How Little Bessie Kept the Wolf from the Door

BY

Mrs. COATES

THE BOUVERIE SERIES OF POPULAR PENNY STORIES 1 PROBABLE SONS. By AMY LE FEUVRE. 41 JACK; OR, THE STORY OF A POCKET- 2 TEDDY'S BUTTON. By AMY LE BOOK. By H. F. CHARLES. FEUVRE. 42 BENEDICTAS STRANGER. By K. E. 3 JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER. By VERNHAM. HESBA STRETTON. 43 AUDREY. By Mrs. O. F. WALTON. 4 SAVED AT SEA. By Mrs. O. F. 44 CLIMBING THE LADDER; OR, BRAVE WALTON. ROBERT DAWSON. 5 LITTLE FAITH; OR, THE CHILD OF 45 IT'S ALL REAL TRUE. By EGLANTON THE TOY-STALL. By Mrs. O. F. THORNE. WALTON. 46 THE MAKING OF TEDDY. By EVA 6 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. By HESBA JAMESON. STRETTON. 47 KITTY AND TODDLES. By Mrs. PHILIP 7 NOBODY LOVES ME. By Mrs. O. F. BARNES. WALTON. 48 A WAIF AND A WELCOME. By MABEL 8 LITTLE MEG'S CHILDREN. By HESBA QUILLER-COUCH. STRETTON. 49 DOT'S PROMISE. By ADELA FRANCES 9 HUNGERING AND THIRSTING. By MOUNT. AGNES GIBERNE. 50 DAVIE'S LEDDY. By GERTRUDE DOUGHTY. 10 CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN. By Mrs. 51 BELLE'S LITTLE EVANGEL. By P. A. O. F. WALTON. BLYTH. 11 HOW LITTLE BESSIE KEPT THE WOLF 52 ENID DUNCAN. By EDITH E. RHODES.

FROM THE DOOR. By Mrs. COATES. 53 SID AND FIDO. By MARY CORBETT 12 CHARITY'S BIRTHDAY TEXT. By SEYMOUR. AGNES GIBERNE. 54 CINDERELLA'S PRINCE. By MARIAN I. 13 HARRY'S WHALING ADVENTURES. By HURRELL. G. E SARGENT. 55 MADE A MAN OF. By SARA M. HARDWICH. 14 MAGGIE'S MESSAGE. By EMMA 56 OLD BILLY THE SWEET-MAKER. By LESLIE. GERTRUDE DOUGHTY. 15 THE VOYAGE OF THE "STEADFAST." 57 TWO BRAVE BOYS. By MARY E. ROPES. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. 58 THE WRONG TWIN. By MARY E. ROPES. 16 ERIC'S GOOD NEWS. By AMY LE 59 HARRY'S MAGIC GLASSES. By A. C. FEUVRE. MERCER. 17 THE BOY WHO NEVER LOST A CHANCE. 60 THE WIZARDS CAVE. By EGLANTON By ANNETTE LYSTER. THORNE. 18 JOYCE'S LITTLE MAID. By NELLIE 61 THE LITTLE ORANGE-SELLERS. By CORNWALL. SARAH M. FRY. 19 DIBS. A Story of Young London 62 HUMPTY-DUMPTY'S SILVER BELLS. By Life. By JOSEPH JOHNSON. MARGARET SCOTT HAYCRAFT. 20 JESSICA'S MOTHER. A Sequel to 63 THE OLD WORCESTER JUG. By EGLANTON "Jessica's First Prayer." By THORNE. HESBA STRETTON. 64 UNDER THE OLD ROOF. By HESBA 21 POPPY'S PRESENTS. By Mrs. O. F. STRETTON. WALTON. 65 LEFT ALONE; and A NIGHT AND

