Chapter III: Our Father

FROM this time Elfie began to pay some attention to her personal appearance. She washed her face and hands, and combed her hair every morning, before she went out, and, of course, looked less wild; but her rags, poor child, were past mending, and there seemed no hope of ever being able to replace these with better clothes now. New ones—new frocks, new shoes, that gave other little girls so much pleasure—Elfie had never had. Sometimes she wore a pair of old shoes or boots picked up in the street, and sometimes she went barefoot. And it was much the same with frocks and bonnets: sometimes she picked up a rag that would cover her, or had one given her, and she wore it until it dropped to pieces. She had never been quite naked; but many times she had been almost so, until some one had given her something to put on.

She began to wish now that some one would do so again; and formed all sorts of plans for saving enough money to buy herself a frock at a second-hand clothes' stall—plans that always failed, for winter was drawing near, and the two girls found it harder work than ever to pay the rent and buy bread to eat.

"The rent must be paid," Elfie said over and over again, as if to convince herself of a fact she half doubted.

Susie said nothing, but stitched away as fast as she could, and always contrived to have the shilling for the landlord when he called; for she knew if it were not paid, they would be turned into the street, and for Elfie's sake, as well as her own, she did not wish this to happen. Elfie said she did not care, she had always been used to a street life, but that it would never do for Susie; and so for her sake—to keep Susie's home for her—she grew more careful and steady, that she might be trusted by people to do odd jobs for them, and thus bring in a few pence to add to the weekly store.

But with all Elfie's care and steadiness, and Susie's close stitching, they had a hard time of it to make ends meet; and Susie grew pale and weak, and often suffered from pain in her side. She went regularly to church on Sunday, but she could never persuade Elfie to do so. Church was for decent folk, not for her, she said; but she looked forward to sitting down with her arms round Susie's neck, to listen to her reading from the Bible, on Sunday afternoon.

Sometimes they contrived to have a fire on Sunday, but it was not often they could have one all the week, except to boil the kettle occasionally; for Susie still kept up the habit of having regular meals, and was gradually winning Elfie to like this plan too.

People began to notice the pale, pinched little face under the shabby black bonnet, that was seen so regularly every Sunday in a quiet corner of the church; and at length, a lady spoke to her as she was coming out one day.

"Where do you live, little girl?" asked the lady kindly.

It was very cold, and the lady could not help shivering in her warm furs, and she noticed that Susie had only a thin cape on.

"In Fisher's Lane, please, ma'am," answered Susie, dropping a courtesy and blushing.

But the lady did not know Fisher's Lane. "Do you go to the Ragged School?" she asked.

Susie shook her head. "I don't know where it is," she said.

"That is a pity," said the lady, "for there is a Sunday school there afternoon and evening, in a nice, warm room, and the teachers would be glad to see you, I am sure."

"Would they?" said Susie. "I used to go to Sunday school before we came to live here. Perhaps Elfie knows where it is, and maybe she'll come with me."

"Ask her," said the lady; "we shall be very glad to see you both."

She did not stay to ask who Elfie was; but she looked after Susie as she ran down the street, and was surprised to see her join poor, ragged, neglected-looking Elfie—for Susie still contrived to keep a decent appearance, although her clothes were so thin and old.

The lady's invitation was repeated to Elfie; but to Susie's surprise she did not look at all pleased.

"Do you know where the school is?" asked Susie.

Elfie nodded. "Yes, I know where it is, but I shan't go."

"O Elfie, do," said Susie coaxingly.

"No, I shan't. You may, if you want to leave me all alone on Sunday afternoons," said Elfie sulkily.

"But I don't want to leave you, Elfie; want you to come with me," said Susie.

"I don't want to come," said Elfie doggedly.

"Why not?" persistently asked Susie.

"I don't like schools, nor them that go to 'em." And to end all further discussion on the subject, Elfie ran home, leaving Susie to follow more leisurely.

There was nothing for her to hurry home for. The room looked cold, bare, and desolate, for they could not indulge in a fire to-day; they had not been able to make up the rent money, and the thought of this had troubled Susie until she went to church. There, however, she had heard the message bidding her to cast her care upon God; and she came home to the cheerless room, and her dinner of dry bread, feeling as blithe as a bird.

