Chapter IV: What Can I Do?

It was in a penitent frame of mind that Bryda awoke on Sunday morning. She would be really good and keep out of mischief all day long.

Cousin Salome was better this morning, and Bryda went in to see her after breakfast.

"No, dear, I cannot go to church," she said, when Bryda asked if she would go that morning; "but I dare say church will come to me. I shall read to myself, and think of all the people all over the world who are saying the same words of prayer, till my little room seems to grow into a piece of a great church." And Salome's white, thin face grew so bright and sweet that Bryda thought it looked like an angel's face in a picture she had seen.

The idea helped her to sit much more still than usual in the old family coach, opposite the two dear old grannies.

Grandfather was a very polite old gentleman, and thought people nowadays too free and easy. Especially he held that no gentleman ever ought to drive with ladies with his hat on; so, as soon as he got into the carriage, he always took off his very well brushed tall hat, and fixed it by the brim in two ribbons fastened for the purpose along the carriage ceiling.

Grandmother always wore a bonnet of the shape that was in fashion when she was young, a curious coal-scuttle affair, which generally set Bryda wondering how the wrinkled old face looked when its pink cheeks were round, and whether, if she were to go to work with a piece of india-rubber, she could rub out the deep lines and get the young look back again.

Grandmother's eyes were dim, and she liked to have the lessons and the hymns found for her. Bryda sometimes did not care to do this; because, if the hymn were a short one, it was sometimes half over before she had found her own place, and was able to join, as she dearly liked to do, in the singing.

But to-day she really did want to be of use, so she did this small duty cheerfully, and was rewarded by the happy way in which the old lady smiled and nodded over the big printed book.

The sermon seemed to have to do, in a most curious way, with the very things of which Bryda had been thinking, and she quite started when the rector's voice said suddenly, "Nothing to do!" and there stopped. "Nothing to do," he said, "when the whole world is full of things that want doing! The harvest ripe, but the laborers idle! The people hungry, and those who have the loaves and fishes keeping them--wasted, unused!"

The clergyman went on to speak of works that men and women might do, and Bryda nestled close against grandfather's shoulder and thought sadly, "When I am grown up I may be of some use, but what a long time off that is!" But presently she looked up again very brightly as the kind old rector went on:

"And now, what shall I say to the little ones? Just this, that the Father needs them quite as much as their elders. They may not be able to do great works, to reap the harvest field, but they may help with cords of love to bind the sheaves; they may glean the scattered ears, and make a little sheaf of good corn. The Lord took a "few small fishes" to serve His great purpose; He will take little hands and feet and hearts, and make them do His will. Only the little ones must be _willing_."

Yes! But he had not told Bryda what she might do, and how to set about doing the Lord's will seemed to her very puzzling.

She wondered about it the whole way home, and made a little plan, which she determined to carry out at once after luncheon. When grown-up people were very good, Bryda knew that they were fond of caring for the poor, and that then they generally carried soup to those who were sick, and read the Bible aloud in cottages. In her own town home she had never been into the houses of the poor at all; indeed, these houses were so hidden away behind the handsome streets in which the rich lived, that she hardly knew there were such places. But here, in the little village outside grandfather's lodge gates, she knew poor people lived, mostly in neat cottages with honeysuckle climbing over their trellised porches. There were most likely nice old women there, who sat knitting in their tidy room, with spectacled eyes, and caps as white as snow. It would be nice to go there, and surely to visit them would be useful, and would please Him who made use of a "few small fishes" to do His work when He was on earth.

Full of this happy thought, Bryda descended to the kitchen. The servants'-hall dinner was just over, the kitchen-maid was washing plates in the scullery, and cook was sitting by the kitchen window with a very clean apron and very smart cap; while by her stood a tall young shepherd, in his Sunday best, and a flower in his coat.

Bryda made her request to cook, namely, that she might have a little soup in a jug.

"Whatever do you want it for, miss?" asked the cook, evidently ill-pleased by the interruption.

"I want to do good to the poor," answered she, looking up seriously at the cross face.