22 OUR STORY. By C. A. BURNABY. A DAY. By HESBA STRETTON. 23 ALONE IN LONDON. By HESBA 66 MAX KROMER. A Story of the Siege STRETTON. of Strasburg. By HESBA STRETTON. 24 NOBODY CARES. By CRONA TEMPLE. 67 THE COTTAGE BY THE LYNN. By 25 ERIC, A WAIF. By EMMA LESLIE. EGLANTON THORNE. 26 PANSY. A Story for Girls. 68 SAM AND SAMMIE. By JESSIE 27 BEN HADDEN'S ADVENTURES; OR, DO ARMSTRONG. RIGHT WHATEVER COMES OF IT. 69 NOEL AND HIS STAR. By KATE M. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. JOHNSON. 28 TAKEN OR LEFT. By Mrs. O. F. 70 A LITTLE CRUSADER. By MARY E. WALTON. MURRAY. 29 LOST! STOLEN! OR STRAYED! By 71 RUTH ARNOLD. By J. BYERLEY. JESSIE ARMSTRONG. 72 A SHAM PRINCESS. By EGLANTON 30 LOST GIP. By HESBA STRETTON. THORNE. 31 KATIE BRIGHTSIDE. By RUTH LAMB. 73 NORAH'S STRONGHOLD. By L. C. 32 TWO BRIGHT SHILLINGS. By EVELYN SILKE. EVERETT-GREEN. 74 AUNT SELINA'S LEGACY. By EMMA 33 THE MERRY-GO-ROUND. By C. J. LESLIE. HAMILTON. 75 SARAH, A PRINCESS. By FAITH 34 WHEN HEARTS ARE YOUNG. By DEAS CHILTERN. CROMARTY. 76 WHEN THE SWALLOWS COME AGAIN. By 35 FIVE LITTLE BIRDIES. By AGNES M. F. WILSON.

GIBERNE. 77 BRAVE FRED; OR, FROM ERRAND BOY 36 CASSY. By HESBA STRETTON. TO PROFESSOR. 37 DAD'S DOROTHY. By M. B. 78 SOLDIER FRITZ. By EMMA LESLIE. MANWELL. 79 HOW DICK FOUND HIS SEA LEGS. By 38 THREE LITTLE GREAT LADIES. By MARY E. PALGRAVE. W. PERCY SMITH. 80 GATTY'S ADVENTURES. By Mrs. 39 MR. HATHERLEY'S BOYS. By EVELYN FORREST GRANT. EVERETT-GREEN. 81 SIR ROLAND'S HEIR. By MARIAN 40 ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS, AND LITTLE ISABEL HURRELL. DOT. By Mrs. O. F. WALTON. 82 A LITTLE SEA KING. By JESSIE M. E. SAXBY.

LONDON: THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. The Dwellers in the Old House

II. The Children's Friend

III. The Wolf

IV. Coming Shadows

V. The Old Clerk

VI. The King's Messenger

VII. Good News

VIII. Kate Donaldson

IX. The Worn-Out Copying Machine

X. The Wonderful Book

XI. Dark and Cloudy Days

XII. Going Home

XIII. Turning Over a New Leaf

XIV. The Ravens

XV. The Wolf at the Door

How Little Bessie Kept the Wolf from the Door. —————————

CHAPTER I.

THE DWELLERS IN THE OLD HOUSE.

NOT many years ago, in the vicinity of Lincoln's Inn Fields, stood an old house, which has only recently been swept away, together with several others, in order to make room for a block of modern buildings which have since been erected on its site. It was said, and there appears to be little doubt of the fact, that it had once been a noble and princely mansion; but at the time of which we write, it was let out in separate tenements to the poor of the surrounding district. And thus it came to pass that up and down that wide staircase, where silken robes were wont to sweep and rustle, pale scantily-clad men and women might be seen passing to and fro to their various rooms, or homes, as they called them, gathered together under that spacious roof. It is of one of these homes that we are about to write.

Matthew Reardon had been at one time engaged on a daily newspaper, but at the period to which we refer, he was endeavouring to earn a precarious livelihood by copying law papers, or any other writing he could manage to procure.

