LITTLE SUNBEAM

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF "GRANFER," ETC.

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY MYRA K. HUGHES

LONDON

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY

BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE [All rights reserved]

PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON

BY THE SAME AUTHOR GRANFER, and ONE CHRISTMAS TIME.

Price 1s.

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY,

Sanctuary, Westminster, S. W.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. KNOCKED DOWN

II. CONCERNING AUNT CAROLINE

III. THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION

IV. PEGGY'S FIRST DAY AT LOWER BRIMLEY

V. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

VI. MISS LEIGHTON'S DISCOVERY

VII. A GREAT SURPRISE

VIII. CONCERNING ELLEN BARNES

IX. TEA AT LOWER BRIMLEY

X. GOOD-BYES

XI. HOME AGAIN

XII. AUNT CAROLINE'S DISAPPOINTMENT

XIII. PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS

XIV. CONCLUSION

LITTLE SUNBEAM

CHAPTER I

KNOCKED DOWN

"COME along, Billy. Mother said we were not to be long; and I'm sure we've been more than half an hour."

The speaker—a little girl of about nine years old, clad in a somewhat shabby blue serge coat and skirt, with a Tam o' Shanter cap on her golden curls—tried to pull her brother away from the toy shop window into which he was gazing longingly; but he resisted, and still lingered.

"There's plenty of time, Peggy," he assured her. "You know we never have tea till five o'clock, and you can't imagine what a heap of jolly things there are in this window. I wish you could see them."

"I wish I could," she answered. "Never mind, you can tell me all about them by-and-by."

It was a cold, dull, February day; but it did not rain, and the street was thronged with vehicles, whilst the pedestrians—mostly of the lower classes, for the district was a poor one—hustled against each other on the pavements. No one took any notice of the two children who had been standing before a toy shop window for the last ten minutes. And, indeed, there was nothing about them to attract the observation of a casual observer, although the countenance of the little girl, with its finely-cut features and sweet expression, possessed a delicate beauty which was certainly out of the common. No one looking at Peggy Pringle would have guessed that she was blind, for her eyes, in colour the darkest blue, were as clear as crystal; but the sad fact was that the blessing of sight was denied to her.

It had been a terrible trouble to the child's parents when, some months after her birth, they had learnt the truth, that the happy baby, whose rosebud lips seemed formed only for smiles, and whose eyes were "bits of Heaven's blue" as her young mother had used to declare, would never see the light of day, and they had grieved deeply. But Peggy had never appeared to realise how great was her affliction, and at the present time it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to find a more contented little girl. "Little Sunbeam" her father had nicknamed her years before, and a veritable sunbeam in the household she continued to be.

Peggy and her brother, who was only thirteen months her junior, had been sent to buy buns for tea, and she was holding the bag which contained them with one hand, whilst with the other she kept a firm grip of Billy's coat. She was not exactly nervous in a crowd, for she had been accustomed to London all her life, and her home was in a thickly populated district. But she experienced a sense of bewilderment as she listened to the hurrying footsteps on the pavement and the continual roll of carriage wheels, and she wished Billy would tire of looking into shop windows and return home.

"Come, Billy," she urged again, "mother will wonder what is keeping us. Do come."

Accordingly, Billy took his sister by the hand with an air of protection, and they walked on. At the corner of the street, they stood waiting for a favourable opportunity to cross.

"Is there a policeman near?" asked Peggy.

"There's one on the other side of the road," replied Billy, "but we don't want him. I can manage all right. When I say 'Now,' mind you come right on."

A minute later Billy cried, "Now!"

So, hand in hand, the children went fearlessly forward. And they would have effected the crossing in safety had not a private carriage, drawn by a pair of spirited horses, turned the corner from a side street. Billy hurried his sister on; but the road was slippery, and, in her haste, the little girl stumbled and let go her brother's hand. Some one flung Billy on one side, whilst the coachman driving the pair of horses pulled them back on their haunches in time to prevent a serious accident, but not before one of the animals had struck poor Peggy on the shoulder with its hoof. She was borne to the pavement in the arms of the policeman whose help Billy had disdained, and in a few minutes a small crowd had congregated.

"What has happened?" inquired an imperious voice from the interior of the carriage. "Is any one injured?"

"A little girl," answered the policeman. "I think she's more frightened than hurt, though," he added, as he set Peggy on the ground, and Billy, pale and frightened, rushed to her side.

