"IT'S ALL REAL TRUE."

The Story of a Child's Difficulties.

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

LONDON:

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD; AND 164 PICCADILLY.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

I. MOLLY AND KATHLEEN

II. A SAD FAREWELL

III. TWO LONELY GIRLS

IV. THE THEATRE AND THE MISSION HALL

V. MOLLY GAINS A TREASURE

VI. DOUBT AND DISAPPOINTMENT

VII. A STRANGE QUESTION

VIII. MOLLY HAS A TALK WITH HER MINISTER

IX. THE REST OF FAITH

X. KATHLEEN IS A SOURCE OF GRAVE ANXIETY

XI. A SISTER'S DANGER

XII. KATHLEEN IS SAVED

XIII. NO LONGER DESOLATE

XIV. A WILLING SACRIFICE

XV. MOLLY'S DIFFICULTIES COME TO AN END

"IT'S ALL REAL TRUE."

CHAPTER I.

MOLLY AND KATHLEEN.

NIGHT was falling on the city of London, a night of wind and rain, following a day of clouds and gloom. The rain was sharp and penetrating, and the wind piercingly cold.

No one would readily choose to walk abroad on such a night. Walking, indeed, was no easy matter, for the pavements were wet and slippery, and on the roads the horses could with difficulty be driven over the mud. Yet, despite the cold and wet, wherever there were shops, the streets were filled with people, for it was Saturday evening, and many poor folk were unable to do their marketing for the morrow until this late hour.

Along the Edgware Road, stalls had been placed beside the pavements, and shrill-voiced costermongers were doing a brisk trade in more or less tempting edibles, whilst more particular purchasers hurried to the shops on either side the way. Into this thoroughfare, from one of the narrower streets opening on to it, came a little girl. She walked with rapid, certain step, and appeared in no way dismayed by the noise and bustle around her.

Threading her way through the crowd gathered on the pavement, she darted on to the road, and nimbly dodging the numerous vehicles, soon gained the other side, and entered a chemist's shop there. The shop was small and already full of customers, so the child, being tiny and insignificant, had to stand in a corner and wait patiently till the chemist had leisure to attend to her. She was a strange-looking child, so small that no one would have taken her to be nearly eleven years old, had not her pale, thin face worn a look of care, far older than her age. Her figure was deformed, as well as stunted, for one shoulder rose higher than the other, and the hump below was scarcely hidden by the shabby cloak she wore.

The child shivered as she stood in the warm, bright shop, and tried to shake the wet from her frock, which was of far too frail a texture for that damp night. Then she pushed back the thick, wet locks of reddish-brown hair that were falling over her forehead, and longing for her turn to come, watched with shrewd glances of her dark, deep-set eyes, the movements of the chemist, as with wonderful quickness he supplied, one after another, the wants of his customers.

Her patience was sorely tried. No sooner did one person leave the shop than another entered, and it seemed impossible for her to get near the counter. Even when she did push her way to it, she was still kept waiting, for she was but a child, and what did it matter whether a child were kept waiting a few minutes more or less? But at last her turn came.

"Well, Molly," said the chemist, sharply, but not unkindly, "what is it you want?"

"Some more cough-mixture for father," she answered, hastily producing a bottle from beneath her cloak, "and, oh! 'please,' sir, will you give me something different this time? That other stuff didn't do father no good. His cough is worse than ever."

"Dear, dear! That's bad," said the chemist, as he took the bottle from the child's hand, "and it's ill weather for coughs. However, I'll see what I can do."

Molly watched him eagerly as he proceeded to prepare the medicine. She wondered how he knew which drug to take from so many, but he seemed to experience no difficulty in selecting. And in a very few minutes, the bottle was again in the child's hand.

"Do you think this will make father quite better?" asked Molly, as she stood on tip-toe to place her shilling on the counter.

"I hope so," he replied, looking compassionately at the child, for he had not the heart to tell her that he believed her father's cough to be beyond his power to cure. "I hope so, my dear, but not if he goes out this weather, you know."

"But he 'must' go out; he cannot stay at home," said Molly, sorrowfully. "He has his work to do, and if he did not work, he would get no money to pay the rent."

"Dear, dear! That's bad," said the chemist again. "But try to get him to stay in for a few days, whilst this rough weather lasts. And give him a dose of medicine to-night and another to-morrow morning, and we'll see what that does for him."

