Chapter I: Afraid in the Dark

"Are you asleep, Jackie?"

Bob Middleton, closed the door of the attic which served as a bedroom for himself and his little five-year-old brother as he spoke, and stepped softly to the bedside.

No, Jackie was not asleep. He had sprung up in bed at the sound of Bob's voice, and now cried chokingly—

"Oh, Bobbie, Bobbie!"

"Why, what is the matter, old chap?" Bob, inquired. The question was needless, for he knew his little brother was crying from fear—fear of being alone in the dark. "I hoped I should find you asleep," he went on without waiting for a reply; "it was an hour ago that Aunt Martha put you to bed, and you promised you'd try to go to sleep right away."

"I did try," was the plaintive answer, followed by the anxious inquiry—"Are you coming to bed now?"

"No," said Bob, "I've only come up for a few minutes. Aunt Martha said I mustn't stay long, for she's several errands for me to do yet." He went to the window—it was low in the sloping roof—and pulled up the blind. "There, now!" he cried, "isn't that better? The moon's like a big lamp in the sky, and the stare are shining ever so brightly."

"I can see them," Jackie said, with a sobbing breath. "I wanted Aunt Martha to pull up the blind, but she wouldn't, and—and she said if I got out of bed she'd give me the stick. I hope she won't whip me again, Bobbie; she does whip so hard."

Bob set his teeth and was silent for a minute. Mrs. Mead, their Aunt Martha, was not always kind to Jackie. She was not always kind to him either, but that he felt did not matter. He and his little brother— Jackie was five years younger—had been living with Mrs. Mead for ten months, ever since the beginning of the war with Germany, when their father, a reservist, had rejoined the colours. Their previous home had been in a village some miles from Bristol, where their father had been employed on a farm.

Their mother had died when Jackie had been born, so there had been no one but Aunt Martha to take charge of them when the call to arms had taken their father from them. Mrs. Mead, who was a childless widow, kept a greengrocer's shop in a dingy street in Bristol; and, as she took lodgers, she had no room to spare her little nephews but an attic. From the boys' attic, which was at the back of the house, was a view of the river and the backs of the houses on the opposite bank—not a very cheering view for eyes accustomed to pretty wooded scenery.

"Well," Bob said, "I must be going. Don't cry any more, Jackie. There's nothing to be afraid of up here, and it's quite light now I've drawn up the blind. You can lie and watch the moon and stars. I daresay father's watching them too, out in the trenches—"

"Oh, I want father!" Jackie broke in, "I want father!"

Bob wanted his father quite as much as his little brother did; but he owned a brave heart, and, though it was very heavy, he answered cheerfully—

"I daresay he'll be home on leave soon. Here, let me cover you up!"

He tucked the bedclothes around Jackie, then hurried out of the room, leaving the door ajar. As he ran down the steep, narrow stairs he met a little old woman toiling up, followed by an ugly brown dog. He guessed who she was. There were two attics in the house, and the previous day he had heard his aunt remark that she had let the front attic to an old-age pensioner—a Mrs. Winter. No doubt this little old woman was Mrs. Winter.

"There's a dog following you!" he called out, stopping and looking after her.

"Yes," she said, glancing back at him with a smile, "he's my dog. Stray he's called. Oh, dear me, who's that crying?"

"My little brother," Bob replied; "he doesn't like being left alone— he's afraid."

He hurried on. Mrs. Winter, having reached the top stair, hesitated a minute, then, instead of going into her own attic, walked into the other, Stray at her heels.

Jackie was sitting up in bed, crying loudly. He became suddenly silent when he saw Mrs. Winter.

"Good evening!" she began. "I'm Mrs. Winter. I've come to live in the front attic, and should like to be friends with you and your brother. Now, suppose you tell me your name?"

"Jackie," the little boy answered; "I'm five," he informed her, "and Bob's ten."

Mrs. Winter took a chair by his side. He could see her face plainly in the moonlight. Such a pleasant face it was, although it was old, with bright brown eyes like a bird's and the happiest expression.

"I met your brother on the stairs," Mrs. Winter remarked, "he told me you were afraid because you were left alone. But we're never really alone you know, my dear. Jesus is always with us. Do you know about Jesus, Jackie?"

"Oh, yes," said Jackie; "I go to Sunday school. Jesus is in Heaven."

Mrs. Winter nodded. "Yes, Jesus is in Heaven," she agreed, "and He's here too. He's everywhere. No—" as Jackie glanced around the room— "we can't see Him; nevertheless He's here, and you can speak to Him whenever you like and be quite sure He'll hear you. Don't you know that when you pray you are talking to Jesus? He loves you, and wants you to love Him. Oh, He is such a good friend to have, Jackie! I wonder, now, if you said your prayers to-night?"

"No," the little boy answered; "I forgot."

"Ah! I'm not surprised you felt lonely and frightened. I tell you what, we'll pray together—just you and me. You can kneel upon the bed, and I'll kneel beside it."

They did so, whilst Mrs. Winter offered up a prayer. It was a very simple prayer, which asked Jesus to watch over Jackie and make him feel His presence so that he might not be afraid, and the little boy quite understood it.

"I like her," he said to himself, after Mrs. Winter had bidden him "good-night" and gone away, accompanied by her dog; "she's a very nice old woman. It was kind of her to come to see me. Oh, I do hope she'll come again!"