"Was my coachman at fault?" was the next question.

"No, ma'am. He was driving carefully, and had the horses under proper control; but—"

"That's all I want to know, thank you."

A head was thrust out of the carriage window, and the crowd saw the face—a haughty, handsome face it was—of a white-haired old lady, who beckoned to the policeman to approach, which he did.

"You had better take the little girl to a hospital, if she is hurt," the old lady said, in a tone which expressed neither interest nor sympathy. "I suppose that would be your duty? Well, you know your business; it is none of mine, as my servant, you assure me, is blameless. However, here is my card should you require to communicate with me."

The handsome old face drew back from the window, and the carriage was driven away, whilst the crowd dispersed, leaving only the policeman and one other—an elderly clergyman, who had come upon the scene after the accident—with the frightened children.

"Where are you hurt, my dear little girl?"

Peggy's shocked face brightened at the sound of the kindly voice, which she recognised immediately as belonging to Mr. Maloney, the Vicar of St. John's Church, where her father was the organist.

"It's my shoulder," she answered. "Oh, Mr. Maloney, do please take me home!"

"Of course I will, my dear," he responded promptly, with a reassuring nod and smile at Billy. "What happened?" he inquired of the policeman, who briefly explained, adding that no one had been in fault.

"Billy couldn't have helped it," Peggy said hastily, fearful lest blame should be attached to her brother.

"No, the little boy was not to blame," agreed the policeman. "Are you going to take charge of the children, sir?" he asked of the clergyman.

"Yes. I know them well; their father is Mr. Pringle, the organist of St. John's Church. What is this?" Mr. Maloney questioned as he took the card the policeman presented to him.

"The lady in the carriage gave it to me, sir. I have made a note of the name and the address. Maybe the little girl's father will make some claim—"

"I imagine not," interposed the clergyman quickly; "but I will take the card and give it to Mr. Pringle. Thank you,"—and he slipped the bit of pasteboard into his vest pocket.

"Oh, Billy, I dropped the buns!" exclaimed Peggy regretfully. They had no money to buy more, and the buns had been purchased for a treat.

"The horses trod on them," Billy replied; "but, never mind, mother won't think anything about them when she knows what's happened. I'm afraid she'll never trust you out alone with me any more."

The little girl made no response. The pain in her shoulder was making her feel sick and faint, and her legs trembled as she walked along by Mr. Maloney's side, her hand in his. He saw she was suffering, and regarded her with compassionate eyes, whilst he exchanged remarks with Billy. Soon she began to lose the drift of her companions' conversation, and when at length, home—a small house, one of a terrace—was reached, the shock she had received proved too much for her, and she fell insensible into her mother's arms.

When Peggy regained consciousness, she found herself undressed and in bed. Everything was very quiet, but she was aware of some one's presence, and it was no surprise when soft lips met hers in a loving kiss, and her mother's voice said, "You are better, Peggy dear."

Then she was gently raised in bed, and, to her astonishment, she found her shoulder was bandaged; but she was not in much pain now, so she took the bread and milk offered to her, and lay down again, feeling strangely weak and tired, and disinclined to talk.

"Sleep if you can, darling," her mother said tenderly. "You will be much stronger to-morrow. The doctor has attended to your poor shoulder. Thank God you are not more seriously hurt!"

"What is the time mother?" Peggy asked. "Have you had tea? I was so sorry about the buns. I dropped them, you know."

"Did you? As if that mattered! No, we have not had tea. We have been too anxious about you to think of it. Now we shall have tea and supper together. It is nearly seven o'clock—not quite your usual bedtime, but never mind that to-night. Rest will do you good. I want you to sleep."

"I am very tired," Peggy murmured, "but I haven't said my prayers, and my head feels so funny that I can't think. I will say my 'little prayer' to-night.' Then she repeated very slowly and softly:

"Holy Father, cheer our way With Thy love's perpetual ray: Grant us every closing day Light at evening time."

It was a pathetic prayer, coming as it did from the lips of one who lived in permanent darkness. But it had been one of the first Peggy had learnt and she had always been very fond of it, calling it her "little prayer." To-night her eyelids closed as she repeated the last line, and a few minutes later she had fallen asleep.

