
which lay over him up over his face.

Glory’s head swam. She clutched hold
of the back of the chair.

“Jim,” she said, “it 7s me—it’s Glory!
TPve done it for you. I’ve sold it to buy
you nice things to eat, so as to make you
get well.”

Jim kicked impatiently with his feet.

“Go away,” he said, from beneath the
clothes. “Tt ain’t Glory at all. I don’t
want no supper or sponge - cakes, nor
nothing. Jt ain’t Glory without her yellow

hair—no, it ain’t.”
92 GLORY’S GOLDEN HAIR.

Glory stared at him speechlessly for a
minute, then suddenly she dropped the
basket on the floor. The oranges rolled
out, and the cake, freed from its wrapping,
lay in two pieces under the chair.

But Glory did not heed. She gave one
last despairing look at the muffled-up figure
lying there, then she turned and fled from

the room.
CHAPTER V.

REJECTED.

OR a long time she wandered on she
JP mess noticed where. She went
' further and further from home, her
only idea being to get away from every-
body she knew, whom she had ever seen
before. She began to feel very tired. She
never could walk very far without fatigue,
and she had never been so far as this
before. She could hardly drag one leg
after the other, and yet she felt compelled
to struggle on. She had no plans. She
knew nothing of what she was going to do.
She felt as if she would like to lie down

by the roadside in some dark, quiet place,
94, REJECTED.

and sleep, and forget everything that had
happened.

She had tried so hard to do what was
right, she had given up what she valued
most in the world, and it was all no good
at all. Her offering was refused—rejected.
She was not wanted. She was thrust away.

For she took it very seriously. It ap-
peared to her a solemn, permanent rejection.
That it might be only the mood of a sick
child did not occur to her. She had none
of that quick perception of human nature
which would have enabled her to under-
stand whims and moods. That would have
saved her all this misery.

Poor little Glory! ©

At last she could go no further. She
had wandered beyond the town, into the
surrounding country, to where there were
green fields and farms and cattle, and

hedges flanked the road.
REJECTED. 95:

She sat down on a grassy bank, and
leaned against the trunk of a bleak old elm,
which formed one of a long, straight row
on either side. She sat in a little discon-
solate heap, her face resting upon her
propped-up hands, while she watched the
occasional passers-by in a dull, uninterested
way. It came on to rain—a fine misty
rain. She shivered and cowered close be-
neath the tree. inquiring eyes, put its head over the hedge
and breathed upon her from above. The
wet sparrows twittered in subdued notes
from the branches overhead. A. frog came
out from under a big dock leaf, looked at
her, and hopped away.

By-and-by a pony-carriage appeared, com-
ing round the turn of the road towards the
town, A boy was driving a small black
pony, and a lady was seated by his side.
As they passed she glanced at the little
96 REJECTED.

figure under the tree, and turned to look
back at her again. They had not gone far
when the carriage stopped, and she got out,
and coming to where the child was crouch-
ing, laid her hand upon her arm.

“Why, Glory, is it really you?” she
exclaimed. “I felt it couldn’t be you, and
yet I was obliged to come and see!”

It was her friend. She stooped over the
child, and stroked her cold little hand.

“You must just come back with me,”
she said, without waiting for a reply. ‘“ Tm
going straight home. You shall have a rest
and tea with me.”

Glory said nothing. She looked round
for an instant with quick, wild eyes, as if
she wanted to run away.

“JT don’t want to go with any one,” she
muttered—“ no one at all.”

“Oh, yes, I think you want to come with

”

me,” said Mrs. Norman gently. .“I’m sure
REJECTED. 97

you do.” She took the child’s hand in
hers, though she did not try to draw her
in any way.

Glory hesitated a moment. Then she got
up slowly, and looked up the road towards
the town. “Yes,” she said simply, “I
think I do want to go with you.”

They walked to the carriage together.
And the child sat between them, next to
her friend. — |

The boy whipped up the pony, and they
started briskly on. It was very pleasant.
The air fanned her cheeks, and the carriage
sped along with an easy, soothing motion.

A. feeling of restfulness crept over her.
Her eyes closed; her head leaned against
the arm of her friend. She thought she
was at the gate of heaven. But she
couldn’t go in. She looked longingly at
all the wonderful things she saw, but she

shrank back—she could not pass through.
(985). ~ : 7
98 REJECTED.

It was not for her. She did not even
wish to go in. She was not fit for heaven,
for every one in heaven had golden hair.
The little angels had golden curls. They
all had beautiful golden hair.

