THE MOTHERLESS BAIRNS, AND WHO SHELTERED THEM.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY: 56, Paternoster Row; 65, St. Paul’s Churchyard; and 164, Piccadilly.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

“I was a Stranger, and ye took Me in.”

IT was a sharp, frosty night late in December, the wind driving the snow in unfriendly gusts into the faces of the passers-by, and compelling all who were not actually obliged to encounter its violence[6] to seek as speedily as possible the shelter of their own homes.

At the corner of a street leading out of one of the many crowded thoroughfares in the heart of the city, stood an old-fashioned crockery shop, from the inner parlour of which the cheerful glow of a coke fire, reflected on the window-panes, made the darkness without only seem more dreary and desolate. Unmindful of wind and snow, two little faces might have been seen closely pressed against the window, eagerly gazing on a sight which greeted their eyes through the glass door separating the shop from the room behind. The muslin blind, which usually hung before it to screen those within from the gaze of the outer world, had accidentally dropped, and left to view a cheerful group, consisting of father, mother, and several children, seated at their evening meal.

The kettle singing on the fire, the cat comfortably lying on the snug hearth, the[7] clean white cloth, with the neat cups and saucers, the home-made cake, and bread-and-butter, above all, the happy faces of the children, did not escape the eager notice of the poor little wanderers, whose own sad experience of life might have been summed up in the few short but expressive words—hungry and cold, motherless and homeless.

It was the old story, alas, only too common, of sin, suffering, and sorrow; the drunkard husband going away, and leaving the poor, worn-out, sorrow and care-stricken wife to die in a miserable garret, and the friendless little ones turned out alone on the world, which seemed to them so large and dreary. Sleeping now on a doorstep, now under one of the numerous railway arches, too often the only refuge of the homeless and destitute, in the daytime begging a few halfpence, or some scant crusts, growing every day more dirty and more forlorn; no wonder that the sight of[8] a home which seemed to them (unaccustomed to aught but want and woe) rich in all that could be desired, should arrest their eyes and make them gaze on wistfully, forgetful of wind and cold.

No such home had ever been for them; their earliest remembrances were of a dark, damp cellar, a cruel father, and a sorrowful and ailing mother; their latest of an old tumble-down garret, where that mother lay dying, without proper nourishment or kind, loving care—no voice to whisper to her of a Saviour’s love, or to bear to her heart the glad tidings which could have shed a light over the dark valley. Mingled with these came the remembrances of the coarse tones of the rough woman, who, as soon as their mother was buried, had pushed them into the street, telling them to “be gone, and never to darken her doorway again, the good-for-nothing brats.”

After gazing intently for some time at the happy scene before them, the elder[9] of the two children, by a sudden, irresistible impulse, at length darted up the steps, and softly turning the handle of the door, crept inside the shop, the younger one clinging to her sister’s arm. Crouching down in a corner, where they hoped to escape observation, but with eyes and ears both on the alert, they bent forward to catch the sound of what was passing in the inner room. For a moment all seemed to be quiet, and then the father’s voice was heard reading aloud. They saw the children seated round the table, the elder ones reading in turn, while the younger sat by, quietly listening. They could even distinguish some of the words, but, alas, they were no familiar tones which fell on the ears of the little beggar children; they heard something about a Father pitying His children, and, as the words were read, instinctively the younger child whispered, “That’s not our father. Whose father can that be?”

[10]“Hush!” softly said the elder one, “or they will hear us, and then we shall be turned out.”

At that moment the outer door opened, and another customer coming in, Mr. Morley, the owner of the shop, stepped out from behind the glass door. It was only a message respecting some order which had been given earlier in the day; and no light being required, the trembling children remained in security in their hiding-place. At length, overcome by fatigue, cold, and hunger, they fell asleep in one another’s arms, the younger child whispering, as she kissed her sister, “I wish, Polly, we might stay here every night, instead of sleeping out in the cold.”

