"You'll get frightful rheumatism waiting there, and I'm glad of it," she cried, as she disappeared.

Mr. Standish, returning half an hour later, saw a small figure promenading up and down before the house under a dripping umbrella. It was Meg. She was by his side in a moment.

"Come this minute," she said, putting her hand into his.

"Why, Meg," he said cheerily, yet surprised at her manner; "so you have forgiven me at last!"

She did not answer; but as he was about to open the hall door with his latchkey, she said laconically, "Not this way," and led him round by the back way.

Meg flitted up the narrow stairs before him, every now and then turning back with forefinger on lips to enjoin silence. Up, up she went, until she reached the attic that was her own room. She signed to him to enter, and then shut the door.

"Why, what is this for, Meg," said Mr. Standish, looking round.

"He's here--the bailiff--waiting on the stairs, but he can't get in. I locked the door and kept the key; here it is." With an expressive twinkle of her eyes she whisked it out of her pocket, and put it into his hand.

Mr. Standish sat down, looked at Meg, scarce understanding. "Bailiff!"

he repeated. "Then Gilbert has not paid! I backed his bill because I trusted his sacred promise that he would meet it in time!"

"It was kind, but foolish," said Meg briefly.

"He wrote the other day to say he would make it all right with Samuels, when I told him of the writ. He a.s.sured me the money was going by the next post," Mr. Standish went on blankly.

"He's an old cheat," said Meg, with scornful directness of speech.

"What is to be done? I have no money, Meg," said the young man, with a wretched flicker of a smile.

"p.a.w.n your watch and chain--they're real gold; they're big and heavy; they'll raise the money," said Meg, with her usual unhesitancy.

The journalist flushed red. "I can't, Meg!" He drew the watch out of his pocket. It was a large hunting watch, that had been presented to the rector, his father. Inside the lid the names of the donors were inscribed in minute characters. "I can't, Meg," he repeated, looking at it and shaking his head. "A token of affectionate grat.i.tude, a testimonial to his faithful work--I can't place it where there are so many a.s.sociations that are disgraceful. It would be degradation----"

"Not a bit of it!" said Meg with fearless rapidity, as he rose and walked up and down the attic. "You'll get it back soon. You'll work hard to get it out. If you don't p.a.w.n it you'll have to let that man in,"

nodding in the direction of the staircase. "He'll sit in your room.

You'll be able to do no work with him there, smelling of gin, and his red face looking at you. He'll take the silver ink-bottle--and the books. p.a.w.n your watch, and if you work hard you'll get it out soon."

"Wise, practical Meg," said Mr. Standish, scarcely able to repress a smile, moving irresolutely about the little room.

"Give it to me! I'll p.a.w.n it for you," rejoined Meg, intent and business-like. "I've been there before. Last time Mrs. Browne put the silver teapot up the spout I went for her. She was tipsy; she could not go. The man knows me. He'll give me the money."

"I have not the heart to do it Meg--I have not the heart," said Mr.

Standish, hesitating as the child approached.

"It's better than having the man inside your room, sitting on your green velvet armchair or the chintz sofa, taking the silver ink-bottle and the books, and preventing your working," continued Meg, pressing her advantage; and as Mr. Standish began slowly to unloose the chain, her deft fingers came to the rescue and helped him.

He looked down at the eager, determined child-face. "How good you are to me, Meg; how good!" he said, the words rushing almost unconsciously to his lips.

A quiver of the eyelids only showed the child felt the tones. "Give it to me," she repeated imperatively.

The next moment the watch and chain, wrapped in a clean pocket-handkerchief, were in Meg's grasp, and she had departed. Mr.