Then, as she was gazing wistfully down
the streets of gold, one of them saw her.
An angel with outspread wings flew down,
stooped over her, and touched her as softly
as a breath of air.

And, behold, she was changed! She too
had glorious golden hair—more beautiful,
far, than what she had had before! It
shone and sparkled like sunny rays.

And then she heard some one say, “ Poor
child, she’s tired. I will lift her in—”

In—into heaven !

Then she opened her eyes.

It wasn’t exactly heaven. But it was
next best. She was lying on the sofa in a

sitting-room she knew; soft slippers were
REJECTED. 99

upon her feet; her hat and cloak were
taken away. She felt an indescribable peace.

She gave a contented sigh, as she
watched Mrs. Norman put a small brass
kettle upon the cheerfully blazing fire, and
arrange upon the table two cups and saucers
and two plates.

Her friend did not talk to her much.
She made a remark now and then as she
prepared the tea, or made the nice crisp
toast. And when all was ready she put a
cup of tea on a chair by Glory’s side.
“You look so tired, dear,” she said, ‘you
had better not get up.”

It was very luxurious. She had never
done anything so comfortable before. And
there were no questions to answer. The
comfort of that!

And then it was such a pretty room!
It was the prettiest room she'd ever seen.
And Glory loved pretty things. The
100 “REJECTED.

draping of the blue serge curtains, with
their soft ball-fringe, pleased her eye. The
pictures hanging on the pale-yellow walls
were different from any pictures she knew;
they were photographs from what Mrs.

?

Norman spoke of as “old Masters” in a
reverential tone. Some of them were of
the Virgin Mary, with the Child on her
knee. One was of child-angels looking up-
wards, with little fluttering wings. Another
was the face of a girl looking round, with
unshed tears in her eyes. And there were
pictures of great churches with wonderful
windows and spires; and of lakes and
mountains, such as the fairy stories talked
about, or which in her dreams she some-
times could see. All these things appealed
to the child in a particular, indescribable
way. She felt that if she could live
amongst those serene and beautiful faces,

and all those other beautiful things, she
REJECTED. 101

should always feel quite gentle and good.
To live in such a room must make any
one feel good.

It was not so easy in other rooms—plain
rooms, with only an almanac, and a dresser
full of plates against the wall, and un-
tidy, littering little boys, and no cushions
or sofa or soft carpet on the floor. But,
on the other hand, the Lord had nowhere
to lay His head. She had forgotten that.
Nowhere at all! He must understand the
trials of people who hadn’t pretty things
to help them to be good, and the trials
of people who weren’t quite like other
people. He surely must feel for that!

The picture of Him over the mantelpiece
as a child upon His mother’s knee, looked
as if He. understood a great deal more
than you would expect.

Though He was only a little child, He

-looked as though He knew! Yes, when
102 REJECTED.

you looked into his eyes, you really felt
that He knew.

Her friend was like that—she, too, always
knew. She always understood. You need
never explain--she always explained what
‘one felt instead ; found the right words
which one never could find; knew what
one hardly knew one’s self. Yes, after all
there were things to make up. It was not
every one had such a friend—oh, no!

Perhaps she could tell her so—some day.
She wished she could. But. perhaps she
knew without— She knew most things ;
she wondered if— She started up. Mrs.
Norman had brought in a parcel of toys,
and set them down by her side.

‘“ There, they all want pricing, dear,” she
said; “I know you like to help. They are
shilling toys, so youll know how to do
them without me.”

“TY shall like doing them very much
REJECTED. 108

gndeed,” said Glory. ‘“ What sweet, pretty
little things!” She took up the toys and
examined them one by one.

“Well, I'll leave them with you. I shall
be busy for a little bit. Then J’ll come
back again. And [ve sent a little note to
your mother,” she continued, as she paused
at the door. “One of the girls has taken
it; she passed by your way. I said I
thought you had better stay with me to-
night, as you were not quite yourself—a
little over-tired—and you would return
early to-morrow.”

“Stay with you—here!” cried Glory ;
“what a thing to happen! It is nicer than
anything I know!”

She had quite forgotten her woes.

“Yes, I think we will enjoy ourselves,”
said Mrs. Norman cheerfully. “Now I
must be busy in the shop for a little while,

but I shan’t be very long.”
104 REJECTED.

Glory spent a happy hour in arranging
and labelling the toys. And then when
seven o'clock had come and gone, and all
was closed, Mrs. Norman reappeared. She
had her knitting in her hand, and she came
and sat down near the child.

“What neat fingers!” she said approv-
ingly, as she examined what had been done.
“I think you will have to come and be my
right hand!”

