TWO LITTLE STRANGERS

RHODA was a little puzzled a few days after this to receive the following letter from her brother Herbert:—

"MY DEAR TABBY,

"I wonder if you could possibly take in two children for a fortnight. They are recovering from influenza, and a breath of your moor air would set them up in no time. I do not think they will give much trouble, their parents are respectable, but they are genuine East End children—girls of eight and ten. We will pay their fare and board. I thought you might like the chance of a bit of work. You cannot find very much to do up in that deserted spot, and it would be a real charity. Send me a wire on receipt of this, for we want to get them off as quickly as possible, and I will send them down to you at once. I have a longing to get out into the country myself, and later on mean to have a try. Have you made friends with your clergyman yet? I should like, it possible, for these children to attend the Church Sunday School whilst with you. They have been most regular in their attendance here.

"I lunched with Edgar the other day at his Club, and he told me about the loss of your horse. He was in a great state of mind about you, and vowed it was hardly safe for you to be living the life you do. I think myself you should never go out unattended by Hannah. Why don't you ask an elderly friend to stay with you? I know a very nice woman, a widow lately returned from India. She is one of our most earnest workers here, and meditates becoming one of our deaconesses. Would you like me to suggest to her to come to you for a change of air? She has such sound views as regards the Church that I think you would be benefited by her society. I should be glad if she showed you how much more workers are needed in towns; above all, how important it is for woman's work to be supervised by the clergy. No more for now, as I am going to evensong.

"Your affectionate brother,

"HERBERT."

"Hannah, will you come here a minute?" called out Rhoda, as she sat perusing this epistle with a pucker between her brows.

Then, as the old servant turned round, she said a little impatiently, "Isn't it tiresome! This is the only one of my letters that I did not read coming home, and now I shall have to tramp down in the heat again to send a telegram off. But still, I don't know that I could have decided without consulting you first. What do you think of this?" And Rhoda read the first part of her brother's letter.

Hannah's face did not give much clue; it wore the same grave, set expression as usual, and she answered, "It shall be just as you please, of course, mum."

Then Rhoda laughed.

"I really believe living in the country is making me become fastidious. I shall be as bad as Miss Montague if I don't take care. Honestly, Hannah, I don't like the idea of having two East End children about our snug little house. We haven't room for children; they will bring dirt and wickedness with them, give you a lot of extra work, and be a great responsibility. Mr. Herbert thinks I have nothing to do! I have my hands as full as they can be. I don't do half the visiting I ought, and now I have only my own legs to carry me, I seem to spend most of my time on the road. I haven't been to see Mrs. Dyke for a fortnight, and I ought to visit her regularly every week. No—candidly—I don't like the idea, but yet I don't think I ought to refuse them, and after all, poor little souls, it may be the making of them. Do you think we can manage it, Hannah?"

"There's the room next to mine, mum. It hasn't been furnished yet, but there's a couple of mattresses to spare, and we could soon get enough for their wants."

"Men are so unpractical," sighed Rhoda; "he never imagines the possibility of my not having room for them. His whole letter is so ridiculous, but it is just like him! Well, if you think we had better take them, I will go down to Ashampton again, and telegraph to that effect."

"Let Jock go, mum; he could take a telegram to the station."

"Ah, the station! That is not quite so far as the post-office. No, I must do it myself, Hannah. He has a lot to do in the garden to-day. Sultana has quite spoiled me for walking. Do you think I could pick up a moor pony cheap? I would even condescend to a donkey. I think I must find some way of getting about a little quicker."

"I think perhaps the Tents would help you about a pony, mum, if you think you could afford it."

"I am not sure that I can. Now I must be off. Shall I have to order anything from Ashampton for these children?"

"I think not, mum; I shall like to try and see what I can do first."

Rhoda put on her broad-brimmed hat, and calling Tartar, set off briskly for the station.

When she arrived there, she met Miss Montague, who was going for the day into Exeter, and having a quarter of an hour to wait before her train came in, was delighted to have a chat. When she heard Rhoda's news, she raised her hands in horror.

"My dear, I really shall wash my hands of you if you are going to inundate our fair, pure country with slum children. How can you take them in! I shall be afraid to come near you. They will steal all your valuables, and lead you a regular dance. You will be building a school or home for them up there before long, and our part of the moor will become a Hampstead Heath. Can't you find enough to do there without bringing London outcasts down? If you want more work, come down to Ashampton. There is no regular district visitor, and there is plenty of scope for your energies.

"By-the-by, I have made acquaintance with old Mrs. Hutton. Have you heard of her? She, like your friend Mr. Rokeby, spends most of her time abroad, but she comes here in the summer; she is too old to visit people herself, but she met some friends of mine abroad, and so wrote and asked me if I would come to lunch with her one day. She owns the old ruined castle by the river, and I discover that I am one of her tenants. She is a charming old lady, and I have regaled her with all the gossip of the neighbourhood. She is very curious to see you, and I have promised to take you to see her one day. She is one of the people about here whom you have come down amongst to teach how to live, so I thought you would be glad of an opportunity of influencing her. Will you come down to lunch with me one day next week?"