Standish, stooping under the shelving ceiling on a level with the strip of window, looked out and watched the wet umbrella making its way under the flaring gas and over the muddy street. When it disappeared he turned and looked about him. There was a sincerity, a poverty, a purity about the tiny chamber that affected him with a wholesome shock. Over the little white bed hung the fashionplate that he had mended, in the pasteboard frame he had manufactured for it. A bit of scarlet ribbon fastened it to a nail, with an elaborate bow. Above it, as a pious Catholic might have crossed about some saint's image branches of blessed palms, so Meg had placed sprigs of lavender, that delicately scented the room. On the peg behind the door hung the little Sunday frock, turned inside out. On a table, under a clean pocket-handkerchief, were placed three books that he had given her--a volume of ballads, "Stories from the History of England," a gaudily ill.u.s.trated shilling copy of "Cinderella." Also under the pocket-handkerchief was a bundle of paper, tied with scarlet ribbon, that proved to be some of his articles neatly cut out. A black clay pipe of his, which Meg had mended, was put up like a little Indian idol over the table. The little room, so spotlessly clean, and so characteristic in all its details, was distinctly Meg's room, telling of that mystic love for her mother, and of her solitary friendship.

Mr. Standish was not tired of waiting when Meg appeared, her hand clutching the bodice of her dress.

"Here, I've got the money," she said, as carefully pulling out the handkerchief and opening it she displayed a roll covered with paper; "twenty-five pounds--count; and here's the ticket. Don't lose it on any account. Perhaps I'd better keep it for you."

"Twenty-five pounds, Meg!" said Mr. Standish.

"He wanted to give me twenty. I said 'No, twenty-five.' He was smiling when he said twenty. Those men always smile when they want to cheat you," said Meg, with a nod of retrospective observation. "He gave me twenty-five pounds at last, though. Count."

The child cut short the words of thankfulness that rose to Mr.

Standish's lips.

"Go," she said imperatively, taking him by the hand and leading him to the door; "pay the man and get him off."

A few minutes later, with great glee, Meg watched the departure of the bailiff; she thought with pleasure as he made his way downstairs that he seemed a little stiff, as if he had got rheumatism. After the hall door had slammed behind the representative of the law she stood hesitating.

Soon her diffident feet slowly brought her to Mr. Standish's threshold.

She pushed the door softly open. He was sitting by the table, his face covered with his hands. He looked up as she entered.

"He's gone," said Meg, nodding. "Aren't you glad?"

"You have done me a great service, Meg. How can I thank you for it?"

said the young man, rising and taking the child's two hands in his.

"Don't thank me--not at all," said Meg with ardor, looking up into his face. "Just promise never to lend your money again--never."

"No--never again!" replied Mr. Standish, shaking his head. He led the child in and sat down, still keeping her hand in his. "How did you guess that man was a bailiff?"

"Oh," said Meg, with the scornful brevity of wide experience in her voice, "I knew him by his sleeky ways. I've watched them at their dodges. They're up to almost anything."

Mr. Standish laughed out loud; but the laugh suddenly fell as he thought of all that knowledge implied. He said gently, after a pause:

"I thought the little friend who used to sit by my fireside had left me.

I missed you, Meg."

"You were tipsy that night," the child answered, with a quaver in her voice that did not take from its severity.

"You punished me hard, Meg. Don't you know I had to drink so many healths. There was the queen's health to drink, and I should have been a disloyal subject if I had not drunk that; and there was the lord mayor's health, I should have been a bad citizen if I had not drunk that; then there were the directors' healths, and there were one another's healths." As Meg remained unmollified, he went on, "Meg, I will tell you a secret. I was not so bad as I looked that night--I put it on a little for your benefit."

"That was wicked of you," said Meg with spirit.

"It was," agreed Mr. Standish candidly. "Come, Meg, won't you forgive me if I promise----"

"You promised before," interrupted the child.

A desire to rehabilitate himself in the child's eyes seized Mr.

Standish. He felt a touch of awe of that creature regarding him with steady gravity, and he found himself pleading his cause before her as if she were a little chief justice.

"If he got himself into difficulties for his friends, they were often to be pitied; so many in this world were born weak, like spiritual cripples who needed a helping hand."