"Why, if it isn"t my John Henry!" she cried.
"Yes, mother, it"s your John Henry, ashamed of himself at last. And so you"ve got poor Polly and the bairns here. Where is Polly? I wonder if she"ll ever forgive me?"
"Then you haven"t been home yet, John Henry!" was all grandmother could say.
"No, mother; I only got to Liverpool this morning, and I took you on my way; I was going home to-morrow."
"Where"s Polly?" he said, pushing past her, and looking first into the parlour and then into the kitchen. "Is she upstairs, mother? Polly!
Polly! Polly!"
"John Henry," said grandmother in a trembling voice, "Polly has gone home."
"Gone home, and left the children behind her!" he exclaimed.
"Ay, my dear," said his mother, bursting into tears; "the Lord sent for her."
"You don"t mean to say she"s _dead_, mother!" he moaned.
"Nay, my dear, she is living with the Lord," said the old woman.
"Oh, mother, mother," he sobbed, "to think I left her like that, and she never knew how sorry I was!"
It was a long, long time before he could speak, or could tell them his story. He had been in America in dreadful straits and in many dangers.
At length he fell ill with fever, and lay for many weeks at the point of death, in a log cabin, with only a boy of ten, the son of a poor emigrant, to do anything for him. But this trouble had shown him his sin, and he had come to the Lord Jesus for forgiveness, and ever since then G.o.d had blessed him. He had not become a rich man, but he had earned enough to bring him home, and he had saved a little besides, and with this he hoped to start life afresh.
"But you"ll never rob me of my bairns, John Henry," said the old woman, in alarm; "you"ll never take them away, when we"ve all been so happy together!"
And the bare possibility of losing the children seemed quite to damp poor old grandmother"s joy in getting her beloved John Henry home again.
"Well, mother, we must see," he said; "we must ask G.o.d to order for us."
And G.o.d did order most graciously, both for mother and son.
The old woman told her trouble to "my lady," the next time that she drove through the lodge-gates in her pony-carriage, and she was very sympathising, and most anxious that the children should not have to leave their happy country home. She mentioned it to the squire, and he very kindly offered Poppy"s father a situation on his estate as gamekeeper. His life in America had made him far more fit for that kind of work than for carrying on his old trade, and he was most thankful not to have to take his children back to the city. So they all lived on together in the pretty lodge in the lovely valley, a happy little family, all loving the same Lord, and walking on the road to the same Home.
But Poppy never forgot her mother. And as Enoch and Elijah grew older, she would sit with them on the hillside and talk to them about her, and pointing to the blue sky she would tell them that their mother was waiting for them there, and would be very much disappointed if they did not come.
And often, as they sat outside the lodge in the quiet summer evenings, they and their father would sing together, "Mother"s favourite hymn,"
and dear old grandmother would come to the door, and join in a quavering voice in the beautiful words:
"Jesus, I will trust Thee, trust Thee with my soul!
Guilty, lost, and helpless, Thou canst make me whole.
There is none in heaven or on earth like Thee; Thou hast died for sinners--therefore, Lord, for me."
THE END.