Mrs. Pringle remained by the bedside some while longer, tears, which she had repressed till now, running down her cheeks, though her heart was full of gratitude to Him Who had spared her child's life. She was a most affectionate mother, devoted to both her children; but her little daughter, doubtless by reason of her affliction, was always her first care. She shuddered as she thought what might have been the result of the accident that afternoon, and pictured her darling trampled beneath the horses' hoofs.

"God gave His angels charge over her," she murmured, as she bent her head once more, and kissed the little sleeper. Then she stole softly away, and went downstairs to the sitting-room where Billy his father were keeping each other company, both heavy-hearted, though the doctor had assured them there was no cause for alarm.

"How is she now?" they asked, with one accord, as she entered the room.

"Sleeping peacefully," she told them, a smile lighting up her pale, tearful countenance. "You may go and look at her; but please be very careful not to disturb her. I have every hope that she will be better after a good rest. We have much to thank God for this night!"

CHAPTER II

CONCERNING AUNT CAROLINE

WHEN Mr. Pringle and Billy returned to the sitting-room after having been upstairs to look at Peggy asleep so comfortably, they found that Mrs. Pringle, with the assistance of Sarah, the maid-of-all-work of the establishment, had prepared the long-delayed tea. Whilst the family sat down to the meal, Sarah, at her own suggestion, went to keep watch by the little sleeper; and a few minutes later there was a knock at the front door.

"Go and see who's there, Billy," said Mr. Pringle. "I should not be surprised if it is Mr. Maloney," he proceeded, turning to his wife, "for he was very concerned about Peggy and said he hoped to look in by-and-by to hear the doctor's report."

And Mr. Maloney the visitor proved to be. He accepted Mrs. Pringle's offer of a cup of tea, and took the chair Billy placed for him at the table.

"I am glad to know the doctor thinks your little girl is not much hurt," he said in his pleasant voice. "Billy greeted me with the good news the moment he opened the door."

"The only injury she has sustained is to her shoulder," replied Mr. Pringle, "but of course she has experienced a great shock. Her escape from a frightful death was quite providential," he added with a slight break in his voice.

"Quite," Mr. Maloney agreed. "It was too bad of the owner of the carriage to drive on, as she did, without ascertaining the extent of the poor child's injuries," he continued warmly. "The least she could have done, under the circumstances, one would have thought, would have been to have driven her home."

"She was a nasty old woman, I'm sure she was," declared Billy with flushing cheeks and sparkling eyes. "She told the policeman, he had better take Peggy to a hospital if she was hurt, and she said it was his business, not hers. She spoke in such a proud way—as though she didn't care for anything or any one."

"Well, Peggy found a friend in need," Mr. Pringle remarked with a grateful glance at Mr. Maloney, who smiled and said he was glad to have been of service.

The Vicar and the organist of St. John's were on terms of friendship, though the former was elderly and the latter not middle-aged. Mr. Maloney had lived most of his life in London. He was a hard worker, and much beloved by all who knew him. But some of his acquaintances declared him lacking in ambition, for on several occasions he had declined preferment, choosing to retain the living of St. John's, which he had held for more than twenty years. He was an unmarried man, and consequently the living, though a poor one, supplied his simple needs.

He was getting an old man now, but the bright, unquenchable light of that enthusiasm which had made him a faithful labourer in Christ's vineyard all his days still shone in his earnest, deep-set eyes, and earnestness was stamped indelibly upon his countenance. And the truth was that his ambition soared far and away beyond the worldly meaning of the term: he was working for the "Well done" of the Master for Whose sake he had elected to live amongst those of little account in this world.

Mr. Pringle had been the organist of St. John's since his marriage ten years previously. He was a tall, fair man with a thoughtful face and clear blue eyes. Peggy much resembled him; whilst Billy took after his mother in appearance, being brown-haired and brown-eyed. The Pringles were a very united family, and theirs was a happy home though it was a rather poor one, and Mr. Pringle was glad to add to his salary by taking music pupils.

"I did not see the owner of the carriage," Mr. Maloney remarked by-and-by, after they had discussed Peggy's accident at some length. "Why, dear me, how stupid of me!" he exclaimed, a sudden recollection crossing his mind. "I have her card in my pocket here! She gave it to the policeman, who, in his turn, gave it to me, thinking that you might be inclined to seek redress from her for poor Peggy's injuries, I believe. Let us see who the unsympathetic old lady is."

