Chapter VII: A Great Gift

THE heavy rains had ceased, and there had been several nights of hard frost, which had covered the flooded meadows surrounding W— with a thick coating of ice.

"The ice will bear to-day," remarked Mr. Grey, one morning at breakfast. "I believe we're in for a spell of dry weather. You must look to your skates, children, for, if all's well, you'll get some skating now."

By the following morning—a Saturday—the ice was in splendid condition, and the young people of the village spent nearly the whole day on it, as well as many of their elders.

Mavis had been supplied with an old pair of skates which had belonged to Rose, who had bought a new pair the previous season. And during the morning, her uncle gave her, her first lesson in skating; but he was called away on business in the afternoon, and she was left to her own resources. She got on by herself fairly well, and managed to keep her feet unaided; but it was slow work, and she grew tired and cold long before her cousins were ready to leave the ice. By-and-by she divested herself of her skates, and declared to Rose her intention of going home.

"What, already?" cried Rose. "Why, how cold you look! I'm most beautifully warm. You don't want me to go with you, do you?" she asked.

"Oh no," Mavis replied, "certainly not. I don't think I've got on badly. But I can't skate fast enough to keep warm like you, and my feet are so cold, there's no feeling in them. Otherwise I should like to stay and look on."

Rose nodded, and skimmed away over the ice. Whilst Mavis left the meadow by the gateway, and turned into the road leading to the village, through which she had to pass on her way home, walking briskly to get herself warm.

It was a perfect winter afternoon. The sun was sinking rosily in the western sky, and the keen, frosty air was most invigorating. Mavis had enjoyed the day; but she sighed, and her pretty face grow grave as she thought of those to whom frost meant only added misery, and she felt glad that there were no extremely poor people in W—.

"I don't suppose there's any one in the place who hasn't enough to eat," she reflected. "For I heard uncle say last night that the villagers were very well looked after; they get coal-tickets, and they belong to blanket clubs, and they have good homes."

She had reached the village by this time, and was passing the post-office when the Vicar came out, followed by his dog. A smile lit up Mr. Moseley's kindly countenance as his eyes fell on the little girl.

"All alone?" he said. "How is that?"

"I got so very cold on the ice that I thought I'd go home," Mavis explained, as she patted Max. "I only began to learn to skate to-day, and I grew very tired."

"Naturally. You are warmer now?"

"Oh yes, thank you. I have been walking fast. Max is very pleased to see me, isn't he?"

"Very. He counts you as a friend, there is no doubt about that. I am glad to hear you have had good news of your mother. I saw your uncle a few days ago, and he mentioned that Mrs. Grey had arrived at Sydney safely."

"Oh yes. I shall be having a letter from her from Sydney before Christmas, I expect. Did uncle tell you that Miss Dawson is better, Mr. Moseley?"

"Miss Dawson is the young lady your mother is nursing, I suppose? No, your uncle did not tell me that; but I am very glad."

"She is such a pretty young lady, and so rich; but she is very delicate, though you wouldn't think it to look at her. I never saw her but once, and then she was very kind to me. She gave me a beautiful gold locket and chain for a keepsake. I had nothing of the kind before, and we got quite friendly, though we were only together for a little while. Isn't it odd how quickly one gets friendly with some people?"

He smiled and assented. They were walking in the direction of the vicarage, which Mavis had to pass on her way home.

"I think it's very strange," the little girl continued, knitting her brows thoughtfully. "Now, Rose and I are great friends, and, on the whole, I get on well with Bob, and I'm very fond of Uncle John; but, do you know—" she dropped her voice confidentially as she spoke—"I never can quite like Aunt Lizzie. I do hope it isn't very wrong of me."

"Why can't you like her?" the Vicar asked, looking surprised.

"I don't know," Mavis admitted, shaking her head.

"She's kind to you, I'm sure."

"Oh yes, yes!" The little girl grew red, and hesitated. "Please, Mr. Moseley, what is it to be superficial?" she asked, by-and-by. "Is it something one ought not to be?"

"To be superficial is to be all on the surface—shallow," he replied. "But why do you ask that?"

"Aunt Lizzie says I'm superficial," Mavis explained. "I heard her tell Uncle John so. But he said no, I was not. Indeed, I was not trying to listen," she proceeded quickly. "I was coming downstairs, and they were in the hall. I didn't know they were talking about me. Then it's nothing very bad if one is superficial, Mr. Moseley?"

"No," he answered, with an involuntary smile; "and it's nothing for you to trouble about. But I agree with your uncle. I think, perhaps, your aunt is mistaken; she probably does not understand you, and you evidently do not understand her. No doubt you will get to know each other better by-and-by. I am coming to see your aunt about you one day soon."

"About me?" Mavis exclaimed, questioningly.

"Yes. I am going to get up a concert—not just yet, during Christmas week—and invite all the villagers to attend. It will be held in the schoolroom, and I think you can help me, if your aunt will permit it."

"I!" cried the little girl in amazement. "What can I do?"

"You can sing. I have heard you on several occasions when you have been with your cousins in the woods, though you have not known I have been listening. Once I heard you sing a most beautiful version of the twenty-third psalm, and that is what I should like you to sing at my concert."

"Oh, Mr. Moseley, I don't think I could—before a lot of strange people!"

"Not if it gave them pleasure?" he inquired, with a smile.

"I should be so nervous," faltered the little girl.

"Perhaps, at first, but you would very soon get over that."

"But I have never learnt to sing properly—not with music, I mean. I couldn't sing with a piano; it would put me out."

"I should like you to sing without an accompaniment, as you have been accustomed. God has given you a groat gift, my dear, don't you think He expects you to use it for the benefit of others?"

"Do you think that?" Mavis asked earnestly.