Poor little ones! Uncared for on earth, and deserted by the father who should have watched over them with tender care and love, but not uncared for up in heaven, where even the little birds do not escape notice. All unseen by them, there was[11] bending down over those sleeping children an Eye which never slumbers nor sleeps; and even now, when they thought themselves friendless in the wide world, their Father in heaven did not forget them, but was guiding their feet into the way of peace, and disposing the hearts of His servants to receive in His name and for His sake these forlorn and weary outcasts, the little ones for whom Jesus died, and whom He is ever ready to “receive favourably and to embrace with the arms of His mercy.”

As Mr. Morley was putting up his shutters that night, and seeing that all was safe in the shop, he caught his foot, and stumbled over some plates which had been piled on the floor; and on bringing a candle to discover what mischief had been caused, he caught sight of what seemed to him a bundle of rags heaped together under a shelf. Great was the good man’s astonishment, on a closer inspection, to discover[12] beneath the rags the forms of the sleeping children. Hastily calling his wife, and carefully shading the light with his hand, he stooped down and examined their faces. Traces of tears could easily be seen on the cheeks of the elder, who appeared to be about eleven years of age, and the most hasty glance at either could not have failed to discover many unmistakeable signs of want, hunger, and poverty.

Touched with tender pity for the forlorn little ones, Mr. and Mrs. Morley consulted together as to what they should do for them. “Surely the Lord Himself has brought them within the shelter of our roof; and it’s a mercy to think they reached it in safety, for with the wind and snow driving as they are, there’s no telling whether the poor little creatures would have lived to see the light of another day.” Then, hurrying upstairs, the kind-hearted woman speedily returned with a warm blanket from her own bed, and wrapped it[13] carefully round the little sleepers, discoursing to herself the while.

“Certainly they might have slept in the attic, up at the top; but then there’s the fear lest they might have felt frightened like at finding themselves in a strange bed, or at being woke of a sudden—no, John’s right; John always knows best. Well, thank the Lord for keeping the poor babes from perishing on a night like this; and thank Him too for giving us, just now, when our hearts are sorely yearning after our own little one in the heavenly fold, something to do for His lambs still in a world of sin and sorrow.”

A tear stood in the good woman’s eye as she spoke. Only a few months back she had known what it was to part with the little child that had twined itself round her mother’s heart in no ordinary way—loving little Lily; so sweet and gentle, with such endearing ways, and taken after an illness of only a few days, leaving a[14] sore blank behind. The tender mother’s heart seemed to open at once to the little friendless ones whom God had led to her door; and she lay awake long that night, planning how to do the best for them, should it prove, as she felt in her own mind persuaded, that they were homeless and destitute.

Surely that night, over the homely dwelling, a heavenly smile was resting, even the blessing of Him who has said in His own holy Book: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.”

CHAPTER II.

“It is not the will of your Father which is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish.”

WITH her mind full of concern and kind thoughts for the poor little strangers, Mrs. Morley rose early the next morning, and hastily dressing, went down before rousing her own children, to see whether they were still sleeping. To her great astonishment, on opening the door of the shop, and unfastening the shutters, they were nowhere to be found. In the corner lay the blanket she had so carefully wrapped round them the night before, but no trace of the children could be seen. On examining the bolt of the front door, she saw that it had been slipped back, and that they must evidently have gone out before it was light, probably fearing to encounter the cross words, or even blows,[16] which had hitherto repulsed them from door after door where they had sought shelter.

Good Mrs. Morley blamed herself greatly for not having carried them upstairs to the attic; and both she and her husband were sorely grieved to think of the poor children wandering perhaps without food, shelter, or friend. “We’ll leave the door unlatched again to-night, and maybe they’ll come back to the place where they once found shelter and warmth. Poor things! it’s a wonder they didn’t take the blanket, with only those few thin rags scarcely covering them. I had been looking out some of our Lily’s things for them: it cost me something to go to that drawer this morning, and take them out one by one; but a verse came into my mind, which helped me to give them up: ‘Neither will I offer unto the Lord my God of that which doth cost me nothing;’ and then it seemed quite easy to take my darling’s[17] things and give them to Him who has said, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.’ And so now, whether these little ones come again to us or not, my mind is made up, and Lily’s things shall

be given to some of the needy ones whom the Good Shepherd is going out to seek in the wilderness, and bring back to His heavenly fold.”

