"No, I won't come to supper, but I'll come in time for the acting. I am very much obliged, I am sure."

Louisa gave vent to a great yawn.

"Seems to me," she said, "that you aint up to much shopping; you haven't gone into one shop yet."

"No more I have," said Alison. "I have changed my mind; I won't buy the things I meant to to-night. I'll go home now; so I'll say good-evening."

"Good-evening," said Louisa, accompanying her words with a sweeping courtesy which she considered full of style and grace.

She went home chuckling to herself.

"I guess that acting will finish up Alison's love affair," she thought.

"It won't be any fault of mine if it doesn't. Oh, good-evening, Mr.

Sampson."

George Sampson, who had been looking out for Louisa, now joined her, and the two walked back to the p.a.w.nshop arm in arm, and talking very confidentially together, Louisa had been true to her own predictions--she had so flattered and so a.s.siduously wooed George Sampson that he was her devoted slave by this time. He came to see her every night, and had a.s.sured Jim Hardy long ago that of all people in the world Louisa was the last who had anything to do with the stealing of the five-pound note. Louisa's own charms were the sort which would appeal to a man like Sampson, but whether he would have made up his mind to marry her, if he did not know that she was safe to have a nice little sum down from her father on her wedding-day, remains an open question.

As Alison walked home, many angry and jealous thoughts whirled through her brain. Was Jim really false to her?--she forgot all about his face that afternoon; she forgot his earnest words. She only recalled Louisa's look of triumph and the little play which was to be acted in her presence.

"Yes, I'll be there," thought the girl; "yes, Christmas Eve shall decide it."

She ran upstairs and entered the kitchen. Grannie and David were sitting side by side, engaged in earnest conversation. David blushed when he saw Alison, and suddenly slipped something under the table; Grannie patted his arm softly with her left hand.

"Well, Ally, you are home in double-quick time," she said.

"Too quick, is it?" said Alison, taking off her hat and flinging herself wearily into the nearest chair.

"No, no, my child, never too quick," said the old lady; "and did you get a good bargain?" she added the next minute anxiously. "Were you careful in the spending of that shillin'? Why, I don't see any parcels. For mercy's sake child, don't tell me that you dropped the shillin'."

"No, I didn't, Grannie; here it is. Somehow I am out of humor for bargains to-night--that's why I come back."

Grannie took back the precious shilling tenderly. She went to the cupboard and restored it to her purse. As she did so, she gave a sigh of relief. She was full of respect for Alison's powers, but not as a bargainer; she was certain she could get a penny-worth more value out of the shilling than her grand-daughter would.

"Dave," she said, turning to the lad as she spoke, "Ally and I have made up our minds that, whatever happens, we'll have a right good Christmas. We'll have a puddin' and snap-dragon, and a little bit of beef, and everything hot and tasty, and we'll have the stockings hung up just as usual by the children's beds; bless 'em, we'll manage it somehow--somehow or other it has got to be done. Who knows but perhaps cheerful times may follow Christmas? Yes, who knows? There's never no use in being downhearted."

"I suppose you are thinkin' of a wedding," said Alison suddenly.

"Well, dear child, and why not?"

"There's not much chance of it," was the reply, in a defiant tone.

"Anyhow," continued Alison, "I've made up my mind to look for another situation to-morrow."

Grannie's little white face became clouded.

"I am going to Oxford Street, to a registry office," said Alison. "I know lots about counter work, and I don't doubt that I may get a very good place; anyhow, I'm going to try."

"Well, that's sperit, there's no denying that," said the old lady; "it's in the breed, and it can't be crushed."

"David, what are you hiding under the table?" said Alison, in a fretful tone. She felt too unhappy to be civil to anyone.

"I have got spirit, too, and I'm not ashamed," said David suddenly.

"It's a bit o' stuff I'm feather-st.i.tching; there--I am learning the st.i.tch."

"Well!" said Alison; "you, a boy?"

"Yes, I--a boy," he replied, looking her full between the eyes.

There was something in the fearless glance of his gray eyes that caused her to lower her own--ashamed.

"Dave's the blessing of my life," said Mrs. Reed; "he has learned the st.i.tch, and though he do it slow, he do it true and beautiful. It shan't never now die out of the fam'ly."

CHAPTER VIII.

Grannie felt that matters had arrived at a crisis. Whatever the doctors chose to call the suffering which she endured, her right hand was fast becoming useless. It was with her right hand that she supported her family; if it failed her, therefore, her livelihood was cut off. She was a brave little woman; never in all her long life had she feared to look the truth in the face. She looked at it now quietly and soberly. Night after night she gazed at it as she lay in her tiny bed in her tiny bedroom, with a grandchild fast asleep at each side of her. She lay motionless then, in too great pain to sleep, and with the future staring at her.

To-night she went to bed as usual. There was no manner of use in sitting up burning lamps and fire; it was far cheaper to lie down in the dark in bed. She lay down and gazed straight out into the deep shadows which filled the little room. It was a moonlight night, and some of the moon's rays pierced through the tiny window, but most of the room lay in shadow, and it was toward the shadow Grannie turned her eyes.