He had produced the card by this time, and now handed it to Mrs. Pringle, who glanced at it, uttered a cry of astonishment, and grew very red.

"You know her?" Mr. Maloney inquired.

"Yes," she replied in a low tone, "I do. I can understand that she evinced no interest—though she could not have known whose child Peggy was."

She passed the card to her husband as she spoke.

A brief silence followed, during which Billy, keenly observant, noticed that his mother was trembling, and that his father's face had grown very stern.

"Who is the lady, father?" he ventured to ask at length.

"She is called Miss Leighton," was the answer. "You never heard of her, Billy; but I expect you have?" he said, addressing Mr. Maloney.

"I think not," the Vicar responded. "Is she a person of importance?"

"She is a very rich woman. Her father was James Leighton, the great ironfounder who died so immensely wealthy—"

"Ah, then I have heard of her," Mr. Maloney broke in. "But I thought she was quite a philanthropist—hardly the sort of woman who would act as this Miss Leighton did to-day."

"That is exactly how she would act," Mrs. Pringle said decidedly. "We are speaking of the same person. She gives away vast amounts of money yearly to charities, but she denies herself nothing in order to do so, for she is very wealthy. She was never a woman who showed kindness in little ways or to individuals. I know her well; in fact, she is my aunt."

"Really?" the Vicar said, looking intensely astonished. He knew the Pringles were not well off—that they lived solely on Mr. Pringle's earnings, and it seemed odd that so rich and charitable a lady as Miss Leighton should do so much for strangers and nothing for her relations.

"The truth is, my wife offended her aunt by marrying me," Mr. Pringle explained, rightly reading the expression of Mr. Maloney's countenance; "and Miss Leighton never forgives any one who offends her."

"Then God help her!" the Vicar exclaimed solemnly.

"Yes," said Mrs. Pringle, sighing, "poor Aunt Caroline! She was very good to me years ago, she had me educated when my parents died, and afterwards she allowed me to live with her. She would have continued to provide for me, if I had not become engaged to John," glancing at her husband with a loving smile. "I had to choose between him and Aunt Caroline, and since my marriage I have never seen my aunt. 'She washed her hands of me,' she said, on my wedding day. She declared she would never willingly look on my face again, and I know she will keep her word."

"You can realise now what sacrifices my wife has made for my sake," Mr. Pringle said, rather sadly, as he met Mr. Maloney's interested glance.

"I have made no sacrifices," Mrs. Pringle returned quickly. "But, sometimes it grieves me to think of the bitter feelings Aunt Caroline harbours against me. She considers me ungrateful; I was never that. I do not want her money, but I should like to be on friendly terms with her. It was ten years ago I saw her; she must be getting an old woman."

"She looked very old, mother," Billy said, and as he spoke, Mrs. Pringle started, for in the excitement of talking of her aunt, whom she rarely mentioned now even to her husband, she had forgotten the boy was present, listening to every word.

"Her hair was quite white," he continued, "as white as snow. I didn't like her eyes, they were so very sharp. Oh, mother, how odd that she should be your aunt! And how surprised she would have been, if she had found out that Peggy was your little girl, wouldn't she? I expect she would have been sorry for her, then, don't you think so?"

"I—I—perhaps so," his mother replied, "but she did not find out, and it was best as it was."

She took up the card which her husband had laid on the table and tore it into little bits, which, upon rising, she threw into the fire.

"There, we will talk no more of Aunt Caroline," she said. "Thinking of her always makes me unhappy, and I don't want to be that to-night, when I ought to be feeling nothing but thankfulness on Peggy's account."

A short while later, Mr. Maloney took his departure, and, after that, Billy said good-night to his parents and went upstairs. He peeped into Peggy's room; but did not go in, for Sarah, who was still watching by the bedside, raised a warning finger when she caught sight of him in the doorway. She was to be relieved from her post very soon by her mistress, whose intention it was to sit up all night.

Although Billy was really tired and was soon in bed, it was long before he could get to sleep, for he felt strangely restless and excited; he continually pictured the pair of high-stepping horses which had so nearly trodden his sister beneath their hoofs, and he was haunted by the proud face of the old lady who had appeared so unconcerned.

"She must be very wicked," thought the little boy, "for father said she never forgives any one who offends her. How dreadful that is! Doesn't she know it's wrong, I wonder! And, oh, how strange that she should be mother's aunt! How surprised Peggy will be when she knows!"