Chapter II

HOW THE DOLL WAS RECEIVED IN THE BLUNDELL FAMILY

"OH, how my eyes ache!"

The speaker, a weary-looking woman, was seated stitching away by the light of a single candle. She was a button-hole maker, so what wonder if her poor eyes did ache! To make button-holes from early morning till late at night is no easy task; but Mrs. Blundell was not usually a grumbler, and she rarely complained. To-night she was very tired, and a fear that had haunted her for months took strong hold upon her, and filled her soul with dismay. Supposing there should be something really amiss with her eyes—more than weariness? Supposing her precious sight should be really leaving her? She shuddered at the thought, for she had two children to support, and, as things were, existence was hard enough.

But Mrs. Blundell was one who always put a stout heart to a stiff hill. She had been country bred, and had come to London as a wife ten years ago. Her husband, a house painter by trade, had been led astray by evil companions, and had taken to drink and gambling. The downward path is always a swift one, and so it had been in John Blundell's case. When he had died, nearly two years since, he had left his widow and two little girls totally unprovided for; and Mrs. Blundell continued to work as a button-hole maker, as she had done during her husband's lifetime, in order to supply those necessaries which were so hard to provide.

"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,' the poor woman had murmured to herself over and over again when the weight of care thrown upon her would have seemed unbearable except for that great promise. She had learnt to turn to her Heavenly Father for assistance in time of trouble, and trusted in Him with all her heart. But to-night she was wearied out, mentally and bodily; and as she glanced round the garret that was home to her and her children she shuddered at the thought that even this humble abode might not be theirs much longer.

"Mother!"

The voice, weak and plaintive in tone, proceeded from a bed in a corner of the room, where a little girl of about eight years of age was lying.

"Yes, my darling!"

The mother spoke in tender, caressing accents, which she strove to make cheerful for her sick child's sake. Little Annie was always ill. She suffered from a spinal complaint, and only Mrs. Blundell knew that it was the result of a fall she had had from her father's arms when an infant. John Blundell had been intoxicated when the accident had happened, and, though it had been a shock to him at the time, he had soon recovered from his fright, although Annie had never had a day's health since.

"Oh, mother, do put down your work, and rest your poor eyes!"

"Presently, my dear; I am not going to do much more to-night. Have you been asleep, Annie?"

"Yes, mother. Where is Maggie?"

"I sent her out to get some thread an hour ago. She ought to be back by this time."

"I expect she is looking at the shops. She was telling me this morning how they were. Oh, how I wish I could see them!"

"I wish so too, Annie."

"It does seem hard not to be able to get about like Maggie. Oh, mother, why are we so poor? Has God forgotten us, do you think?"

"Oh, hush, my dear! No! God has not forgotten us; that is impossible! All the world may forget us, but not God!"

"But, mother, it's so hard to be poor at Christmas time!"

"Oh, Annie, don't say that! The joy of the Christmas season has nothing to do with riches, although it must be pleasant to be able to give happiness to others for Christ's sake. If we have no money to buy presents for those we love, the love is in our hearts the same; and the angels' message was to the whole world, rich and poor alike. Never mind our poverty, Annie, so long as Jesus is with us. Have you forgotten how He was born in a stable, and cradled in a manger, because His mother was of so little account that they could not make room for her in the inn?"

"Oh, mother, I do remember, but—"

"He was poor all His life," Mrs. Blundell continued softly, "and His friends were the working people. That thought has helped me to bear a great deal, for He understands all our trials and sorrows."

"Still, I should like to have some money to buy presents for you and Maggie, mother?"

"What would you give me, my dear?"

"A new gown, mother; it should be so warm and soft! I am not sure what I would give Maggie! A pretty new hat, I think, for that old sailor hat of hers is dreadfully shabby."

There was silence for a few minutes, then the sick child spoke again:

"Mother, I can't see the stars to-night; I expect it is raining."

Mrs. Blundell put down her work, and rising, went to the tiny window, and looked out.

"It is very misty," she said. "I do wish Maggie would come! Where can she be?"

"She is coming, mother!"

Annie's quick ears had told her truly, for in another minute the rickety door was flung open, and a breathless little figure ran into the room, and stood panting before her astonished mother and sister.

"Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Blundell, with mingled anxiety and reproof in her voice. "Where have you been?"

For answer the child laughed—a clear, ringing laugh, full of pure enjoyment, that echoed strangely through the miserable garret. Annie raised herself on her elbow, her eyes open wide with amazement, whilst Mrs. Blundell pointed to the parcel in Maggie's arms for an explanation.

"Oh!" the excited little girl cried at length. "You'll never guess what has happened."

She laid the parcel on the bed, and bade Annie open it, then stood by, somewhat impatiently watching the weak, tremulous fingers as they fumbled with the string. The cover was removed from the box at last, and the doll in the bright amber gown lay revealed.

For a moment there was an awed silence; then:

"Where did she come from, Maggie? Who is she for?"

"She is for you, Annie," Maggie answered brightly, "for your very own! A Christmas present! A gentleman gave her to me, and I ran as fast as ever I could to bring her home to you! You remember my telling you yesterday about that shop where there was a big window full of dolls? Well, I was looking in, and the gentleman asked me which doll I would like if I had the money to buy her; and then, when I told him, he took me into the shop and gave her to me!"

"Oh, Maggie!"

"And the lady in the shop put her in this box because she should not get damp," the excited child continued, "and then I ran home as fast as I could!"

"What a kind gentleman he must be!" cried Annie. "I wonder what made him do it! I think God must have told him!"

"I shouldn't wonder," Maggie agreed. "How do you like her, Annie? You haven't touched her yet!"

"She is so pretty, and her dress is so grand," the sick child answered in awe-struck tones. "I never saw such a lovely doll before."

"She is your very own, Annie."

"Oh, I don't like to take her from you, Maggie; the gentleman meant you to have her!"

"I would rather give her to you!"

Taking the doll carefully from the box, Annie placed her in her sister's arms, whilst Mrs. Blundell stood by, watching the children with tears in her eyes. She was pleased to see Maggie acting so unselfishly, for she well knew that in giving up her doll the child was making no slight sacrifice.

"See what lovely pink cheeks she has!" cried Annie. "And, oh, how blue her eyes are! Oh, you beautiful creature!"

"I knew you would like her," Maggie remarked complacently. "I was longing to be to able buy her for you when the gentleman spoke to me."

"Was he an old gentleman, Maggie?"

"Oh, no—quite young."

"He must have a kind heart," Mrs. Blundell said gratefully. "The doll will be quite a companion for Annie when you are at school, Maggie, and I am busy."

It was a strange scene in that humble garret home—a scene full of pathos and tender human nature. The sick child with the gaudily dressed doll clasped in her frail arms; her sister, her face radiant with happiness; and the careworn mother looking on with eyes that smiled through a mist of tears.

It was Mrs. Blundell who broke the silence in words that came straight from a heart full of thankfulness and gratitude:

"There, children! You have had a beautiful Christmas present! You have no idea who the kind gentleman was, my dear? No. Well, God bless him, whoever he may be!"