"Thank you, I will try, but I must let you know a few days later. I hardly can tell yet how much of my time may be taken up with these little people."

They chatted together a little longer, and then Miss Montague's train came in, and Rhoda began to slowly ascend the hill home again. She was tired and warm when she got in, and very disinclined after lunch to walk over to Mrs. Dyke's.

Hannah tried to dissuade her from doing it, but she felt she ought to go, as she did not know when she would have a chance again. She was rewarded when she reached the sick woman by the welcome she received from her.

"I've wearied for the sight of your face, ma'am. You do make me feel so much better by your talk, but I'm afraid the distance is too far for you to manage often."

"I miss my horse," Rhoda said, brightly; "but I will try and not leave you so long again without a visit."

She had a nice time with her, and read and prayed with her before she left. Coming back, as she was passing the Evans's, she saw the two girls in the garden.

One of them darted in at once and closed the door, but the other stood up a little defiantly and responded to Rhoda's "Good afternoon."

"Why are you so afraid of me?" Rhoda asked, pleasantly. "I only want to be friends with you."

"We're afraid of no one," retorted the girl, indignantly; "least of all of any one in these parts. No one seems to have an idea in their heads but how to insult us and treat us like dirt beneath their feet!"

"Have I done that?" asked Rhoda, gently.

"We can't make out what you're after. If it's about your hoss, we know nought about him, and it's no good coming to try to worm out of us what never was in us!"

"I assure you I have no such intention. I was pitying you both for living here with so few friends. How do you employ yourselves? Are you fond of reading?"

"We're as fond of it as you are of asking questions!" was the rude retort. And with a mocking laugh, the girl sauntered into the cottage, and shut the door behind her.

Rhoda sighed, and continued her walk home, praying that even yet an opening might come for work in this family.

The next afternoon, the children arrived. Rhoda had received a letter in the morning to say they were coming, and she went herself to the station to meet them by the five o'clock train. Her heart was filled with pity when the two little mites were handed out by a good-natured guard. Their white, pinched faces and scared eyes made her voice doubly tender as she stooped to give them a few words of welcome.

They were poorly but neatly clothed; the youngest had a pretty, gentle little face, the eldest was evidently a wide awake little Londoner.

"She's tired, 'Etty is, the train made her feel sick. Oh my! Look at the 'ills up there, 'Etty! 'Owever are we going to walk right up there? Mr. Carlton said as 'ow we were agoing to live on the top of a 'ill. Is your 'ouse far from 'ere, teacher?"

"I think, Jock," said Rhoda, turning to the boy, who had come down with the small cart and hired pony, in case there might be luggage, "that the little girls had better drive up; they seem to have only a small bundle each."

And this arrangement greatly delighted the children.

"Mother said as 'ow we must bring 'ome a lot o' primroses and vi'lets when we came," the eldest girl continued. "'Ave you got woods and trees up on your 'ill, teacher?"

And her little tongue never ceased talking the whole way up, every now and then breaking out into exclamations of delight and surprise at the sights around them.

Rhoda took them round to the kitchen, and told Hannah to give them a good tea, and put them to bed early.

They gave less trouble than Rhoda expected, and Bessie, the elder of the two, was a handy little thing. She not only kept herself and her sister in good order, but took full charge of their room, and gave Hannah help in the housework besides.

Rhoda saw that they were out of doors a good deal.

Hetty was rather timid at first, and would not stray very far from the house.

"What a big, empty world it is here!" she said, as she stood one day with Rhoda looking down the valley, and the range upon range of hills the other side.

"Don't you like it?" asked Rhoda.

"It frightens me at first, it's so lonely. I like the flowers and the grass, but I think I should like some shops up here, it 'ud seem more 'omey!"

And Rhoda shuddered at the thought of Whitechapel shops being the child's ideal of hominess!

Every morning she had them in her room for a Bible lesson, and, in comparison with the country people round, their quickness and shrewdness amazed her.

"I know all the Bible stories," said Bessie one day; "I'm rather tired of 'em, teacher. The hinfants are taught about them. I shall be a teacher when I get bigger, and, oh my! shan't I smack 'em well if they don't learn their lessons proper!"

"I shan't read the Bible much except on Sundays when I grows up," said Hetty, thoughtfully. "Grown-ups don't read it, do they, teacher? It's mostly at schools it's taught. Our gov'ness at the day school, she don't believe it, I 'eard one of the girls say. We 'as to read a chapter through in the mornin', but we gets through it as quick as we can."

"Don't you love Jesus?" asked Rhoda, with a sinking heart. "Do you know what He has done for you?"

"He died to save us from our sins," repeated Bessie, glibly.

"And are you saved from yours?"

The child stared. "He died to save the world," she said, "and I harsk to be forgiven every night."

"But are you forgiven?"

"I hain't done nothin' awful wicked," she said, taken aback by this cross-questioning; "there was a gal in our street, and she got a prize for best lessons in the Sunday school too, she could learn that quick and easy—she got, took up by the perleece for stealing some boots, las' Friday week it was, and her father 'e was mad, 'e said 'e'd break every bone in her body if she comed 'ome again—'e gets drunk most nights, but 'e'd never steal nothin'!"