He was a tall, pale, gaunt-looking man, with thin cheeks, and long thin hands, and large hollow eyes, and hair that seemed to have grown grey less from age than trouble; a man who had evidently seen better days, but so long ago that he had well-nigh forgotten them.

It was hard work, writing as he did from morning till evening, and often far into the night; but it would have been harder still if he had not had the writing to do, in which case, he and his family must have starved. As it was, the weary "bread winner," with all his toil, could often earn barely sufficient for their maintenance. It seems strange that knowing this, and with the cares of life pressing so heavily upon him, the old familiar Christ-taught prayer, "Give us this day our daily bread," should have remained unuttered by him. From generation to generation, for eighteen hundred years, this has been the cry of God's children in all ages to their Heavenly Father: but he knew it not.

Mrs. Reardon was several years younger than her husband. Like him, she was always employed. She was a clever needle-woman, and worked for a baby-linen warehouse in the City. The delicate children's garments which she made formed a striking contrast with the coarse although neatly-mended clothes of her own little girls, who used to regard them with profound admiration, sometimes longing to be old enough to help her, and pricking their tiny fingers in the vain attempt; and, at others, wondering what the children were like who were destined to wear these beautiful things, and where they lived, and what they did all day long. Little Bessie, the youngest, used to dream about them as clothed in fine linen, with crowns on their heads, and each carrying in her hand a small golden harp.

If Mrs. Reardon was less silent than her husband, it was not because she had any more heart for conversation, but in the hope of cheering him; and because she remembered what a dull life it must be for those two neglected little children, with no one to talk to or play with them, and nowhere to play but that one room: for she never permitted them to associate with the other children in the house, and had no time to take them out for a walk.

Once or twice during the summer months they had gone with her to the Gray's Inn Gardens, she taking her needlework, and sewing while they wandered about beneath the green trees to their great delight. The children called it "going into the country." But somehow the delicate work got soiled and their mother did not venture again.

It was at Mrs. Reardon's suggestion that Polly and little Bessie regularly attended a Sunday school which had been established in the neighbourhood. It would be a change for the poor children, she said, and might help to amuse and give them something to think and talk of. She liked hearing them repeat their hymns and texts, just as she used to do at their age, although she had forgotten them all long since. But oftentimes of late, they seemed to come echoing back like a pleasant tune learned years ago. More particularly upon one occasion, when she heard little Bessie singing softly to herself:

"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds!"

She remembered how sweet it had seemed to her in the happy days gone by, before sin and sorrow, and neglect of that blessed Saviour, had dimmed the brightness of her first love. While her thoughts still wandered in the past, Bessie had finished her hymn and begun another, the words of which sounded strangely appropriate:

"What peaceful hours I once enjoyed, How sweet their memory still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill."

Too well did Mrs. Reardon know the weary feeling of that "aching void."

The neighbours mistook her reserve for pride. She was, as we have said, a quiet woman, keeping herself to herself, and neither associating or suffering her children to associate with the people of the house. Even the district visitor, as she went to and fro on her labour of love, failed to gain admission.

Upon one occasion, Mrs. Reardon came to the door herself in answer to her gentle knock, and, holding it half-closed in her hand, respectfully declined to receive the offered tract.

"Thank you," said she, "but neither my husband nor myself have got any time for reading."

"On Sunday, perhaps," quietly suggested the visitor.

"On Sunday we are too tired. You had better take the book away, ma'am, if you please. It will save you the trouble of calling again."

"It is no trouble to me," said the lady, with a smile; "I like coming."

"But it is a trouble to me to open the door," replied Mrs. Reardon. "To poor people like us, time is money."

"Forgive me," said her visitor, gently; "I will not detain you any longer. You will allow me to leave the book; I shall not want it."

