LITTLE DOT

BY

MRS. O. F. WALTON

AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE," "PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES," "CHRISTIE, THE KING'S SERVANT," "WINTER'S FOLLY," ETC.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

CONTENTS

ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER I. THE WINGLESS ANGEL

CHAPTER II. WHO KNOCKS?

CHAPTER III. LITTLE ELLIE'S SISTER

CHAPTER IV. THE LOUD KNOCK IN PLEASANT PLACE

CHAPTER V. ANGEL'S BIRTHDAY

CHAPTER VI. THE GREAT BIRTHDAY

LITTLE DOT

CHAPTER I. OLD SOLOMON'S VISITOR

CHAPTER II. DOT'S DAISIES

CHAPTER III. THE LITTLE GRAVE

CHAPTER IV. LILIAN AND HER WORDS

CHAPTER V. DOT'S BUSY THOUGHTS

CHAPTER VI. SOWING SEEDS

CHAPTER VII. THE LITTLE WHITE STONE

CHAPTER VIII. THE FADING DAISY

CHAPTER IX. OLD SOLOMON'S HOPE

ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER I

THE WINGLESS ANGEL

FROM morning till night, poor Mrs. Blyth was hard at work with her great mangle.

It was a very dismal room; no one could call it anything else. The window was very small, several of the panes patched together with pieces of brown paper, and the dust and the spiders had been very busy trying how much sunshine they could keep from coming into the gloomy little room.

Yet one could hardly blame poor Mrs. Blyth very much, for she had a hard life and plenty to do. A drunken husband, a mangle, and five children! No wonder that she had not time to look after the spiders!

The mangle filled up at least half of the room, and from early morning till late at night it was going backwards and forwards, almost without stopping. When Mrs. Blyth was making dinner ready, Angel turned; and when Angel was eating her dinner with her little brothers and sisters, Mrs. Blyth turned again. And in this way the mangle was almost always going; and old Mrs. Sawyer, lying on her bed next door, would quite have missed the noise it made rolling backwards and forwards, which acted as a kind of lullaby to her the whole week long.

Little Angel was standing by the door with a large clothes-basket in her arms, waiting for it to be filled. She was the eldest of the five children, and she was not quite seven years old. She was very small, and her little figure was a good deal bent with turning the heavy mangle. She had to stand on a stool to turn it, and it made her back ache. But that did not matter,—the mangle must be turned, or they would have no dinner to-morrow.

And now the clothes must be carried home; and they were a very heavy load.

"Is all these for Mrs. Douglas, mother?" said little Angel, when the flannels, and dusters, and towels, and stockings were all piled carefully into the basket.

"Yes, child; there's just six and a half dozen. Now mind you don't spill any of them."

Little Angel tried to lift the great basket, but it was more than she could manage; the blood rushed into her little pale face with the effort.

"Tim will help you," said her mother. "Go and call him; I'll give him a slice of treacle and bread, if he'll come."

Tim, who was a neighbour's little boy, agreed to the bargain, and the two children started together.

On they toiled through the wet and muddy streets, almost without speaking, until little Angel paused before a large house in one of the grander streets of that small town.

"Who lives here?" said Tim, as he glanced up at the bow windows and at the great door with pillars on each side of it.

"This is where we're going," said Angel. "These are Mrs. Douglas's clothes. Help me to carry them in."

So the children went by a long passage to the back door.

They rang twice before any one came to open it; and then the cook came to the door with a very red face, and with very white hands, for she was in the midst of baking.

"You'll have to wait a minute or two," she said; "come inside and put your basket down; it's Miss Ellie's birthday, and I'm very busy. I'll take them out of the basket when these cakes are done."

The two children stood on the mat by the kitchen door, and looked around them. There was a large fire, and the cook was taking a number of little cakes from the oven shelf. They were curious little cakes, of all shapes and sizes. Some were round, some square, some diamond-shaped: some were like birds, some like fishes, some like leaves.

The children peered curiously at them as the cook arranged them on tiny plates, not larger than the inside of Angel's little hand. She was in the midst of doing this when the kitchen door opened, and a little girl ran in. She was much younger than Angel, and she was dressed in a white frock and blue sash. In her arms was a beautiful doll, more beautiful than any doll Angel had ever seen except in a toy-shop window.

The little girl ran quickly into the kitchen; but when she saw the children she looked shyly at them, and crept up to cook's side.

"Now, Miss Ellie," said cook, "are you come to look at your cakes?" and she lifted the little girl upon a stool, that she might stand by and watch what she was doing.