"Why, what's come to you, Susie?" asked Elfie. "You was crying and fretting about the rent money before you went out, and now you look as though you'd got it all safe in the tin box."

The mention of the rent brought a little cloud into Susie's face, but it was quickly dispelled as she answered, "O Elfie, I wish you could have heard the minister to-day, and what he said about God taking care of us."

"It don't seem as though he took much care of you and me," said Elfie sulkily, as she looked at the empty grate, and tried to draw her rags over her bare shoulders.

"Are you very cold, Elfie?" asked Susie tenderly.

"I shouldn't think you was very warm," said Elfie crossly. "Your frock ain't in rags perhaps, but it's as thin as mine."

"Yes, it is thin," said Susie, "and I'm cold; but it seems to me God does care even for our being cold, for he's sent to tell us we may go where there is a fire this afternoon."

"Where's that?" asked Elfie sharply.

"At the school the lady told me about," answered Susie. "She said there was a fire there, and that they would be very glad to see us."

"Well, I shan't go," said Elfie. "I'd rather stop here in the cold."

This seemed unreasonable to Susie. "Do tell me why you won't go?" she said.

"No, I shan't. And if you go, don't you tell anybody you know me," said Elfie.

"Why not? Have you been to the school before?" asked Susie.

"I shan't tell you, and I won't go," said Elfie doggedly.

Susie was puzzled. She hardly knew what to do, for she did not like to leave Elfie, and yet she wanted to go to school. But at length she decided to stay at home and read to her companion, and go to the school in the evening, if Elfie would show her the way; for they had no fire and no candle to burn to-night, and it would be very dull to sit there in the dark listening to the noises in the other lodgers' rooms, for there was rarely a Sunday evening passed without a quarrel in the house. Elfie would go out to play with some of her companions as soon as it grew dusk; but Susie had given up going out to play on Sunday.

After a little persuasion, Elfie agreed to take Susie to the corner of the street where the school was; but she would not go any further, and she promised to meet her at the same corner when she came out after school.

"But I don't know what time the school will be over," said Susie.

"I do," said Elfie with a short laugh; "but mind you ain't to tell any of 'em who showed you the way," she added in a more serious tone.

Susie promised not to mention her name, and she hoped the lady who had invited her would forget that she had said she would bring Elfie with her; but she could not help thinking it very strange that Elfie should dislike the idea of coming so much.

The children had begun to assemble when she reached the school; and hardly knowing where she was going, Susie went into the large, light, warm room, and looked round for the lady whom she had seen in the morning. She was not there, but another teacher came forward and asked her name, and where she lived; and on hearing she could read put her into the Bible class at once.

Susie looked shyly at her companions, who were, of course, looking at her, but not very shyly, for many of them looked as though they were used to a street life, and most of them were older than herself. What a treat it was to these poor girls to sit down in a warm, light room, Susie could only guess. To her it was very delightful—the mere sensation of light and warmth; and the only drawback to her enjoyment was the thought that poor Elfie was not sharing it.

She could join in singing the opening hymn; and then, when the books were given out, she found her place more quickly than the rest, and ventured to lift her eyes to the teacher's face for a minute, and then saw that the lady was looking at her.

"You have not been to the school before, have you, my dear?" she said in a gentle voice.

"No, ma'am," answered Susie.

"I hope we shall see you very often now. Can you come every Sunday?" said the lady.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Susie.

And then, the others having found their places, the reading commenced. The lady explained the meaning of each verse as they went on, but spoke more particularly of God's care for his children.

When school was over, and Susie met Elfie, she told her of the evening lesson, and how like it was to what she had heard in the morning; but Elfie answered, "I'm going to take care of myself now, and then perhaps God will do it for me by-and-by."

"I think we need God's care now," sighed Susie, thinking of the deficient store of halfpence in the tin box at home.

"Well, we don't get it," said Elfie defiantly; "and going to that school won't bring it neither. Don't go again, Susie," she added.