In a moment Molly was out of the shop, and running across the road soon reached her home in a narrow gloomy street, not far distant.

Passing into the house, she climbed a steep, and not too clean, staircase, and entered a back room on the second floor.

It was a long, narrow room, with low ceiling and dingy walls. A slight partition divided it at the farther end, and the space thus enclosed, though hardly larger than a cupboard, made a little bedroom for Molly and her sister Kathleen.

The place was in darkness when Molly entered, save for the faint, flickering light of the feeble fire which burned in the grate. Its light, however, sufficed to reveal the form of a tall, thin man, with stooping shoulders and narrow, contracted chest, who bent shivering over the fire, vainly trying to warm himself by its fitful glow.

"Is that you, Molly?" he asked, in a hollow voice, as the child opened the door.

"Yes, father, it's me," she said, "and I've got some new mixture for you, some stuff that Mr. Turner thinks is sure to make you well."

For thus had Molly's hope interpreted the chemist's few words.

But her father seemed to have little faith in the power of the medicine.

He sighed wearily, then exclaimed, in a fretful tone, "It's little good the mixture is likely to do me, Molly, if you leave that door open, with such a draught coming up the stairs as will give me my death of cold."

Molly closed the door in a moment.

"There's no chance of my cough leaving me whilst this bitter weather lasts," continued her father, "but when the spring comes—yes, when the warm days begin, I may hope to get well. But it is a long while to wait."

"Yes, there'll be a long time first," said Molly, sadly, as standing by the fire she tried to stir the fading embers into a blaze.

"Put on some more coal, child!" exclaimed her father, peevishly. "I'm almost perished with cold. You ought to have made up the fire before you went out. And pray light a candle; I hate to sit in darkness."

"There's very little coal left," said Molly, as, having found a piece of candle and lighted it, she proceeded to place a few tiny knobs of coal on the fire, touching them very tenderly in her consciousness of their value. "I want to make it last over to-morrow. Perhaps the manager will pay Kathleen to-night, and then we can buy some more."

"To think I should live to depend on my darling's earnings!" sighed her father. "Oh, dear! What will become of us? I've earned scarcely anything this week; and next week will be worse, I fear. Molly, the master told me to-day that he saw I was not fit for my work, and he thought I had better keep at home till I was better. And he was right, for indeed I could not make fair work of it to-day. I turned faint, and was obliged to lay down my tools and rest for a while."

"Never mind, father," said little Molly, soothingly, though the anxious look on her face deepened; "you'll be better in a few days, I daresay, and able to go to work again."

Her words were interrupted by her father's violent cough. Molly watched him fearfully as he struggled for breath.

"You must take some of this stuff at once," she said.

And fetching a cup from the cupboard, she poured out a dose of medicine and held it to his lips.

He drank it, and soon ceased to cough. "You are a good child, Molly," he said; "you remind me of your mother, for you've got her ways somehow, though you're not a bit like her in the face. Kathleen is more like her. Ah! My pretty Kathleen! To think she should dance at a theatre for the sake of earning a few shillings! But what could I do? The child wanted to earn money, and it seemed the easiest way."

"Don't you trouble about it, father," said Molly; "Kathleen does not mind it; she says she likes the fun."

"That only makes it worse," he answered, sharply; "it's not the right sort of life for a girl to lead. But you don't understand; how should you, you poor little thing? You don't know what a bad world it is. But you'll find it out one day, Molly. You'll see that it's a bad, cruel world, where no one is to be trusted, and you must fight your own way, for there's no one to help you or care for you."

He spoke in a tone of despair.

Molly's sad face grew sadder as she listened.

"I've had a hard struggle," continued James Macardie, taking a sorrowful review of his past history; "and I've always been the most unlucky fellow in the world. Everything has been against me—yes, everything. I've never had any of the happy chances which fall to some men's lot; such luck as my brother Tom had, for instance. There is he, now making his fortune in Australia, I'll be bound, whilst I—see what I am! No one to look at me would think that my father was a well-to-do cabinet maker at Liverpool."

"Does your brother Tom know how poor you are?" asked his little daughter.