And this was the way in which most of Rhoda's teaching would be met. Still she did not despair, and meanwhile, saw with satisfaction the thin little cheeks filling out, and the pink colour making its first appearance in them.

They were a source of great interest to Jock, who listened to their grand accounts of London and its ways with open mouth and eyes, and Bessie looked upon him as "a poor hidget boy," so Hetty informed Hannah one day.

They were neither of them good walkers, and on Sunday afternoon, Rhoda had to leave Hannah at home to take care of them whilst she went to the service alone.

And so the fortnight soon slipped away. On the last day but one of their stay, Rhoda was in great anxiety about Bessie; she had strayed away from her sister, and could not be found anywhere. Tea-time came, but there were no signs of her, and both Rhoda and Hannah turned out to look for her, hoping every minute to see her little figure coming towards them.

As dusk set in, they began to get much alarmed, and then about nine o'clock they saw in the distance some one coming along, and this proved to be Meg Evans with the child in her arms.

"She missed her way, and I found her not far from us—she's dead tired, and can't walk a step." And Meg's voice, which was wonderfully softened, added curtly, "I'll carry her as far as your house. She's no light weight."

"I'm dreadful tired," murmured Bessie, "and I thought as 'ow I should 'a died soon if this young pusson hadn't come along."

The "young pusson" made no other remark until she set the little girl down in the kitchen.

Then Rhoda insisted that she should come in and have a rest before she went back. She took her into her own sitting-room, and Meg looked about her almost as curiously as Jess had done the first time she was introduced to it. Making her sit down, Rhoda asked Hannah to make them some hot coffee, for, owing to the anxiety about the child, she herself had had nothing since her afternoon tea.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for bringing her back," Rhoda said; "they are going home to-morrow, and I should never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to her."

"She's uncommon like a little sister of ours," said Meg, gruffly. "I mothered her till she died of bronchitis out in America; she was just such a smart little 'un!"

Rhoda looked interested.

"Do tell me about her. Was it long ago?"

"Nigh four years. Mother died when she was born, and the child couldn't stand our rough life; it's a good thing she was taken."

Then she added, impulsively, "Don't mind our rudeness; we can't help it. We've always been treated unfair, with every one down upon us; it makes us wild with every creature we meet. My sister Vic is off. She's gone to London, to try and get into some circus riding somewhere. Vic is a wonderful horsewoman—but I'm going to stay on with my brother here. Ned has been a good brother to us; he takes after mother, and I don't mind on occasions having a visit from you. It was Vic that was so bitter, and she's gone."

"I won't come if you would rather not," said Rhoda, gently, "but I often pass your cottage on the way to a sick woman I visit, and I should like now and then to come in and see you."

No more was said.

The girl stayed for a cup of coffee, and then went.

But as Rhoda shook hands with her, she felt that it was only a question of time to gain her friendship.

"Why, Hannah," she said, "it is worth the fortnight's visit of these children to have got hold of that poor girl. I never thought she would have come into this house so willingly. I feel we owe Bessie a debt of gratitude for her escapade."

There were a few tears from the children in parting. Hetty clung round Rhoda's neck and whispered, "I will try to love Jesus and be good, and will you come to see us when you come to London?"

And Bessie asserted positively, "We'll come and see you next summer, and stay a month. Oh my! Won't mother scream to see our flowers!"

And then Rhoda sat down to write to her brother,—

DEAREST BERTIE,

I hope you will get your chicks safe and sound. They have been as good as gold, though of course it has given Hannah a good bit more to do; still, they have been very helpful. I hope you will not think they have suffered from my teaching. Poor little mites! Their heads seem full of Bible truth, but their hearts empty; is it so with all the London children, I wonder? I could not send them to any Sunday school here. Ashampton is too far off, and they are not like country children for walking.

I have never answered your question about your friend coming to see me here. I should not like it at present, and I am quite sure she would not. It needs some one in thorough sympathy with my work here to stand the solitude and isolation of my position. I shall be delighted to see any of you boys—that is a very different matter. Howard has promised to come down later on, but, truth to tell, I am rather afraid of him! He does think so much of one's surroundings, and would like to see me in the lap of luxury. Of course I am very comfortable, but I make my own butter, dig in my own garden, and sometimes carry poultry and eggs backwards and forwards to market.

You do not seem to understand that the clergy are "nil" about here. Times may change, however. If the Rector of Abeythorpe, who has Ashampton in his charge, were to be removed, and a more active man put in his stead, we might see much more done. He is a very old man, and keeps two very lazy curates, and I assure you, if I waited to work under their supervision, I should have a very easy time of it. The reason I came here was that there seemed such an opening for quiet, steady work, and I have found it. I don't think I could ever be persuaded to live in a town while there are places like this to be found, and from what I hear, I fear there are many of them scattered over our country. Good-bye. Isn't the difference in your work and mine just this—you seek to bring people to church in order to lead them on to God; I seek to bring them to God and then to church? Your motto is, "First the Church, then God." Mine is, "First God, then the Church." Don't be angry with me.

Your loving sister,

TABBY.