Glory flushed. “T should never run away
—-from you,” she said half under her breath.

“Poor little one,” said her friend gently.
“T can guess all about it. It was a
very brave thing to do.”

The child’s face brightened for a moment.
Then it clouded over. “No, -it wasn’t—
really much—at all,” she said, rather bro-
kenly. “The Lord doesn’t think it much,
or He would have made Jim pleased. He

wouldn’t have let him push me away. And
REJECTED. 105

all the nice things the money had bought.
It wasn’t for no good at all—I wish it was
back on my head.” She turned her face
away.

-“T consider it was a great deal to give
up,” said Mrs. Norman warmly. “It was
very brave indeed. JI don’t know that I
could have done it myself—I don’t think
I could.”

Glory looked round wonderingly for a
moment. Then her face clouded over, and
she said moodily, “It hasn’t been for any
good, anyway. Jim pushed me from him.
‘You ain’t Glory, he said, ‘without your
yellow hair. And I’ve heard mother say
to Mrs. Giles, that lives below us, that the
only good thing about me was my hair.
So she'll not want me neither, now it’s gone.”

“Tt doesn’t do to take to heart what a
sick child says—taking him too by surprise,

and not expecting to see it gone. It
106 REJECTED.

startled him, I daresay. You must allow
for that. I shouldn’t wonder if he is quite
different when you go back.”

“JT don’t want ever to go back,” said
Glory. “I want to go away from them
all—that’s what I want to do.”

“T should be sorry to lose you, dear,”
said Mrs. Norman. She was stroking the
old black cat, that had jumped up and
settled itself in her lap.

The child did not reply. “TJ feel as if I
hated them all—except you,” she exclaimed
at last. There was a sob in her voice.

“That’s nothing. That will pass,” replied
Mrs. Norman confidently. “We all feel
as if we hated people when things go
wrong, and we are tired and cross. We'll
go back together to-morrow, and it will be
all saohts daresay they're missing you
badly now. I shouldn’t be surprised if they

were wanting you back.”
REJECTED. 107

“Not a bit,” said Glory decidedly.
“ They’re always quite happy by themselves
without me. My tongue’s so sharp, you
see,” she added in explanation; “and I don’t
like my things touched, and I never kiss
mother like Jim. Though I’ve been a bit
nicer lately,” she continued after a pause.

“You're going to be so nice they won’t
know you. I’m certain of it,” said Mrs.
Norman, in a voice which you could not
gainsay. :

Glory shook her head incredulously. But
in spite of herself, a curious little bud of
belief was struggling in her mind. Mrs.
Norman was always right; everything she
said came true. If she said some one was
going to be so nice no one would know her,
it would have to come true. It must.

It was rather a pleasant thought. She
began to picture herself sitting in her

corner in the sweetest of moods, letting -
108 : REJECTED.

Jim snip with her scissors, hustling the
tabby-cat no more, offering the dolls to
every one’s inspection, giving her mother
a kiss when she looked tired, and re-trim-
ming her Sunday bonnet to the latest
style; refraining from boxing Jim’s ears
when he was “teasing,” and helping him
to guess his Sunday puzzles, instead of say-
ing she hadn’t time.

All these things she saw herself doing,
and she smiled quite a cheerful smile.
Then suddenly she remembered something ;
she felt in her pocket, and drew out a
folded paper. She put it on Mrs. Norman’s
knee.

“Tt’s not done yet,” she said. “I meant
to do it to-day, but I came away in such
a—a hurry. It’s not very brave. But I’m
tired of trying to be brave,” she added with
a sigh.

Mrs. Norman glanced at the paper, “A
REJECTED. 109

very good way of doing it,” she said en-
couragingly. “We will post it to-night. I
will add a little note to explain. That will
make it all right. And now we won’t
think of our troubles any more. I have a
very pretty story I should like you to read
before we go to bed. There are some chil-
dren in it will make you laugh. They
amused me immensely yesterday when I
was looking it through.”

“TI love stories,” said the child. She
settled herself comfortably amongst the soft
cushions, and read with absorbing interest
for nearly an hour. Then there was a cosy
little ‘supper, and soon after that they went
upstairs. Glory slept in a little room next
to Mrs. Norman’s, with pretty pink and
yellow hangings, and the softest little bed.

She felt quite different in the morning,
quite fresh and brisk and well.

“T think short hair does not become you
110 REJECTED

badly,” said Mrs. Norman as they break-
fasted together, and Glory was enjoying the
new-laid eggs and nice crisp toast. ‘“ My
little girl that died wore her hair quite
short, in a pretty little crop round her
head. She looked so sweet. I daresay
yours will go fluffy too.”