"Certainly I do. The poet Longfellow says that God sent His singers upon earth—"

"'That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.'"

"Those lines recurred to my memory when I heard you sing that beautiful, comforting psalm."

Mavis' face broke into a sudden, radiant smile. In imagination, she heard Miss Dawson's well-remembered voice saying: "You have given me comfort, and reminded me that I am not setting out on a long journey without support from God." She knew the sick girl had referred to the words she had previously sung—

"The Lord is only my support, and He that doth me feed;
How can I then lack anything whereof I stand in need?"

Had God indeed given her a great gift, expecting her to use it for the benefit of others? She had never thought of her voice in that light before; she had sung instinctively, like the bird after which she had been named.

"Mr. Moseley, I will sing at your concert gladly, if Aunt Lizzie will let me," she said, at length.

"Thank you, my dear. I felt sure you would. Well, I shall call at the Mill House shortly. You will soon run home from here?"

"Oh yes," assented Mavis.

They had reached the vicarage gate, and, having shaken hands with her companion, and put her arms around Max's neck and given him an affectionate hug, she hastened on. She felt very light-hearted, and hummed a little tune happily to herself as she tripped along. But her voice suddenly ceased as she neared the Mill House and caught sight of a man's figure ahead of her, clad in a ragged suit of clothes. A pang of pity shot through her sympathetic heart.

"I suppose he's a tramp or a beggar," she thought, "he looks dreadfully poor."

The man turned at the sound of her light footsteps, and looked at her. She saw his face was pinched and blue with the cold, and that it wore a very wretched, dispirited expression. As she caught up to him, he spoke.

"Have you a penny you could spare me, missie?" he said, in a voice which sounded weak, she thought. He was quite a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, but extremely thin.

"No, I haven't," she replied, regretfully. "Oh, I'm so sorry! You do look miserably cold."

"Aye, I'm cold," he agreed, with a short, bitter laugh, "cold and hungry, too."

"Hungry? Oh dear, how dreadful! Do you live here—at W— I mean?"

"No. I'm on the look-out for work—have been for weeks—but it's very scarce. I'm not a beggar from choice. I've been hanging around the mill in hopes of seeing the miller, thinking that he might give me a job. They told me in the village that he wanted a man to drive a waggon."

"I believe he does," said Mavis. "But he's not at home this afternoon. I live at the Mill House; Mr. Grey's my uncle. Go round to the back door, I'm sure my aunt will give you something to eat."

The man looked at her doubtfully, but he did as he was told.

Meanwhile Mavis passed through the wicket-gate, ran up the garden path, and entered the house by the front door. She found her aunt in the parlour, engaged in darning stockings, and immediately informed her that there was a poor starving man outside.

"Do give him some food, please, Aunt Lizzie, and let him warm himself by the kitchen fire," she said, pleadingly. "He wants to see Uncle John, to ask him if he can give him work. Mayn't he come in and wait? I have sent him around to the back door."

"Really, Mavis, you take too much upon yourself!" cried her aunt, irascibly. "I never encourage tramps; the workhouse is always open to them. I must send this man off at once."

"Aunt Lizzie, you don't mean it!" exclaimed Mavis, aghast. "Oh, you won't be so cruel! He is hungry, I am certain he is, and, oh, it will be unkind if you don't give him something to eat—if only a slice of bread!"

The little girl repented having spoken so hastily the moment after the words had passed her lips, and she hung her head and commenced a stammering apology. Her aunt did not stay to listen to it, however, but hurried to the kitchen. The man was already at the back door, and Jane was speaking to him.

"I dare say missus will give you a bit of bread and meat," she was remarking, as Mrs. John, closely followed by Mavis, entered the kitchen.

"How often have I warned you not to encourage tramps, Jane!" said her mistress, severely. "Go away, or I'll report you to the police for begging," she declared, imperatively motioning to the man to depart.

"The little lady thought you'd give me something to eat, ma'am," he said. "She told me to come."

"Yes, I did," asserted Mavis, nearly weeping. "Oh, Aunt Lizzie, don't, don't send him away hungry."

Mrs. John wavered. She looked scrutinizingly at the man, and saw he was evidently wretchedly cold and inadequately clothed, and her heart was stirred with pity. So she went into the larder and cut some bread and meat, which she gave him.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, his tone evincing real gratitude. But though he addressed the donor of the food, his glance went past her to Mavis. He was not allowed to say more, however, for at that moment the door was shut in his face, and he had no choice but to go away.

"I am never knowingly unkind to any one, Mavis," Mrs. John said, as she turned her attention to her little niece, who was furtively wiping her eyes, "and I am greatly astonished that you should have spoken to me in such an unbecoming manner."

"It was very wrong of me, and I'll never do so again, Aunt Lizzie," Mavis responded, in a tremulous voice. "But you didn't seem to understand that the poor man was really hungry. Won't you forgive me? I did not mean to be rude. I spoke without thinking."

"Yes, I forgive you. But never presume to dictate to me again. Why have you returned before the others?"

Mavis explained, and went on to repeat the conversation she had held with the Vicar, to which her aunt listened with an expression of disapproval on her countenance, afterwards remarking—

"You are too young, in my opinion, to sing in public. However, I will hear what Mr. Moseley has to say, and consult your uncle upon the matter. The idea of a child like you singing at a concert. It is preposterous to think of it!"

Mavis made no answer, for she saw Mrs. John was greatly displeased. She thought it was because of the manner in which she had addressed her in reference to the hungry stranger, and was quite unaware that, added to that, her aunt was jealous on her children's account. Truth to tell, Mrs. John was annoyed that the Vicar should seek to bring Mavis into notice. She would not admit, even to herself, that the little girl had a wonderfully beautiful voice.