"Are all these for my birthday?" said the child.

"Yes, every one of them," said cook.

"Oh, what a great many! Aren't there a great many, cook?"

"Yes; but I suppose there's plenty of little folks to eat them," said cook, laughing.

"Oh yes," said the child; "there's me, and Alice, and Fanny, and Jemmy; and then there's Nellie Rogers and Joe Rogers, and little Eva; and there's Charlie and Willie Campbell. And then there are all my dollies: they must come to my birthday tea, mustn't they, cook?"

"Oh, of course," said cook; "it would never do to leave them out. Is that a new one, Miss Ellie?"

"Yes; Uncle Harry gave her to me for a birthday present. Isn't she nice? She has curls, cook!"

"Oh, she is a beauty!" said cook. "What's her name?"

"I don't know," said the child; "I can't think what would be the nicest name. What would you call her if she was your dolly, cook?"

"Oh, Emma, or Sarah, or Jane, or something of that sort," said cook, laughing.

"I don't think those are very pretty names," said the little girl; "I would like her to have quite a new name, that I never heard before."

"Well, we must think about it," said cook. "I must go and take the clothes out now, and let these children go."

"Who is that little girl, cook," whispered the child.

"She has brought the clothes from the mangle: her mother mangles them."

"What is her name, cook?" whispered Ellie again.

"I don't know, Miss Ellie; you'd better ask her," said cook.

"You ask her, please, cook," whispered the child again.

So cook turned to the children, and asked them what were their names.

"He's Tim, ma'am," said the little girl, pointing at the boy, standing shyly with his finger in his mouth; "and I'm Angel."

"Oh, cook!" whispered little Ellie, "please, please let me see her wings. Are they tucked up under her shawl? Oh, please do let me see them!"

But the cook did nothing but laugh.

"However did you come by such an outlandish name?" she said, turning to little Angel.

"Please, ma'am, it's Angel for short," said the child.

"And what is it for long?"

"It's Angelina, please, ma'am, for long. My mother read it in a penny number before she was married; and Angelina lived in a palace, please, ma'am, and had gold shoes and a carriage with six horses, my mother said."

"Well, to be sure!" said cook. "And so she gave you that heathenish name, when you haven't got gold shoes, nor a carriage, nor six horses. Well, to be sure!"

"Oh, cook!" said little Ellie, "I think it's a beautiful name: the angels live in heaven."

"She doesn't live there, poor little soul!" said cook compassionately; "I'll be bound it's anything but heaven where she lives. Her father drinks, and her mother has five of them."

"Cook," whispered the child again, "would she like one of my birthday cakes?"

"I should think so," said cook. "Should we give her one?"

And, to Angel's great astonishment, she found herself the sole owner and possessor of a pastry bird, a fish, a star, and a heart; while little Tim was made equally rich.

The children were almost too pleased to say "Thank you!"

"There, now! The basket's ready," said cook; "and here's the money for your mother."

Angel and Tim took up the basket, and turned to go.

"Good-bye, little Angel," said the child shyly; "I do wish you had some wings."

"Cook, don't you think Angelina would be a pretty name for my dolly?" they heard her saying as they went down the steps.

"Ay, it was nice in there!" said Tim, as they walked homewards in the dirty, dismal, muddy streets. "I wish I had a birthday."

"Did you ever have one?" asked Angel; "I never did."

"Yes, one," said Tim; "only once, and that was a long, long time ago."

"What is a birthday?" said Angel.

"It's a nice sort of a day!" said Tim, "When everybody's good to you, and gives you things. One day mother let me have a birthday."

"And what was it like?" said little Angel.

"Oh, the kitchen was swept all clean and tidy, and mother never scolded me once all day, and she made a cake for tea that had lots of currants in it—not just one in each slice, like the cake we have on Sundays. And father gave me a penny and a packet of goodies for my very own! That's the only birthday I ever had. Mother says she hasn't any time for birthdays now."

"I wonder if I shall ever have a birthday," said little Angel with a sigh, as she went in to turn the mangle once more.

CHAPTER II

WHO KNOCKS?

THE mangle went on, backwards and forwards, until very late that night. Little Angel's arms and back ached terribly when the work was finished and she and her mother crept close to the flickering fire.

"Now go to bed, Angel," said her mother.

"Oh, mother, please let me stop a little longer with you. Are you going to sit up?"