When breakfast was over, Mr. Morley called his children; and after reading a chapter with them as usual, and asking for a heavenly blessing on each, before they set off for school or work, he told them of the little wanderers who had found a shelter under their roof the night before, and asked them to pray each night and morning that God their Father would fetch home these poor children to His blessed fold on earth, and give them a place in His heavenly kingdom.

The children all listened with much[18] interest to their father’s account. Susie, the eldest girl, was a pupil-teacher in the school where her younger sister and brother went, and on Sunday afternoons took a class in a ragged school not far distant; and she had learned to feel a tender love for the poor little ones for whom the Lord Jesus died, but who, until they came to the school, had heard but little of a Saviour’s love.

Elsie, the second girl, had left school, and helped her mother at home and in the shop; Alice and Johnny went every day to school under Susie’s care; and Daisy, the third girl, was an invalid. Crippled in body by a fall when quite young, but not in mind nor heart nor understanding, Daisy, whose weak and feeble frame had long since ceased to grow, grew in grace and heavenly wisdom year by year. In her quiet corner by the fireside, or oftener lying on the little couch, to which she was sometimes kept for weeks together, her[19] sweet and peaceful face was a constant lesson to the busy ones around her, and all who knew her, old and young, would tell how the heavenly-minded child had often helped and cheered them on their way. Daisy would knit socks and comforters for Susie’s ragged children; and though she could not go out to teach them of the loving Saviour, as her sister did, she could speak to Him for them, and many a silent prayer went up for them from Daisy’s heart into the ears of Him who so tenderly listens to the voices of little children:

When Susan came home from her class on Sunday afternoons, Daisy was always full of eager questions about the children, and would lie with her large eyes fixed[20] on her sister, as she told of the poor little ones whom she was trying to teach about Jesus.

Susie had gentle ways, and loved her little sister dearly, and devoted much of her spare time to her; while Daisy in return unconsciously taught her elder sister many a lesson of patient submission and quiet trust. For never can the life of anyone, however young, feeble, and apparently helpless, that is really united to Jesus Christ by living faith, be spent in vain. “The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life;” and whether that fruit be manifested in active service or in patient suffering, it shall not be in vain in the Lord. After all, it is not so much our work as our will that God asks and desires of us—the offering up of ourselves as a reasonable, holy, and lively sacrifice; and the little child that day by day looks up to heaven, and tries from love to Jesus to be gentle, loving, and obedient, or to[21] bear with quiet patience the weary pain which keeps it still and lonely when other children are at their merry pastimes, does not live in vain, but is bringing forth the fruit of righteousness, to the praise and glory of God.

Weeks and months went by; but no more was seen or heard of the little strangers, though night after night the Morleys’ door was left unlatched, in the hope of their return; and every day when the children gathered round the hearth the father ended his petitions with an earnest prayer that the little lost ones might one day be found, either on earth or in heaven.

Daisy’s confidence that God would hear, and that some day they would be brought back, was unshaken, though day after day passed by without bringing anything further to light about them. “Our prayer-children,” she would call them; and perhaps few little beggar children ever had so many loving[22] thoughts bestowed on them, so many sweet prayers breathed upwards into the ears of the Lord of heaven and earth, prayers that were not spoken in vain, but which were even now preparing a harvest of blessing.

CHAPTER III.

“Rejoice with Me, for I have found My sheep which was lost.”

