Chapter IV: The First Evening in the New Home

MOUSEY'S tears did not last long, for she reflected that if she made her eyes red Mr. Harding would, in all probability, want to know what was amiss; so she soon ceased crying, and after bathing her face in cold water was relieved to find that the traces of tears were gone. Then she unpacked her box, and laid its contents in the set of drawers awaiting her belongings; after which she brushed and combed her hair, and turned towards the door, with the intention of going downstairs. As she passed the window she glanced out, and paused in sudden admiration, for in the distance she caught a glimpse of high hills, half enveloped in mist.

The rain, which had been incessant during the day, was clearing now, and from Mousey's window, which faced the west, she could see the sun as it set. A rush of tender memories filled the little girl's heart at the sight—memories of her mother, and the teaching she had learnt from her lips. She could hear her dear voice speaking of Jesus, her never-failing Friend, and she remembered how she and her mother, when the work of the day had been ended, had often sung together an evening hymn—

"Abide with me: fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me."

The familiar words rang in her ears like an angel's message, full of hope and consolation, and as she looked at the setting sun, and noted the shadows of evening creeping over the town, a feeling of peace stole into her desolate heart.

Whilst she still stood at the window, she felt a touch on her shoulder, and turned with a start to find herself face to face with Maria.

"Are you ready for tea?" the woman asked. "Mr. Harding is waiting in the parlour."

"I am quite ready," Mousey responded, adding in explanation of her delay, "I have been looking at the beautiful view from the window."

"Shall I put your flowers in water for you?"

Mousey assented gratefully, for her cherished blossoms were commencing to droop.

Maria lifted the nosegay, and smiled as she remarked, "I'm very fond of flowers, but we don't often see any in this house. Master says they're an expensive luxury."

Downstairs Mousey found Mr. Harding already seated at the tea-table. He looked at her sharply as she entered the room, and pointed to a chair opposite to his own.

"Sit down, child," he said; and, as she obeyed, he went on to explain: "I always have my tea at five o'clock prompt, and you had better join me. John Monday has his afterwards."

He poured out a cup of weak tea, which he passed to her, telling her to help herself to milk. Then he remarked that he supposed she did not care for sugar, it was an unnecessary expense, adding, with a chuckle, that he understood it was not fashionable nowadays to take sugar in tea. Mousey did not like to confess that she was accustomed to sugar in her tea, so she drank the lukewarm beverage he offered her, unsweetened.

At that point Maria entered, bearing a large bowl, in which she had arranged Mousey's flowers with considerable taste. The little girl smiled as the woman placed the bowl in the centre of the table, casting a deprecating glance at her master as she did so; but he made no remark until she had left the room; then he turned to his companion and said—

"I have no objection to flowers as long as they don't cost me anything. I suppose if your uncle had sold those they would have turned in some money, eh?"

"Yes," she assented; "the hyacinth blooms are sixpence a dozen."

"Ah! no wonder my friend Dawson remains a poor man," Mr. Harding exclaimed.

Mousey looked at him in surprise, not grasping his meaning. Her mind flew to the home she had just left. She fancied she could hear Uncle Dick saying, "I wish we could have a peep at Mousey, to see how she's getting on!" A glow of warmth crept into her heart as she thought of him, and her face shone with a happy smile.

From his seat at the table Mr. Harding could look into the shop. At last, a customer entering, he rose to interview the newcomer, saying as he left the parlour that he would send Monday to have his tea now.

The next minute the lanky youth took his master's place. He helped himself to a cup of tea, and buttered a slice of bread in silence, watching Mousey the while. She grew red and uncomfortable under his gaze, and wondered how long he was going to stare at her without speaking.

"Think you'll like it here?" he asked at length.

"I—I don't know," she answered hesitatingly.

"Mother dead?" was his next question, put for the sake of making conversation; he had been previously informed of Mrs. Abbot's death.

"Yes; she died a month ago," Mousey answered in trembling accents.

"I never knew my mother," the boy told her, "nor my father either. I was born in the workhouse."

"Indeed!" said Mousey, looking at him with such evident interest that he was encouraged to proceed.

"Mother died when I was born," he went on; "the folks at the workhouse didn't know her name, or anything about her, so they called me Monday because I was born on a Monday, and John after the workhouse master."

He laughed, showing as he did so a row of strong, white teeth. He was evidently by no means depressed by the thought of his friendless position.

"Mr. Harding took me from the workhouse," he continued, "and he's bringing me up to his trade. I live here, you know."

"Do you?" cried the little girl. "It was very kind of Cousin Robert to take you from the workhouse, wasn't it?"

"Oh, as to that, he doesn't lose by me," he replied frankly. "I run his errands, look after his shop, and do heaps of odd jobs about the place. Oh, he gets the work out of me, I can tell you!"

Mousey thought he was not as grateful as he should have been under the circumstances; but, of course, she did not tell him so. He was peeping through the glass door, and apparently satisfied with the sight of his master still in conversation with the customer, drew the jam-pot towards him, and spread his bread and butter thickly with raspberry preserve.

"The old man doesn't allow me to eat jam with bread and butter," he explained; "he says it's extravagant. It must be either bread and butter, or bread and jam, so if he's out of the way I help myself. Won't you have some?"

"No, thank you; I've finished," Mousey replied. There was silence for a few minutes, during which John Monday disposed of his forbidden luxury with evident enjoyment, whilst his companion wondered what would happen if by any chance Mr. Harding returned to the parlour and caught him.

"They call you Mousey, don't they?" he asked presently. "But that's not your real name, I suppose?"

"No. My real name is Arabella Abbot, but everyone calls me Mousey."

"Shall I?" he inquired; then as Mousey nodded, he said, "All right, I will. And you can call me John."

After that they grew quite friendly. She told him about her uncle, and aunt, and six cousins, and gave him a glowing account of the nursery gardens. He listened, much interested.

"You'll find it a change here," he remarked; "there's no garden to this house, and you have to walk a good step before you get into the country."

At that moment Mr. Harding's voice broke in upon their conversation.

"Monday! Are you going to sit over your tea all night? Come and take charge of the shop whilst I go to the post office."

John Monday rose, and pushed back his chair, contorting his face into a hideous grimace.

"Coming, sir!" he made answer, and hurriedly joined his master.

When Maria came in to fetch away the tea-things Mousey timidly asked if she could help, but was told there was no necessity.

"You can come and see my kitchen," Maria said kindly, noticing a shade of disappointment on the child's face.

This Mousey was very glad to do, and she was delighted to find the kitchen a much pleasanter room than the parlour. The tins on the mantelshelf shone like silver, and a copper warming-pan, hanging from a nail against the wall, was so bright that you could see your reflection in it, whilst a tall clock with a brass face ticked in a companionable way.

Mousey did not see Mr. Harding again that night, for, after spending an hour with Maria, she complained of being very tired, and, Maria suggesting the advisability of her going to bed, she fell in with the idea at once.

So she crept upstairs, and after saying her prayers undressed quickly, and lay down to rest. Ten minutes later, when Maria looked in upon her, she found her sleeping peacefully.

"Poor little thing!" the woman murmured softly; "I almost wish she had not come."