"And why don't you open the door?"

"'Cos I don't want to. I'd rather they went away."

"Open the door immediately," screamed the old beldame, "or I'll strip the skin off you."

"When you can get at me," laughed the insolent lad. "Why don't you hobble up and open the door yoursel'?"

Mr. Fitzmorris put an end to this disgraceful colloquy, by walking into the house. The shoemaker was absent; no one but the old crone and her grandson, a young, surly-looking ruffian of fourteen, was at home.

"Well, Mrs. Bell, how are you this afternoon?"

"Oh, just the same. Aches and pains--aches and pains. Now in my arm--now in my leg--then again in every bone in my body. What a thing it is to be old and poor, and surrounded by a lot of young wretches, who laugh at your sufferings, and do all they can to worry and vex you."

"You draw a poor picture of domestic comfort," said Mr. Fitzmorris, sitting down beside her. "But why do you suffer your grandchildren to behave in this undutiful manner?"

"Lauk-a-mercy, sir, how can I help it?"

"Are you kind to them?"

"No," said the boy. "Granny's never kind. She scolds, and rates, and swears at us from morn till night, and then she's riled if we swears agin."

"You hear what your grandson says, Mrs. Bell. Is his accusation true?"

"It be none of your business, whether or no," returned the woman, with a scowl.

"Ah, but it is my business. G.o.d sent me here to convert sinners, and without you listen to the message of mercy he sends to you through me, I fear, at your advanced age, that you will find yourself in a very bad way. How old are you?"

"Eighty-four."

"So old, and no nearer heaven. Why, my poor old friend, you have no reasonable expectation to live one day beyond another."

"I shan't die the sooner for your saying so."

"Nor live one day the longer--both casualties are in the hands of G.o.d.

Do you ever pray?"

"I never was taught a prayer."

"Shall I pray with you?"

"Just as you please."

"Well, I do please. But first listen for a few minutes to the Word of G.o.d."

He read several of those remarkable invitations to sinners, which few can hear for the first time unmoved, and then knelt down beside the old reprobate, and prayed so earnestly for G.o.d to touch her heart, and lead her to repentance, that her hard nature seemed humbled by his eloquence.

When he rose to go, to his infinite surprise and joy the boy stole to his side.

"Oh, sir, are you _sure_ that those awful words you read to Granny are true?"

"Yes, my son, G.o.d's truth."

"And will he save a bad boy like me?"

"Certainly, if you repent, and seek him with all your heart and soul.

The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin."

"And will you come again, and teach me how to love Him and pray to Him?"

"Yes, with pleasure. Can you read?"

"No, sir."

"Come to s...o...b.. Sunday-school, and I will teach you."

"That I will, right gladly. But, oh, sir, I know that I have been a very wicked boy."

"So are all men who live without G.o.d in the world. If you wish really to lead a new life, begin by leaving off swearing, and treat your old grandmother more respectfully. It may please G.o.d to make you an instrument in His hands for her conversion."

"I will try," said the lad. "Oh, I be glad, glad, that you came to the house."

Mr. Fitzmorris was glad too, or his face belied him. He slipped a few pieces of silver into the old woman's hand, to procure her some tea and sugar, and went on his way rejoicing.

"See, my dear young friend," he said to Dorothy, when they were once more on their road home, "how rich a harvest G.o.d often reaps from the most unpromising fields. The seed sown in that boy's heart may yet bear fruit for heaven."

CHAPTER VIII.

DOROTHY'S FIRST LETTER.

Dorothy formed many plans for future usefulness during her walk home, nor had she the least suspicion of the different field in which her labours of love would be required.

Mrs. Rushmere had for several months complained of a sharp stinging pain between her shoulders, caused by a very small and apparently insignificant tumour. "Too small," the old lady said, "to make a fuss about." She had, however, several times lately remarked to Dorothy, "that the provoking thing caused her much inconvenience."

Always having enjoyed excellent health, Dorothy was very ignorant of the nature of diseases, but thinking that something must be wrong with her mother, she had urged her very strongly to show the cause of her uneasiness to Dr. Davy, the medical pract.i.tioner of s...o...b... This the old lady had promised to do, but had put it off from day to day. When Dorothy returned from her walk with Mr. Fitzmorris, she was greatly alarmed at finding Mrs. Rushmere in her bed, with traces of tears still wet upon her cheeks.

"My darling mother, what is the matter?" cried the affectionate girl, stooping over the bed and kissing her tenderly. "Are you ill?"

"More in mind than body," returned the good woman, trying to smile. "Oh, Dolly, dear, that tumour pained me so this afternoon, that I got father to drive me over to see the doctor."

"Well, and what did he say?" asked Dorothy, eagerly. Mrs. Rushmere's lips quivered.

"Dolly, I don't like to tell you. It will grieve you sore."

Dorothy looked alarmed, and turned very pale, as she clasped her mother's hand tighter in her own.