"Yes, I must wait till he comes," said the mother wearily, glancing at the large clock which was ticking solemnly in the corner of the little kitchen. "Oh dear, oh dear! what a lot of trouble there is in the world!"

"Mother," said little Angel suddenly, "did you ever have a birthday?"

Mrs. Blyth did not answer at first, but bent lower over the fire. Little Angel fancied she was crying.

"Yes," she said at last, "when I was a little girl, and my father was alive. I wish I was a little girl now."

"Was it so very nice having a birthday, mother?"

"It was very nice having a father," said Mrs. Blyth. "Ay, and he was a good father too; he was a real good man, was your grandfather, Angel."

"What did you do on your birthday, mother?" asked the child.

"Oh, it was a real happy day. My mother made a plum-pudding for us, and my father took us all to the park for a walk after tea. And then, he used always to give me a present. I have one of them yet."

"Where is it, mother?" said little Angel; "do let me see it."

"Oh, it's up on that shelf," said her mother, pointing to some little shelves at the top of the kitchen. "It's a shame to let it lie there when I promised him to read it every day. But what can a woman do that's got a drunken husband, five children, and a mangle?" she said, more to herself than to the child.

"Please let me look at your birthday present, mother," said little Angel again.

Mrs. Blyth stood upon one of the broken chairs, and took down from the shelf an old and shabby book. The cover was half off, and it was thickly coated with dust. One of the spiders had been busy in its neighbourhood, and had fastened one end of a large cobweb to its cover.

She wiped it with her dirty apron, and handed it to the child; then she sat down again, and bent over the fire.

"Here's writing at the beginning, mother," said Angel; "what does it say?"

Mrs. Blyth took the book, and a tear fell on the soiled leaves of the Bible as she opened it.

"Given to Emily Brownlow by her dear Father on her birthday, with the hope that she will remember her promise."

"And what was the promise, mother!"

"That I would read it, child," said her mother shortly.

"But you never do read it, mother."

"No, it's a shame," said her mother; "I must begin."

"Read me just one little bit before I go to bed," said Angel, sitting on the stool at her mother's feet.

Mrs. Blyth turned over the leaves, and in a mechanical way began to read the first verse on which her eye fell.

"'Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.'"

"Who is knocking, mother?" asked Angel.

"It means Jesus Christ, I think," said her mother. "'Behold, I stand at the door and knock.' I expect it means Jesus. I learnt a hymn at the Sunday school about it. I went to the Sunday school when my father was alive. I remember it began—"

"Behold a Stranger at the door, He gently knocks—has knocked before;"

"and then—I can't remember what came next—something about using no other friend so ill."

"I never heard Him knock," said Angel; "does He come when I'm in bed at night?"

"No," said her mother; "I don't think it's that door He knocks at. I don't rightly know what it means."

"Read it again, please, mother."

So Mrs. Blyth read the text again.

"I hope He won't come in to-night," said little Angel, when she had finished.

"Why not, child?" asked her mother.

"Because we've got nothing for supper to-night, only those crusts Billy and Tommy left at tea. I'm afraid He wouldn't like those."

"Oh, it doesn't mean He's really coming to supper," said the mother; "I wish I could remember what it does mean. But it's lots of years since I read it. My father died when I was only ten, and nobody never took any trouble with me afterwards."

Little Angel was very sleepy now, so her mother took her upstairs, and put her into the bed with her little brothers and sisters, and then she sat down on a chair beside her, and buried her face in her hands. Recollections of a father's love and of a father's teaching were coming into that poor, ignorant mind. Imperfect, childish recollections they were, and yet quite distinct enough to make her sigh for what had been and for what might have been.

And so she sat, this poor wife, as the clock ticked on and the children slept. Then, after long hours of waiting, came a great noise at the door, and she rose, trembling, to open it.

Little Angel started from her sleep, and, sitting up in bed, called out, "Mother, He's come; I heard Him knock."

"Yes," said her mother, who was lighting the candle, "I'm going to let him in."

"Oh, please let me go down and see Him."

"No, nonsense, child," said her mother; "your father's sure to be in drink. I'll get him quickly to bed."

"Oh, dear!" said little Angel, in a disappointed voice, as she lay down, "I thought it was Jesus knocking at the door!"

CHAPTER III

LITTLE ELLIE'S SISTER

THE next week there were more clothes to be taken home to Mrs. Douglas's. It was not a heavy load this time, and little Angel went alone. She was passing under one of the bow windows on her way to the passage leading to the kitchen door, when she heard a loud tapping on the pane. She looked up, and there was little Ellie nodding to her, and kissing her hand, and holding up the new doll for her to see.