"But I like it; and I must go now, because I've promised," said Susie. "I do wish you would go with me, it is so nice, Elfie. We sing, and read, and pray to God; and the room is so beautiful with the fire and the gas."

"I know all about it," said Elfie sulkily; "and I know just what you'll do too: you'll go to that school, and then you won't like me. Some of 'em 'll tell you I'm a bad girl, and then you won't speak to me." And the thought of this so overcame poor Elfie that she burst into tears.

Susie put her arm round her neck, and drew her own thin cape over her shoulders. "Nobody shall make me say that about you, Elfie," she said. "Don't cry. I'll love you always; and you shall come to school with me, and learn to read."

But Elfie still shook her head about going to school. "I can't go there," she said.

"Yes, you shall, Elfie. I know why you don't like to go; it's because your frock is so old. But we'll try and make another this week. I think mother would like you to have her frock to go to school in," she added. "And there's her shawl; perhaps we could make two of it; and I don't think she'd mind, as we are so cold."

Susie was determined that nothing should damp her happiness to-night, and she would not listen to Elfie's refusal to go to school. She felt brave, too, or she could not have spoken about cutting up her mother's dress and wearing her shawl as she did. Yes, the little girl was brave and hopeful. What she had heard of God's care and tender love to-day had brought back all the lessons of her childhood; and she could believe that God was her Father, and cared—really cared for and loved her.

When they reached home she said, "I wish you'd kneel down and say 'Our Father' of a night, like I do, Elfie."

"But I don't know it," said Elfie.

"Well, I'll teach you, shall I? You can say it after me in bed until you know it by yourself; only, I'd like you to kneel down and say it first, like I did to mother."

Elfie was generally willing to do anything to please her companion, and she very readily consented to this. And so, after shutting the door, the two girls knelt down in the pale moonlight beside a chair, and Elfie repeated the words slowly and reverently as Susie uttered them—the divine words that make all men brothers and all women sisters.

There must have been some such thought as this in Susie's mind, for as she crept into bed after Elfie she said, "I did not think of it before, but you are my sister, Elfie, so I shall never forget to love you;" and she kissed her as she spoke.

Elfie threw her arms round her. "Say you'll love me always," she whispered; "for there's nobody else in all the world if you don't."

"I do love you," said Susie. "But oh, Elfie, I wish you'd believe God loves you too—that he is our Father."

"I don't know nothing about fathers; I never had a father," said Elfie. "But if you'll love me, perhaps I shall believe that God does, by-and-by—especially as the Lord Jesus was a poor man. I like to hear about that, because, you see, it makes it seem somehow that he knows all about poor people—even street rubbish like I am, if he had no bed and no home."

Before they went to sleep that night, Elfie had learned to repeat the Lord's Prayer almost perfectly (she could learn quickly if she liked); and at last dropped to sleep murmuring the words, "Our Father—our Father." And Susie thought over all she had heard that day of the heavenly Father's love; and at last fell asleep, to dream that her mother had come back to lift all the care off her shoulders, and shelter her from every rough wind that blew.

But Monday morning brought the every-day anxiety with it; and Susie's first thought was of the landlord, and what he would say when he came in the afternoon and found she had only tenpence of the rent saved up in the tin box. She tried to recall something of what she had heard the previous day—tried to cast her care upon God; but it was very hard; and it was not until she had knelt down and prayed, ay, and sobbed out her trouble before him, that she could believe any of it this morning, although she had felt so sure of it the day before.

Elfie had woke up first and gone out. She often did this if there was only a small piece of bread in the house, because then she could leave the bread for Susie, and pick up her breakfast at the market, or about the streets.

So, after eating her bread, Susie took out her work, sitting upon the low stool, with the blanket of the bed wrapped round her, for it was bitterly cold this morning, and they had no fire. They had been afraid to buy coals or wood, as they could not make up the rent. This was Susie's great anxiety this morning. What the landlord would say, she did not know. He was a gruff, cross man; and Susie dreaded his visit—sat trembling with fear at the thought of hearing him come up the stairs; and again and again lifted her heart in asking that they might not be turned out of their home.