It was the first time she had alluded
directly to Glory’s loss. The child had
almost forgotten about it. Now she smiled.
It was nice to be like the poor little dead
girl—her friend’s child.

After breakfast she dusted some of the
toys, and helped to arrange the window—a
privilege she greatly enjoyed.

And after that they put on their things,

and started for Glory’s home.
CHAPTER VI.
THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY.

LORY had never found the walk
home pass so quickly before. It
generally appeared to her tiring and

long, and the streets very dull and unin-
teresting the latter part of the way.

But it was quite different to-day. She
was surprised when she found herself only
one street from Mason’s Row. It did not
seem quite right, but she felt decidedly
sorry. :

It was correct to feel glad to go home—
she knew that; but how could you feel
glad when the most interesting conversation

‘ was coming to an end, when you would
112 THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY.

have to say good-bye to so delightful a
friend? You could not help feeling sorry; -
for Mrs. Norman had told such fascinating
stories—stories about the little girl that.
died, the little girl with the short-cropped
hair. Not all the good things she had
done, to show what a perfect little girl she
had been—oh, no! Nothing of the kind.
But delightful, comforting stories about her
quick temper, and her high spirits, and her
mischief, and all that sort of thing.

She felt she loved that little dead girl.
She could listen to stories about her all day.

No, she could not help feeling sorry.
And then, too, Mason’s Row looked dingy
and altogether different from the surround-
ings of the last happy hours. She had to
remind herself steadfastly that her home
was really very nice indeed—much nicer
than lots of homes she knew. And they

had three rooms, when lots of people had
THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY. 118

only one or two—three rooms, though some-
what bare and plain. And clothes that
were really very neat. And they always’
had plenty of food, and warm, Comore
fires. And a little brother with nice brown
eyes, and red cheeks—when he was well.
And though he was rather noisy and a
little tiresome sometimes, he didn’t use bad
words like some boys she knew. And he
sometimes got a prize at school. You
might do worse than that—in _ brothers.
And a mother who was very kind; who
was rather downhearted, and wept a good
deal, but that was because-she had lost her
husband, poor thing, and had a disagree-
able daughter, and ‘other trials as well.
But she was always quite kind. And—

“Here we are at your home, Glory,” said
Mrs. Norman.

They had actually arrived.

And as they passed in through the open
(985)
114 THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY.

door of the buildings, they saw some one
coming down the stairs.

It was Glory’s mother.

Her eyes looked red, and she wiped them
with a corner of her clean white apron in a
“mechanical sort of way.

“T’m sure I’m more than obliged to you,
maam,” she said, as she shook hands with
Mrs. Norman, who answered her in a few
pleasant words, but who, to Glory’s dis-
appointment, refused to come upstairs.

“T must get back to business. I’ve had

>

quite a holiday this morning,” she explained,
as she glanced with a smile towards the
child. “I do enjoy a walk sometimes.
Please let her come and see me soon.
She cheers me up, and I want more
dolls.” |

When she was gone, Mrs. Millar turned

and looked at her daughter.
“Who'd have believed it?” she’ said
THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY. 5

wonderingly. “And still you could have
gone and nearly kil—” |

“Mother,” interrupted the child, hastily,
“T should like—to give you a kiss, if you
would be so kind as to stoop down. Just
to show you forgive me.”

Mrs. Millar did as she was asked. Then
she suddenly burst into tears. She sat
down on the stairs, and buried her face in
her hands.

“Who'd have believed it?” she uttered
once more. |

She was torn by conflicting emotions.
That Glory could have actually sold her
hair almost took her breath away. She
could hardly believe it to be true, though
the child’s cropped head left no loophole
for a doubt. She vaguely felt it was some-
thing she could not gauge, could not under-
stand, and she felt aggrieved. That a child

of hers should do a thing of which she
116 THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY.

never could have dreamt it possible, ap-
peared to her as almost an injury. She
resented it.

On the other hand, she could not help
feeling touched. It was an act which must
touch any one with a vestige of heart, and
Mrs. Millar had a good deal of heart. She
felt injured, and she felt touched, so contra-
dictory are our human emotions.

And then, too, she could not refrain from
a reproach.

She had got over her feelings of anger
when she first heard the news of how the
accident to Jim had happened. The child’s
little letter was so simply written and so
evidently sorry, she could not keep up her
anger. And she had been mollified, perhaps,
by Mrs. Norman’s note of explanation, and
her evident appreciation of the child.