IT was a bright Sunday in July, and the bells of some of the neighbouring churches were ringing for afternoon service, as Susan Morley, after leaving her little brother and sister at the door of their school, made her way through some narrow bye-streets to the little ragged school that was so dear to her heart, and from which on Sunday afternoons for the last four years nothing had ever kept her absent.

It was a rough-looking place, which had formerly been used as a coal-shed; but loving hands had hung the walls with sweet texts and pictures, and transformed it into a pleasant-looking place within; while the humble appearance of its exterior had this advantage, that it attracted, while a grander[24] building would have frightened away, the very class of children it was so desirable to get hold of.

A stranger going in that afternoon, as he looked round on the clean faces of the children, and marked their generally tidy appearance, and quiet orderly behaviour, might have questioned the fact of its being a ragged school. Very different was the appearance of the children who attended it ten years previously, when it was first opened through the loving thoughts and efforts of some kind friends who had laboured earnestly in behalf of the lost little ones; and very different was the neighbourhood generally then, from what it now was. Through those years of patient toil and prayer the earnest workers had seen, at first perhaps only dimly, here and there tokens for good to bid them not be weary in well-doing; but now, in looking back, they could feel how the good hand of their God had indeed been upon[25] them, and multiplied the seed sown a hundredfold. To homes once sunk in darkness and ignorance had the blessed light been carried, and little children, taught of Jesus, had borne home to their parents the glad tidings of great joy, and taught the lips which first taught them to

speak the words of eternal life. Thus had the wilderness been turned into a fruitful field; and in the day of the harvest those patient sowers shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing their sheaves with them.

As Susan opened the door of the school, a group of children followed her in; and on taking her place in the class, a little girl stepped forward, and curtseying, said: “Please, teacher, you told us last Sunday that we were to try and say ‘come’ to somebody else, and on the way here I saw two little girls standing at the corner of our street, and I asked them if they wouldn’t like to come to school with me, and hear[26] what teacher would tell us about Jesus, and they said they’d like to come, only they’d got such ragged things, they didn’t like to come in, because, perhaps, the ladies would be angry, and send them away; but I said you didn’t mind how ragged we were, if only we came. But when they got near the school they looked frightened, and said they couldn’t come, unless so be I asked leave for them. Oh! can I fetch them in, teacher? I said I was sure you’d say ‘Yes.’”

The eager request was soon granted; and before many minutes the child returned, leading, one on either side of her, the poor children for whom she had pleaded. They were indeed ragged, and the sad, pinched look on both faces told of the privations they must have suffered. Susan spoke to them very kindly, and, gradually reassured by her gentle voice and manner, they gained confidence, and ventured to look round them. When prayers were over, and[27] the other children had said their texts and hymns, Susan turned to the little strangers and asked them a few simple questions; amongst others, whether they had ever heard of heaven? The elder of the two looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, “Isn’t that the place where nobody wants nothing to eat or drink?”

[28]Deeply touched by an answer which told so much, in a few short words, of the suffering and want with which they were evidently so early familiarised, but unwilling to show what she felt, Susan answered: “Quite right, dear; heaven is a place where nobody wants for anything; every one there is quite happy. But can you tell me how we may get there?”

No responsive word or look came this time from either of the little new-comers; but amongst Susan’s own children many a hand was held out, and when she made a sign to one of them to answer, a little girl named Jane Hardy said, “Please, teacher, for Jesus Christ’s sake.”

“Quite right, dear; but now tell me what you mean when you say, ‘for Jesus Christ’s sake.’”

“Please, teacher, because Jesus came down from heaven to die for our sins; and if our sins are forgiven for His sake, and our naughty hearts changed by His Holy[29] Spirit, we shall go to heaven when we die.”

“That’s right, dear; it is only because of our Saviour Christ’s great love in leaving His home above, and coming down to our earth to live and die for us, that we can have any sure and certain hope of ever reaching heaven. You know the little verse which says—

And now tell me if Jesus is willing to receive little children into His beautiful home.”

Several hands were held out, and almost with one voice the children answered: “Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”