Chapter V: A Request

IN Mrs. Mugford's shop window, in the midst of several other prints, in cheap wooden frames, was the one that had made such an impression on Molly's mind. The prints were all of little value, but to Molly they appeared grand pictures, and several times a day, she would pause to have another admiring gaze at the Good Shepherd.

At length, one afternoon, she took courage and ventured into the shop, where with her heart beating wildly, and her cheeks flushed with the thought of her boldness, she found herself face to face with Mrs. Mugford. The good woman smiled kindly as she leaned her hands on the counter, and surveyed the little girl out of her sharp brown eyes.

"Well, my dear," she remarked, in her brisk, business-like way, "has your mother sent you to do her shopping for her?"

"No, please, ma'am," Molly answered, shyly.

"No? Then what is it, Molly?"

"If you please, ma'am, would you tell me how many pennies it would cost to buy a picture?"

"A picture! What picture? One of the prints in the window, I suppose?"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean the Good Shepherd."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Mugford, in great astonishment. "It's eighteen pence, and very cheap at that!"

"Eighteen pence!" said Molly, doubtfully. "Please, how many pennies is that?"

"Eighteen," Mrs. Mugford replied, with difficulty concealing an amused smile; then noticing the expression of dismay on the child's face, "Were you thinking of buying it?"

Molly nodded gravely. Mrs. Mugford surveyed her for a few minutes in puzzled silence.

"Now, I wonder what makes you want that picture?" she said at last, enquiringly.

"It is so beautiful! The Good Shepherd looking so glad 'cause He's found the little lamb!"

"Oh, you know all about it, I see," Mrs. Mugford said aloud, whilst inwardly she was saying, "This is the child folks say is not right. It strikes me she's right enough!"

"I go to Sunday-school," Molly continued, encouraged by the kindly look in the eyes that were watching her so sharply, "and Miss Morris told me all about Him. He is the King of love; the hymn says so."

"What hymn, my dear? Ah, I remember. Well, now, about this picture; how many pennies have you?"

"Only two, ma'am—one the vicar gave me last week, and one Jim gave me on Saturday."

"Ah! I'm afraid I can't sell it for that! Do you think you will ever be able to save eighteen pennies?"

"I don't know, ma'am."

"I think you'd better ask your father about it. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll keep that print in the window along with the others, but if anyone wants to buy it, I'll say it's bespoken. I'll keep it there a month, and by that time you'll know if there's any chance of your buying it."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am. You will let it stay in the window where I can see it?"

"Yes, I will."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said Molly with great earnestness.

Molly's smile was like sunshine at that moment. Mrs. Mugford put a few mixed sweets into a screw of paper, and slipped the little packet into the child's hand, bidding her run along home, and was rewarded with a look full of deep gratitude.

That evening, when her father returned from his day's work at the Hall, Molly told him about what had taken place between her and Mrs. Mugford. He listened in silence. He would have much liked to give his little daughter the money for the picture, more especially as she rarely expressed a desire for anything she did not possess; and his conscience told him that if he would only deny himself a few drinks at the "White Hart," he could easily spare the eighteen pence; but at the same time, he was too selfish to make a sacrifice for even his dearly loved child.

"Why couldn't Mrs. Mugford give her the picture?" he said to his wife, later on, after the children had gone to bed.

"Why should she, James?" Mrs. Lethbridge replied, indignantly. "She's always giving Molly sweets, and sending across things to me. You know how good and kind she is. I expect," getting angry at her husband's ingratitude, "that she thinks you might give Molly this picture if you liked; no doubt she knows well enough how you spend your evenings, and what you throw away on drink!"

"That will do, Jenny! I'm not going to be talked to by you. If you're going to begin nagging, I'll go! Do you think I care what Mrs. Mugford thinks about me?"

"No, you don't care—"

Alas! It was the beginning of a domestic storm. In a few minutes, husband and wife were exchanging angry, bitter words, and ere long, James Lethbridge strode out of the cottage and betook himself to the "White Hart," there to remain till he should be told to go, at eleven o'clock.

Of course, the children heard the high words, but they were quite accustomed to hear their parents wrangling, and took little notice. The boys were sleepy, and after listening to their father slam the door, and walk away, they shut their eyes, and were soon blissfully unconscious of everything; whilst Molly lay in her little bed, repeating in a whisper her favourite evening prayer:

"Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless thy little lamb to-night.
Through the darkness be Thou near me,
Bless my sleep till morning light."

It had been the first prayer she had ever learned; but it was only lately that she had come to understand the meaning of the words. To-night, she thought of the Good Shepherd, dwelling upon His love for the little lost lamb, and seeing in her imagination the gentle face of Him who gave His life for His sheep.

Meanwhile, in the cosy parlour behind her shop, Mrs. Mugford was spending the one hour of the day she had to herself. Her Bible lay upon the table at her side, for she had been reading in the Gospel of St. John the story of the Good Shepherd, constrained to do so, doubtless, on account of her conversation with Molly. Now, one could see by the dreamy look on her face, that she was in deep thought.

The truth was, as she had been closing up her shop, she had seen James Lethbridge fling himself out of his cottage door, and it had only needed one glance at his enraged countenance to tell her something had gone wrong in his home. Now, as she sat thinking of her interview with Molly, she thought pitifully of the child's father. She had not given him many thoughts hitherto, except to despise him as a drunkard, and blame him as a neglectful husband and parent; but to-night her reflections of him were softened by the memory of the beautiful words she had just finished reading: "And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: Them also I must bring, and they shall hear My voice."

Mrs. Mugford got up from her chair, and after carefully putting away her Bible in its place, upon the shelf which contained her greatest treasures, she left the house, and crossed the road to Rose Cottage.

"Mrs. Lethbridge will likely be lonely to-night," she said to herself, "and maybe she'll be glad of my company for a while."

She tapped gently at the closed door, and receiving no answer stepped into the dimly-lit kitchen. Mrs. Lethbridge was seated with her hands covering her face, and she was weeping in a hopeless fashion. She looked up with a start as her neighbour entered, and a shamed look crossed her face when she saw who it was.

"I've run in for a few minutes' talk with you," Mrs. Mugford said kindly. "You know I'm all alone of an evening, and sometimes the time hangs heavy."

"I'm all alone, too," Mrs. Lethbridge replied bitterly.

"The children are in bed, and fast asleep, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Mugford.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Lethbridge; "and my husband's gone to the public-house as usual!"

"Ah, that's bad! Don't cry;" for Mrs. Lethbridge was beginning to shed tears again. "Crying never does any good, and it'll only make you ill. I'm sorry for your husband, Mrs. Lethbridge."

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, looking up in surprise, for many expressed blame, but few sorrow, for him who was the cause of all her heart-break. "Sorry!"

"Yes, indeed I am," said Mrs. Mugford.

"He used to be so different before he took to drink. You wouldn't think now he was the same man I married."

"He's wandered away from Christ's fold, but the Good Shepherd—Him your little maid talks about—He won't forget him; and one day I hope your husband will hear His voice," Mrs. Mugford said solemnly. "You must pray for him."

"Oh, I do, I do! But I can't help complaining, and I've no patience, and life does seem so hard!"

Mrs. Mugford nodded sympathetically, and then the neighbours sat down side by side, and indulged in a long, confidential chat; and by-and-bye Mrs. Lethbridge dried her eyes, and was comforted.

When Mrs. Mugford said good-night, it was after promising to "run in again one evening soon," and she went home with the knowledge that she had been allowed to help and cheer one heavy heart.