"No, he knows nothing about me. We had words together before he went abroad. He interfered with me in a way I could not stand, and I would have nothing more to say to him. He wrote to me once or twice after he reached Australia, but I took no notice of his letters. I was sorry for it afterwards, and wrote to him several times asking him to overlook the past, but it was of no use. My letters were never answered."

"Perhaps he never got them," said Molly.

"Perhaps not. I can't tell how it was, but I was sorry, for I thought he might do something for Kathleen, if he did not care to help me again. Poor Kathleen! Dancing at a theatre! Oh! I thought to bring her up so differently! I meant to give her a good education and make a lady of her. I was so proud of my pretty Kathleen, with her quick, bright ways and roguish tricks."

These plaintive utterances were succeeded by another fit of coughing, and thoroughly exhausted, he was obliged to lean back in his chair and keep silence.

It was growing late. Molly spread a cloth on the table, and placed thereon part of a loaf of bread, and a piece of hard, dry cheese. Then she sat down quietly by her father's side, regarding him with sorrowful glances, for she thought she had never seen him so ill as he seemed to-night. She was frightened therefore when he suddenly roused from the doze into which he had fallen, and glancing at the old Dutch clock in the corner, got up from his chair, crossed the room with feeble steps and took down the coat and hat which hung behind the door.

"Oh! Father!" she exclaimed. "You will not think of going out again this night! Indeed you are not fit."

"You forget that Kathleen must be fetched from the theatre," he answered, hoarsely, as with trembling hands he put on his coat. "I would not have her come home alone through the streets for the world. I will take care of her whilst I can, my poor Kathleen. I ought never to have consented to her going to that place, but I will do my best to shield her from its dangers."

Molly said no more, for she knew it would be useless. Her face wore a look of fear, as candle in hand she stood at the top of the stairs to light her father, as grasping the rickety balusters for support, he went down.

She listened to the sound of his footsteps after he had passed out of her sight. They seemed to grow fainter and fainter, till suddenly the sound ceased, though she knew her father could not yet have left the house. Molly rushed down-stairs in a moment. Below she saw her father, overcome by sudden faintness, clinging for support to the open house door, while the cold damp air beat upon him.

"Father, come in," cried Molly; "you are ill, you cannot go!"

"No, I must give it up," he murmured; "I cannot go, I have no strength. But oh! Kathleen!"

"Never mind about Kathleen, father," said Molly, as she helped him up the stairs. "I will go and meet her, and tell her how ill you are."

"You go, child! How can you take care of Kathleen? You need taking care of yourself, you poor little thing!"

"But, father, I'm not like Kathleen, you know. I can go out alone in the evening, and no one takes any notice of me. I should be company for her."

"That's true," said her father, as he sunk weariedly into his chair; "no one will notice a child like you. You may go, Molly. Make all the haste you can, and tell Kathleen to come home quickly by the quietest streets."

Molly lingered for a few minutes, not liking to leave her father in such a weak state. But he was impatient for her to be off, and would not let her stay.

So out into the cold, wet streets again went Molly. The strong wind drove against her, and the pitiless rain drenched her light garments, but she struggled bravely on, and soon reached the theatre where Kathleen was to be found. No one observed the little deformed child as she sped along through the wind and rain.

She reached the theatre just as the people were beginning to come out.

Elbowing her way through the crowd at the main entrance, she went to a side door at which her father had told her to await Kathleen. She had to stand for many minutes shivering in the cold ere any one issued from this door. At last, however, it was opened and the players began to come out. Some bold-looking girls appeared, who talked and laughed loudly as they brushed past little Molly, standing in the shelter of the doorway. Kathleen was not with these. Presently she came out alone and stood for a moment on the steps, peering into the darkness beyond.

"I cannot see father anywhere," she said to herself, half aloud.

"I am here, Kathleen!" exclaimed Molly, springing forward. "Father was so ill, he could not come, so he sent me."

"Father ill!" said her sister. "What do you mean?"

"His cough has been worse than ever to-day," replied Molly. "And when he was coming to meet you, he turned so faint, he could not get along. So I've come instead, and father said I was to tell you to come home as quickly as possible by the quietest streets."

"All right, let's make haste," cried Kathleen, starting off at so quick a pace that Molly could hardly keep up with her.