And when cook opened the kitchen door, and Angel came in with the clothes, little Ellie was just coming in at the other door.

"Please, cook," said the child, "Mabel wants to see the little Angel."

"Bless us!" said cook, laughing. "I'd clean forgot about the child's name. I couldn't think what angel it was at first. You take her, Miss Ellie."

"Please, come," said the little girl; and she held out her tiny hand for Angel to take.

Little Angel had never seen such a beautiful house. They went up a long easy staircase, very different from the one Angel climbed at night when she went to bed. They passed a splendid window, with pretty coloured glass in it, which threw all sorts of lovely colours on the stairs. And the carpet was so soft that Angel could not hear the sound of her own feet.

At the top of the staircase was a long passage, with doors at both sides of it. Ellie opened one of these, and led Angel into a pretty little sitting-room. A bright fire was burning in the grate, and by the side of the fire was a sofa. On this sofa Angel saw a young lady lying, with a very sweet and gentle face. She looked very ill and tired, Angel thought, and had such a kind face that she could not feel afraid of her.

"This is the little Angel, Mabel," said little Ellie, as she took her by the hand to her sister's couch.

"Bring a stool for her to sit on, Ellie. I'm very glad to see you, little Angel."

"Yes; but, Mabel, cook says she hasn't any wings, and she doesn't think she lives in heaven. She says it's only her name."

"Yes," said her sister; "I understand. But some day, I hope she will live in heaven. Do you think you will, little Angel?"

"I hope so, please, ma'am," said Angel.

"But, if you are ever to live in heaven with the Lord Jesus, you must learn to love Him now," said the young lady.

"Is that the door He knocks at?" said Angel, starting from her seat, as a sudden thought seized her.

"What do you mean, little Angel?"

"The door with the great pillars on each side of it, and the brass bell and knocker; is it there He knocks every night?"

"I don't quite understand what you mean," said Mabel gently. "Can you tell me a little more about it?"

"My mother read it in the Bible last night, and it said He knocked at a door and wanted to come in, and mother said she didn't think it meant our door."

"Is this what you mean?" said the young lady. She took up a little Bible which lay beside her, and read aloud: "'Behold, I stand at the door, and knock.'"

"Yes, that's it," said Angel; "and my mother said she had clean forgot what it meant; but she thought it meant Jesus."

"Yes; your mother was quite right, little Angel; it is Jesus who is knocking at the door."

"Then it is this door with the pillars," said the child.

"No, not this door," said the young lady; "it means a door that belongs to you, little Angel. It is not a door that you can see or touch; it is the door of little Angel's heart. Jesus calls it a door, to show you what He means. He wants to come into your heart. He wants you to love Him, and to give your own little self to Him. This is what it means, little Angel."

The child looked as if she did not quite understand.

"Do you love your mother, little Angel?" asked the young lady.

"Oh yes, please, ma'am; very much."

"Then your mother is inside your heart. You love her with your heart, don't you?"

"Oh yes, please, ma'am; she does everything for me, does mother."

"But Jesus loves you better than your mother does; and He has done a great deal more for you than she has."

"Has He?" said little Angel simply.

"Yes, indeed He has. Do you know, He lived in heaven, where everything is beautiful and happy, and He left His home there and came to live down here. He lived a very sorrowful life. He was a poor man, little Angel. He had no home of His own, but went about from place to place, often very tired, and hungry, and faint. And people were very unkind to Him; they laughed at Him and hated Him, and threw stones at Him, and hunted Him from place to place; and at last, little Angel, He was nailed on a cross of wood, and they put a crown of thorns on His head."

"Oh yes, please, ma'am; mother has a picture of that. Jesus is on a cross, and some soldiers laughing at Him; it's in a book on the drawers-top that my father bought at a sale."

"Yes," said the young lady; "that was how He died; oh, such a cruel, painful death! And, little Angel, it was all for you!"

"All for me!" said the child.

"Yes, little Angel, all for you. For, if Jesus had not died, you could never, never have gone to heaven. Shall I tell you why?"

"Yes, please, ma'am," said the child.

"You could never have gone to heaven, because no one can go there who has done any wrong; only good and holy people can go there; all who have done anything wrong must be punished for it. And, little Angel, have you ever done anything wrong?"

"Yes," said little Angel, hanging down her head; "yes, please, ma'am, I have."