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Page 2
"Your broken-hearted but loving,
"Lizzie.
"P.S.--She is five years old and strong and healthy. I had her
christened Jessamine May to remind me of the jessamine and the
May-trees at home, for I love my old home dearer than any place in
the world. Forgive me, dear father and mother, and be good to my
precious darling."
For minutes after he had reached the end of the letter, poor Thomas
Dawson sat with tears running fast over his weather-worn cheeks.
"My little maid," he kept saying to himself, with a sob in his
breath, "my Lizzie starving! starving! and me with a plenty and to
spare!" It was his own child he was thinking of, his own Lizzie, the
little maiden who had been the apple of his eye, the joy and pride of
his life--and this was what she had come to!
The kettle sang and boiled on the hob, the fire burnt clear, but the
loaf lay on the table uncut, and still the old man sat staring before
him at the letter spread on the table, heeding nothing until a
thought came which roused him completely--though only to a deeper
sense of trouble. "However am I going to break the news to mother,"
he groaned. "Oh, my! but it'll upset her something cruel--and that
lazy, good-for-nothing fellow that she could never abide, have
brought it all upon us!"
His thoughts and his wonderings, though, were brought to a sudden
stop by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. "Why, Thomas, you were
so quiet I thought you must be asleep, or ill, or something, and I
was so worried I had to get up at last and come down and see."
Then, as her husband turned to her, and she caught sight of his face,
she grew really alarmed. "What is it? What has happened? There is
trouble, I can see it. Tell me what it is, quick, for pity's sake.
Don't 'ee keep me waiting."
He rose, and gently putting her into the chair he had been occupying,
he handed her Lizzie's letter. "That's the trouble, mother," he
said; "it might have been worse--that's all I can say. You must read
it for yourself, it'd choke me to do so if I was to try," and he went
away to the door and stood there gazing out at the sunny garden where
the daffodils bowed gently before the soft breeze, and the crocuses
opened their golden cups to the sun. But he saw nothing, all his
mind was given to his wife, and the letter she was reading, and to
wondering how she would bear it, and what he could say to comfort
her.
At last a long low cry reached him, and he turned hastily back into
the kitchen; but, instead of seeing her white and shaken and weeping,
as he was prepared to see her, the face that looked up to him was
quivering with eagerness and love and joy.
"She's sending us her little one, father!" she gasped in a voice
quavering with glad excitement. "Lizzie's little girl, our own
little grandchild! We shall have a child about the place again,
something to love and work for. You see, Lizzie turns to us in her
trouble, poor girl, and it must be a terrible trouble to her," with a
momentary sadness dimming the joy in her eyes. "But, oh, I am so
thankful, so happy." Then, springing to her feet, "I am well now!
this is the medicine I wanted. Father, when do you think she will
come? I must get the place all nice and tidy, and a room ready for
her, in good time too, and it seems to me I'd best set to work at
once or I shall never get a half done!"
Thomas did not say much, his heart was too full for speech, but the
inexpressible relief he felt showed in his face and his blue eyes.
"I'm glad you takes it like that, mother," he said simply, "I was
afraid."
"Afraid! afraid of what? That I shouldn't want her!"
But at that moment the kettle boiled over with a great hiss, and
brought them back to everyday affairs again.
"Well, any way," said Thomas, with a happy smile on his pleasant old
face, "we can allow ourselves time for a bit of breakfast, or maybe
when she does come we shall be past speaking a word to show her she's
welcome," and while both of them laughed over his little joke, he
made the long-delayed cup of tea, and, though both were too excited
to eat, they sat down together to their breakfast.
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