No one looking at the two as they hurried on their way would have taken them for sisters. There was nothing attractive in Molly's thin, wizened face, with its unchildlike look of care, but Kathleen's was a face which could not fail to call forth admiration.

Her eyes shone like stars beneath the bright black tresses which waved on her brow; her cheeks were round and rosy, her lips like coral, and her look free and careless as that of a child. She was in truth little more than a child, being but fifteen years old, though tall for her years, with a pretty figure and graceful bearing. She differed from Molly in character as much as in appearance.

Kathleen was one to take things easily. Care could not lay hold on her as on little Molly. She would be cross and fretful when things were not to her mind, but she had a happy knack of shaking off her annoyance in a moment, and making the most of every bit of enjoyment which came in her way.

Molly knew well that she was not like Kathleen. The sense of inferiority to her sister kept her humble, and she never dreamed of resenting the way in which Kathleen tyrannised over her. Sometimes it pained her to think how different they were. She knew her father did not love her as he loved Kathleen. She was poor little Molly, ugly and crooked; he could take no pride in her.

Little love or care had Molly's childhood known, for her birth had cost her mother's life, and her father had no welcome for the sickly babe which brought such trouble to his home. Yet Molly had lived to repay with warm love the indifference with which her father and sister regarded her. And though she often wished she were more like Kathleen, no envy mingled with the wish to prevent her taking a loving pride in Kathleen's beauty.

"Has the manager paid you, Kathleen?" inquired Molly anxiously, as they went along.

"Yes, he has paid me. Listen!"—And Kathleen shook her pocket that Molly might hear the shillings rattle. "Doesn't that sound nice? What say you—shall we buy some hot pies for supper?"

"Father might like one, perhaps," said Molly. "He has eaten scarcely anything to-day, and we've nothing but bread and cheese. But don't buy one for me. There are such lots of things to buy. We want coals and candles, and almost everything, I think."

"I wonder when father will be able to do full work again," said Kathleen, discontentedly; "it's rather hard that my money should have to go for coals and candles."

"Kathleen," asked Molly, gravely, "have you ever thought—what if father should die?"

Kathleen started at the unexpected question, and the colour left her cheek for a moment, but it quickly returned as she replied in a tone of angry remonstrance:

"What do you mean, Molly, by saying such a thing? Father is not likely to die; there is nothing the matter with him but a cough. I wish you would not frighten me so."

"I am very sorry," returned Molly, humbly. "I did not mean to frighten you."

"What can have put such a thought into your head, I can't imagine," added Kathleen, still looking disturbed.

"I don't know," said Molly, "it came to me quite suddenly, and I could not get rid of it. But I'm glad you think it won't happen."

"Of course not. Don't name such a thing to me again, pray."

"No, I won't," said little Molly; and she kept her word.

CHAPTER II.

A SAD FAREWELL.

IT was Sunday night, some weeks later. The bells of the churches rang clearly on the keen frosty air, and from the squares and terraces lying near the Edgware Road numbers of well-dressed folks were hastening to attend evening service. Not that all who trod the pavements were abroad for so good a purpose. There were at least as many pleasure-seekers as church-goers passing along the road. The clatter of cabs and omnibuses was almost as great as on a week-day. Here and there a shop might be seen open, whilst at every corner stood groups of idle lads and giddy girls, whose empty laughter fell harshly on the ear. Wending her way amidst the motley crowd of pleasure-seekers and church-goers, with quick step and eager anxious face, came little Molly.

But it was neither pleasure nor piety which had brought her forth on this sharp winter's night. She knew little enough of either, poor child. She had never been inside a church in her life, and her knowledge of religion was limited to some vague notions picked up in the days when her father had been able to send her to school. She knew the name of God as that of a mighty Being who lived in a far-off place called heaven. But of the Father's love for His children, and the Son He gave to save them, she was as ignorant as any heathen child.

Perhaps if her mother had lived, Molly would have learned to love the Saviour. But her father had no religious faith, and his children had grown up with scarce any knowledge of Christian truth.

It was a sad errand on which Molly was bound this evening. She was hurrying along to find the parish doctor, and get him to come to her father, who to-night was so very ill that even Kathleen was alarmed. He had not gone to work since the day when he returned home so ill. His strength had declined rapidly from that time, and now for many days, he had been unable to leave his bed.