"Neither do we, thank you all the same," replied Mrs. Reardon. And wishing the lady "Good morning," she quietly shut the door, thereby shutting out one who would have been a kind friend in the hour of trial.

"Mother," said little Bessie, "I wish you had taken the lady's book; I wanted to look at the pictures."

"Poor child!" replied her mother. "I wish now that I had, for your sake."

CHAPTER II.

THE CHILDREN'S FRIEND.

IT was a happy day for Polly and Bessie when God put it into their mother's heart to send them to a Sunday school, in order, as she said, to amuse and give them something to think and talk of. From that time, the poor neglected children were no longer dull and lonely, for Jesus was with them, and they thought and spoke of little else.

"Have you ever noticed," inquires a Christian writer, "that little children sometimes seem to understand something about Jesus before they can be made to understand anything else. I suppose God teaches them. There is no other way of accounting for it."

Doubtless He does. And thus it was that God the Holy Spirit taught the little children of whom we write, even before they were able to read for themselves; opening their hearts to understand and love those heavenly truths "hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes."

The Bible was their one book. Polly was just beginning to read, while little Bessie did not even know her letters. But the latter had a wonderful memory, and could repeat chapters by heart after hearing them read over a few times, stumbling over a hard word now and then, as was only to be expected, but seldom missing the sense. The little Bible was the gift of their kind teacher, and although even Polly could not yet manage to read it well, they prized it very highly, always speaking of it as God's Book. It was the only book they read, and, except the "Pilgrim's Progress," which their teacher read to them sometimes, it was the only book, they knew. Its wonderful narratives with their deep meaning and pathos, yet so simple and childlike, filled their memories and hearth. Their minds were stored with scriptural facts to an extent far beyond their years.

Being, as we have said, the children's only book, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Bessie should often express herself in the beautiful language of Scripture. On a windy day, for instance, she would direct her mother's attention to the trees in Lincoln's Inn Fields "clapping their hands;" or point out in winter the little sparrow "sitting alone on the house-top;" or speak of "the bow in the clouds," after a summer shower. She never spoke of the church, always calling it "the Lord's house," and wondering how it was that her father and mother never "went up to worship in its courts."

Even as the Bible was their only book, so, save their parents, the Lord Jesus Christ was the only friend the poor neglected little ones had ever known. But what a friend! All-powerful, and yet so kind and loving; dying a cruel death upon the cross for them, and living evermore to make intercession for them in heaven; not only graciously permitting, but tenderly inviting, them to come to Him; rebuking even His disciples for their sakes, and for that of every timid and believing child in all ages. "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

It seemed to the little children of whom we write just as if they had heard the blessed Saviour calling to them, and saying, "Polly—little Bessie—follow Me." And so they did in their hearts by faith, and so may every little child who reads this book, if he or she will only believe and come to Jesus.

It was but natural that the sisters, as they passed to and fro through the crowded thoroughfares in which they dwelt, should talk together about those heavenly things with which their young hearts were filled, while He of whom they spoke drew near and went with them, although their eyes were holden and they saw Him not.

Upon one occasion, a child residing in the same house as the Reardons was run over while crossing Holborn and taken to the hospital, where she died shortly afterwards, in consequence of the injuries which she had received. Mrs. Reardon was very sorry for the poor mother, and felt afraid to trust her own little ones out again, even to attend their Sunday school.

"You need not fear about us, mother," said Bessie, "we shall be quite safe."

"So that poor little girl thought who was buried yesterday," replied Mrs. Reardon.

"Poor Susan!" exclaimed Polly, with tears in her eyes. "But indeed, mother, you need not be afraid because—you tell her, Bessie."

"Because," said little Bessie, "Polly and me always pray when we come to a crossing, and ask the good Lord Jesus to take care of us, and not to let us be run over. I used to be very frightened sometimes, but I don't care a bit now."

"And yet little Susan Grey was run over," replied Mrs. Reardon.