"It's all true," she said to herself, "there aint no manner of use in denying it, or turning my face from it--it's true--it's the will o' the Lord. My mother said to me--her as was a Simpson and married a Phipps--she said when my father died, 'Patty, it's the will o' the Lord.' I didn't like, somehow, to hear her say it--the will o' the Lord seemed so masterful like, so crushing like, so cruel. And now the will o' the Lord has come to me. It wor the Lord's will to bless me all my life hitherto, but now it is his will to make things sore dark.

Somehow I can't trust and I can't hope, for there's nothing to hope for, and there are the children, four of 'em unable to earn their bread. Harry must make shift to do something, but there are three little ones. Oh, good Lord, don't ever let me hear the children cry for bread!"

As Grannie whispered these words out into the darkness, she laid her left hand tenderly on the flaxen head of her youngest grandchild. Her hand stroked down the smooth, round head; the child stirred in her dreams, murmured "Grannie," and turned over on her other side. She was very well, and very happy--as plump as a little b.u.t.ton--a bonny, bright-eyed creature. Grannie used to adore her stout legs.

"Kitty have always been so well fed," she used to say; "that's the secret--there's nothink like it--nothink."

And she had held the fat baby, and by and by the fat little girl, up admiringly for less fortunate neighbors to criticise.

Now the fiat had fallen; the bread-winner could no longer earn the family meal, and Kitty and the others would have to do without their bread and b.u.t.ter.

"It is true, and it must be faced," thought the old woman. "The p'int to be considered now is, how is it to be faced? Wot's the best way?"

Grannie thought matters over very carefully. Before the morning she had marked out a line of action for herself. Christmas Day should come and go before any of the dark shadow which filled her own breast should descend upon the younger members of the household. David and Alison knew about it, or at least they partly knew, although it was impossible for them to quite realize the extent of the disaster. It was arranged, too, that Harry was to leave school, so he also must partly guess that something was up; but the little ones had never known sorrow yet, and Grannie resolved that they should have a perfect Christmas Day.

Afterward, if Alison would only consent to marry Jim, half the family would be provided for. For Grannie, although she was proud, had no false pride, and she felt that a man who was earning such magnificent wages as two pounds a week might undertake the care, at any rate for a time, of two little children. But even granted that Alison and the two youngest were off her hands, there were still David, Harry, and Annie to provide for. Grannie could not see her way plain with regard to these three members of the family. She resolved to ask the advice of an old clergyman of the name of Williams, who had often before given her valuable counsel. Mr. Williams was most kind; he was full of resources; he took a great interest in the poor; he had known Grannie for close on twenty years; he might be able to help her in this critical moment of her fate, Having made up her mind so far, the little woman fell asleep.

When she heard at an early hour the following morning that Alison was still fully resolved to seek for a new situation, she suggested that she should call at the shop in Regent Street, see the manager, and explain to him as best she could that it was out of Grannie's power to do any more needlework.

"You had best go," said Grannie, looking up at the girl with her bright blue eyes, and a determined expression steeling her sweet old mouth almost to sternness. "Jest see the manager, Mr. Squire, and tell him the simple truth. Take him back this underclothing; it is finished beautiful all but the feather-st.i.tching. I know he'll be put out, but I suppose he'll give me half pay--o' course, I don't expec' more. Ef that cambric had been properly feather-st.i.tched there was thirty shillings to be got on it; but I'll be glad of fifteen, and you can let Mr. Squire know. I am pleased that Dave knows the st.i.tch, for he can teach it to his wife when he gets one. He have promised, dear lad; there's a fortin' in it yet, for a member of the fam'ly wot _hasn't_ learned handwriting. It's them schools wot are at the bottom of all this trouble, Alison. Talk of edication! My mother, wot was a Simpson by birth, could only put a cross agin her name, but Lor', wot a fine woman she was with sprigs!--we called the beginning of the feather-st.i.tching sprigs in them days. It was she invented sprigs, and she had no writers' cramp, nor a chance o' it, bless her! Now then, dearie, run off, and bring me back the fifteen shillings. We'll try to keep up 'eart till after Christmas Day."

Alison was very silent and depressed, but she promised to do exactly as her grandmother wished in the matter of the feather-st.i.tching; and with the cambric made up into a neat parcel she soon left the little flat.

Grannie sighed deeply when she saw her go. The little woman felt that she had burned her boats; there was no going back on anything now. She had severed with her own hands her best connection, and nothing could ever be the same again. A sort of agony came over her as she heard Alison running downstairs, a fierce desire to call her back, to beg of her not to go to Mr. Squire at all that day; but one glance at the swollen, useless hand made her change her mind. She sat down limp on the nearest chair, and one or two slow tears trickled out of her eyes.

By dinner time Alison was back; she was full of her own concerns, and considered Grannie and the feather-st.i.tching, for the time being, quite a secondary matter.

"The shop is a very good one," she said, "and they want a girl. If I can bring a good character, I am very likely to get the situation. It is twelve shillings a week, four--four shillings more than Shaw used to give me. If only I can get Shaw to give me a character I'll be all right, and on twelve shillings a week we can keep up the house somehow; can't we, Grannie?"