A London Baby: The Story of King Roy. Meade L. T.

ragged girl flew across the grass, came to a woman who was seated with some other children round her, stayed away for a very short time, and quickly returned.

      “Now, ain’t I h’all right?” she said, showing a pair of pretty rosy lips enough, in the midst of an otherwise black and dirty little face. “You’ll kiss me now, pretty, dear little boy?” she said.

      “I tiss ’oo once,” replied King Roy solemnly, and allowing his little rose-bud mouth to meet hers.

      “Oh, but ain’t he a real duck?” said the girl. “We ’ad a little ’un somethink like him wid us once. Yes, he wor werry like him.”

      “Ain’t he with you now?” asked Faith.

      “No, no; you mustn’t speak o’ it to mother, but he died; he tuk the ’fecti’n, and he died.”

      “Wor it fever?” asked Faith.

      “Yes, perhaps that wor the name. There’s a many kinds o’ ’fecti’n, and folks dies from they h’all. I don’t see the use o’ naming ’em. They’re h’all certain sure to kill yer.” Here the ragged girl seated herself on the grass quite close to Faith. “You’ll never guess where I’m a going this afternoon,” she said.

      “No; how could I guess?” replied Faith.

      “Well, now, you’re werry neat dressed, and folks like you have a kinder right to be there. But for h’all that, though I’m desperate ragged, I’m goin’. You’re sure you can’t guess, can you?”

      “No, I can’t guess,” answered Faith. “I ain’t going nowhere particular myself, and I never wor good at guessing.”

      “Well, now, ain’t it queer? – I thought h’all the ’spectable folks went. Why, I’m going to Sunday-school – ’tis to Ragged Sunday-school, to be sure; but I like it. I ha’ gone twice now, and I like it wonderful well.”

      “I know now what you mean,” replied Faith. “I often wished to go to Sunday-school, but father don’t like it; he’d rayther I stayed to take care o’ Roy.”

      “I guess as my father wouldn’t wish it neither. But, Lor’ bless yer! I don’t trouble to obey him. ’Tis werry nice in Sunday-school. Would you like to hear wot they telled us last Sunday?”

      “Yes, please,” answered Faith, opening her eyes with some curiosity.

      “Well, it wor a real pretty tale – it wor ’bout a man called Jesus. A lot o’ women brought their babies to Jesus and axed Him to fondle of ’em, and take ’em in His arms; and there wor some men about – ugh! I guess as they wor some’ut like father – and they said to the women, ‘Take the babies away as fast as possible; Jesus is a great, great man, and He can’t no way be troubled.’ And the mothers o’ the babies wor going off, when Jesus said – I remember the exact words, for we was got to larn ’em off book – ‘Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and don’t forbid ’em;’ and He tuk them ’ere little babies in His arms and kissed ’em. I guess as some of ’em worn’t too clean neither.”

      “I wish ever so as I could take Roy to him,” answered Faith. “That’s a real lovely story. Mother, afore she died, telled me ’bout Jesus; but I don’t remember ’bout Him and the babies. Now I must be going home. Thank you, little ragged girl. If you like you may kiss Roy once again, and me too.”

      Chapter Three

      Faith and Roy were late, and their father was waiting for them. He was very particular about his meals, which were never entrusted to Faith’s young efforts at cooking, but were sent from a cook-shop close by. Now the potatoes and a little piece of roast beef smoked on the table, and Warden, considerably put out, walked up and down. When the children entered, Roy ran up to his father confidently – he had never been afraid of any one in his life – and wanted a ride now on the tall, strong shoulder.

      “Up, up,” said the little fellow, raising his arms and pointing to his favourite perch.

      Warden endeavoured to get out of his way, but Roy clasped his little arms round his knees.

      “Fader, up, up,” he said.

      “No; I can’t, Roy. Don’t be troublesome. Faith, that child is in every one’s way. Take him and put him in the bedroom until his dinner is ready.”

      Little Roy was very hungry, and there was that in his father’s hard tone which caused him to raise his baby-blue eyes in wonder and some shadowy alarm. Faith took him, sobbing, into the bedroom, from which she returned with a very sad heart to her own dinner. Warden helped her sullenly; but to eat while her little brother was alone seemed to choke her. She found she could not swallow her nice Sunday dinner. She was always terrified of her stern father, but now for Roy’s sake she must brave his anger.

      “Please, father, may little Roy have his dinner first? He’s se’ch a baby, and he’s so hungry.”

      “No, Faith; I make a rule, and I won’t break it. ’Tis a very proper punishment for you for being so late.”

      Roy’s little sobbing voice at the other side of the door, for the bedroom was inside the sitting-room, saying “Open, open,” made it almost impossible for Faith to sit quiet, and she was much relieved when her father rose from the table and went out. Then what petting followed for little Roy! what feeding him with the choicest bits! until at last the little fellow, worn out from his walk and fit of crying, fell asleep in his sister’s arms.

      Faith laid him tenderly on the horse-hair sofa, covered him over, and sat down by his side. She sat on a low seat, and, folding her hands on her lap, gazed straight before her. Faith was nearly eleven years old now, but she was small for her age – small, thin, and very sad-looking. Only when playing with Roy, or tending Roy, did her little sallow face grow childish and happy in expression. Faith possessed her mother’s sensitive temperament. Love alone could make this child bright and happy; without love she must pine and die, perhaps as her mother died. Tears gathered slowly in her eyes as she recalled the little scene between her father and Roy. After a time, hearing steps in the street, she rose and went to the window. Some children, with their parents, were walking up the street – happy children in their Sunday best, and happy parents, caring for and loving them. Faith watched one little group with special interest. There were four in this group – a father and mother, and boy and girl. The girl held her father’s hand, and danced as she walked. The boy, a very little child, was led most tenderly by his mother. Faith turned away with a great sigh, and the tears now rolled slowly down her cheeks.

      “Ain’t it a hard, hard thing when a little child loses of his mother?” she said to herself. “Oh! my little darlin’ Roy, if mother had been there he wouldn’t a been kep’ waiting fur his dinner.”

      She went over, knelt down by her little brother, and kissed his soft cheek. Then a further thought occurred to her. That was a pretty story the ragged girl in Regent’s Park had told her to-day. She had never heard it before, though her mother, when alive, had often spoken to her about Jesus, but somehow this story, the sweetest of all, had never reached her ears before to-day.

      “I wish as Jesus wor alive now, and I could take Roy to him,” she said to herself. She felt that if Jesus took Roy in his arms and blessed him, that then he might not miss his mother so much; that the great fact of his having received the blessing of Jesus would make up to him for the loss of his mother.

      “But wot’s the use,” continued Faith very sadly to herself, “when Jesus be dead years ago?”

      At this juncture in the little girl’s thoughts, the room-door was opened, and a neighbour, who had often been kind to both the children, came in. She had come to borrow a saucepan, and was in a hurry; but seeing the tears on Faith’s cheeks, she stopped to inquire the cause.

      “There be nothink wrong wid the little ’un, I ’ope, Faith,” she said.

      “Oh, no,” answered Faith. “Roy’s well enough. ’Tis only as I’m so sorry as Jesus is dead.”

      Mrs Mason, the neighbour, stepped back a