"Maybe she forgot to pray," suggested Bessie, thoughtfully. "Or, perhaps, it was God's will."

"Then even those who do pray are run over sometimes, if it is God's will?" asked Matthew Reardon, looking up from his writing with a curious smile.

"I suppose they are," was the hesitating reply. "But God knows best about everything," added the child, decidedly.

"Then you do not think it safe for the children, Matthew?" inquired his wife.

"Oh yes; it's safe enough, if they only look sharp. There is seldom much traffic on a Sunday. If the little ones like going, let them go. Nought never comes to harm."

"Father," asked little Bessie, gravely, "what does 'nought' mean?"

But Matthew Reardon had resumed his writing, and the question remained unanswered.

CHAPTER III.

THE WOLF.

THE home of Matthew Reardon and his family consisted of one large room, with a kind of closet opening out of it, in which the children slept. The walls were of dark oak and panelled, with a carved chimney-piece, and deep recesses, and, best of all, a lofty ceiling, such as one seldom meets with in those close and confined dwelling-places in which the London poor are obliged to live.

It was a gloomy room, nevertheless, especially when evening came, and the dim light of the one candle by which Matthew and his wife worked cast all beyond into deep shadow. Then the little handful of fire gleamed and flickered in the large old-fashioned grate, and the shadows began to dance in a strange grotesque manner on the dark oak panels.

A little apart, in one of those deep recesses, sat, on the evening of which we write—and, indeed, on most evenings—the two little children, close together, and speaking in whispers for fear of disturbing their father. One would almost wonder what they could find to talk about—their mother often did—but somehow, they always seemed to have a thousand things to say to one another, especially after they began to attend the Sunday school.

It was a dull life for those lonely children sitting thus hour after hour in the dusk, and neither playing nor speaking aloud, or having any one to speak to or amuse them, and with no sound to be heard save the scratch, scratch, scratch, of Matthew's pen as it flew rapidly over the paper; or the occasional click of their mother's scissors, although she was very careful in this respect, well knowing how every little noise jarred upon the sensitive nerves of her husband, rendered painfully irritable by over-work.

Sometimes an organ-grinder would come into the street and begin playing a melancholy tune. Somehow street organs generally do play melancholy tunes—which the children loved to hear, although it made them feel sad without knowing why. Matthew the while used to fling down his pen, and running his thin fingers through his hair, walk up and down the room with an angry frown, incapable of doing anything until the last note had died away, and often obliged to work late in consequence of the interruption thus occasioned.

The whispering of the children never seemed to disturb him. So good and quiet were they, indeed, that he frequently even forgot that they were in the room. But their mother never did.

Poor loving mother! God only knows the sorrowful thoughts that filled her mind at those times, and that not because she told Him—it would have comforted her if she had—but because He knoweth the secret of all hearts.

Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, it was the same thing over and over again. The same weary toil, the same writing, page after page, and sheet after sheet. The same hemming, and sewing, and frilling little dainty garments for other people's children to wear. The same long silent evenings in that large shadow-haunted room. The same melancholy organ coming and going. The same stir of human life in the street below, and on the stairs without, surging on but never coming near them. The same grand theme of conversation, of which the whispering children never seemed to tire. The same ceaseless, prayerless struggle constantly going on in the parents' hearts and lives.

The evening of which we are about to write was nevertheless an eventful one to Polly and Bessie. The fire had burned low in the wide grate, and the room looked gloomy enough as Mrs. Reardon rose to mend it, using her fingers for that purpose, in order not to make more noise than she could possibly help, for fear of disturbing her husband.

It was a pleasant sight to the children to watch the bright flames leaping and dancing up the chimney, as their mother stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze; after which she washed her hands, and having carefully snuffed the candle, pushing it a little nearer to her husband, and a little farther from herself as she did so, quietly resumed her needlework.

A long silence ensued, so long that the flames had finished their dance and vanished, and the fire was nearly gone, too, before Mrs. Reardon moved again.