But she could not restrain herself from a

reproach, even though she recognized that
THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY. 117

Glory had very nobly atoned. And having
eased her mind of this, she felt that she
ought not to have done so.

And from a little of all these causes
mixed together, she wept.

But Glory was accustomed to her mother’s
tears, and she had expected to be reproached.
She was astonished that she was not more
reproached. She felt quite grateful and
surprised. She watched her mother with
affectionate commiseration for a minute; then
she took one of her hands, gently detaching
it from the apron-covered face, and said,
“ Let’s come upstairs.”

Mrs. Millar allowed herself to be led up
to their own floor, and into the little living-
room. And Glory placed her in a chair
in front of the fire, then she looked
around.

“Where’s Jim?” she asked, as, contrary

to her expectations, he was nowhere to be
118 THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY.

seen. ‘He isn’t gone worse, is he? He’s
always up by now sitting by the fire.”

“ He’s in his room. He’s been fretting all
the night. He’s still in bed.”

“ Fretting—Jim fretting!” cried Glory in
astonished tones. ‘‘ What’s he been fretting
crorgem

“Oh, he didn’t say,” said Mrs Millar
shortly. She turned away and busied her-
self with the fire.

Glory went to the door of one of the
little inner rooms, and looked in.

“Jim,” she said, “I’ve come back. Did
you—did you eat the oranges, or anything I
brought ?”

Jim started. He leaned on his elbow and
looked up at his sister. His face was flushed,
the bed was tumbled and untidy.

“Yes, I ate ’em,” he answered eagerly ;
“but there’s the biggest left. I thought

maybe—we'd eat it together when you came
THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY. 9

back. It’s a jolly big one, and a slice or
two of cake’s left besides.”

“Oh, yes! let’s eat it now. I’m hungry.
It’s a good bit of a walk from Mrs. Norman’s,
though I did have a fresh egg and lots of
marmalade.”

“T can make a horrid grinning thing with
awful teeth,” said Jim confidently. ‘John
Bainbrigg showed me how.”

“Whatever with?” said Glory in interested
tones. She had seated herself by his side,
and was smoothing the counterpane.

“Just with an orange! Would you like
to see?”

“Yes: do make one for me. Then we
can eat it up along with some sugar after-
wards, can’t we?”

“Yes,” said Jim. “I'll make haste, so we

don’t have to wait too long. Fetch me my



knife off the mantelpiece—what I got off

the Christmas-tree.”
120 THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY.

He sat up in bed, and drew a large
orange from under his pillow. Glory spread
an old newspaper in front of him, and
putting a saucer of sugar within reach
which she had fetched from a cupboard in
the kitchen,- she sat down again by his
side.

Jim opened his knife, and sharpened it on
a piece of sandpaper which he placed on
his knee. He then began to carve a long
gash for a mouth, with numerous large square
teeth ; and when that was finished, two round
holes for eyes, and a fine standing-out nose
of peel.

“Ain't he fierce?” said the child at
length, as he held it out at arm’s-length for
his sister’s approval.

“Yes, he’s awful wicked-looking,” cried
Glory. “You have done him weil! He's
like the horrid wizard you read us of one

day, that lives off eating children.”
THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY. 121

“He isn’t bad,” said Jim modestly, “ but
not so good as Johnnie Bainbrigg can do—
not half. We'd best eat him now.”

“What a pity!” said Glory; “but I dare-
say he'll taste very good.” -

_ Jim put the orange on the saucer, and
divided it into two halves, one rather larger
than the other.

He took the smallest half himself, and
pushed the other towards his sister, and
they ate it together, dipping the pieces into
the same sugar, and eyeing each other with
silent but sympathetic satisfaction.

“T say,” said Jim, after they had finished,
and Glory was removing the remains of the
peel—“I say, I once wopped a chap that
said his sister had better hair nor yours. I
wopped him. He wasn’t much smaller nor
me!” |

“O Jim! did you really?” cried Glory in

amazed tones. ‘ You never told me!”
122 THE HOME-COMING OF GLORY.

“No,” said Jim; “I didn’t want to. But
T want to—now. And—and—I’ll wop ’em
all—that ain’t too big!”

He pounded with his clenched fist upon
the bed, greatly startling the tabby-cat, who
was curled up in comfortable repose at his
feet.

Glory stared at him for a moment in in-
tense surprise. Her eyes glistened; a pink
colour came to her face.

Then suddenly she stooped over him, and
putting her arms around him, hugged him
very tight.

“Dear old Jim!” she cried.

THE END.


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