"Dear! miss: what an old-fashioned child you are!" cried cook. But she fetched the soup, and Bryda was much surprised to see that it was a cold bright jelly, very nice to carry, as there could be no fear of spilling it on her fresh Sunday frock. So off she started, and walked quickly down the avenue and out into the pretty village, with her soup and her testament. But now came a new puzzle--Bryda knew none of the people in the village. To which house should she go?

Looking round, she saw that one of the houses looked much poorer than the others. The little garden was full of weeds, the porch shabby and broken, with creepers that sadly wanted nailing, hanging loosely from the wall, one poor rose quite bent to the earth with heavy blossoms. Everything looked neglected, and Bryda thought the people must be very poor indeed, since their home looked so wretched. Timidly walking up to the door, for her courage began to fail her a little, she tapped gently.

"Open the door, Betsy," said a gruff voice inside; to which another voice answered, grumbling:

"Can't you do it yourself, you stupid old woman?"

Then the door opened suddenly, and Bryda saw a rough-looking girl of about fifteen, with a very dirty face, shock head, and untidy, torn dress, whose voice was as rough as her look, holding the door.

"Now, then, what do you want?" she said, frowning fiercely at her trembling visitor. "D'yer want to know the way, or to ax a glass of water? That's all folks like you ever troubles folks like us for, 'cept when we're ill, and then yer brings us tracks:" by which she probably meant tracts.

"If you please," said poor Bryda, "I thought some one might be ill here, and so I brought some soup."

"Come in, my dear, come in," said the old woman from her corner, and began coughing and wheezing very loudly, groaning so dreadfully between her attacks that Bryda was more frightened than ever, and thought she was going to die. Perhaps some soup would do her good; so she timidly entered the cottage, the girl immediately shutting the door behind her, set down her little basket, and began to open it.

"That's a nice bit o' chain round yer neck," said the rude girl, coming behind her. "I wonder if it wouldn't look better on me." So saying, she quickly unclasped the pretty silver chain that hung round her visitor's neck, and put it on her own, before Bryda had time to object.

The old woman had, meantime, stopped coughing; she got up quickly and seized the jug of clear soup-jelly, and began poking her shriveled old fingers in, and so eating it. But the girl, seeing this, caught the hand that held the jug, while the old woman was eating and muttering all the time.

"Soup for the sick! Oh, yes, I am very ill! Bring me some soup, my dear; bring me plenty of soup." The rough girl caught the jug and tried to put her own fingers in, on which a struggle followed; the pitcher fell to the floor and broke, while the jelly was scattered everywhere; and poor Bryda, frightened almost out of her wits, left the two dreadful women to fight, opened the door, and ran as if they were after her, leaving locket and chain, and her basket, and feeling as if she were fortunate in escaping at all.

Rushing blindly on, she hardly knew where, only feeling that she must run, her foot caught in the root of a tree, and she fell violently to the ground, striking her head against the trunk. Stupid as she felt, in a moment she was trying to struggle up, when a hand was laid on her shoulder; and, thinking it must be the dreadful girl who had so frightened her, the poor girl screamed aloud.

"Hush, hush! don't scream that way!" said a kind, soothing voice; an arm gently raised her, and Bryda, looking up, saw an old man, with cheeks like a winter-apple, white hair, and a pair of the kindest, friendliest old eyes that ever looked through spectacles, standing beside her.

"Come into my cottage here, and rest a little."

Bryda looked round her, feeling that for this time she had had enough of the inside of cottages.

"Do now," went on the old man. "Don't be afeard, missy! Thy grandfather and old Roger were young together; ah! and good friends they were, too, for all I could beat him at wrestling; he never took it amiss, did Master George--that's your grandad, little missy. Come in now, and welcome." Bryda gained a little courage at this speech, and followed the old man into his cottage, close to which she had fallen.

As she went she could see the rude girl looking out of her house and making ugly faces.

"Which she need not have done," said Bryda afterward; "she was _hideous_ already!"