Sue, A Little Heroine | Page 4

Giles, lad; you need never go to the workhouse while Sue's alive."
"No, that he needn't, mother," answered Sue.
"Can't yer get back on to yer sofa, Giles?" she added, turning to the boy. "You'll break your back kneeling by mother all this time."
"No, I won't; I'd rather stay," answered the boy. His eyes were full of light; he kept on stroking his mother's hand.
"Go on, mother," he said. "Tell us more. You're goin' to 'eaven, and you'll see father." A sob strangled his voice for a minute.
"Yes, I'll see my good 'usband--that is, I hope so; I can but trust--I allus have trusted, though often, ef I may say the truth, I couldn't tell what I were a-trusting to. Somehow, whatever folks say, there is a Providence."
"Oh, mother!" said Giles, "God is so beautiful--when you see father again you'll know that."
"Mother," interrupted Sue, "does yer think as Providence 'ull get me constant work at the sewing, enough to keep Giles and me?"
"I dunno, Sue," answered the woman. "I've trusted a good bit all my life, and more specially since your father was took, and somehow we haven't quite starved. Happen it'll be the same with Giles and you."
The boy sighed. His back was aching terribly. His heart was breaking at the thought of losing his mother; he struggled to continue kneeling by the bedside, but each moment the effort became greater.
The children were kneeling so when a quick, light step was heard on the stairs, and a little man entered. It was too dark in the room for the children to see his face; they heard, however, a very pleasant voice. It said in cheerful tones:
"Why haven't you fire here, and a candle? Can I help you?"
"There ain't much candle left," answered Giles.
"And mother's dying," continued Sue. "She don't mind the dark--do yer, mother?"
The little man made no reply in words, but taking some matches from his pocket, and also a candle, he struck a light. He placed the candle in a sconce on the wall, and then turned to the three.
"Be yer a parson?" asked the woman.
"I am a servant of God," answered Atkins.
"I'm real glad as you're a parson," she answered; "you can make it all right between Almighty God and me."
"You are mistaken; I can't do that. That is Jesus Christ's work. But I will pray with you--let me hold your hand, and we will pray together."
Then and there in the dismal attic Father John spoke out his heart in the following simple words. Even Sue never forgot those words to the latest day she lived:
"Lord God Almighty, look down upon this dying woman. Thy Son died for her and she knows it not. Lord, she is in great darkness, and she is so near death that she has no time to learn the truth in its fullness; but Thou who art in the light can show some of Thy light to her. Now, in her dying hour, reveal to her Thyself."
The dying woman fixed her glittering eyes on the strange man. When he ceased speaking she smiled; then she said, slowly:
"I allus felt that I could trust in Providence."
She never spoke after that, and half an hour afterwards she died.
This was the beginning of Father John's friendship with Giles and Sue.
The next day Sue, by dint of many and anxious inquiries, found him out, and put her queer little unkempt head into his room.
"Ef yer please, parson, may I speak to yer 'bout Giles and me?"
"Certainly, my little girl. Sit down and tell me what I can do for you."
"Parson," said Sue, with much entreaty in her voice and many a pucker on her brow, "what I wants to say is a good deal. I wants ter take care o' Giles, to keep up the bit o' home and the bit o' victual. It 'ud kill Giles ef he wor to be took to the work'us; and I promised mother as I'd keep 'im. Mother wor allers a-trustin', and she trusted Giles ter me."
Here Sue's voice broke off into a sob, and she put up her dirty apron to her eyes.
"Don't cry, my dear," answered Atkins kindly; "you must not break your word to your mother. Will it cost you so much money to keep yourself and Giles in that little attic?"
"It ain't that," said she, proudly. "It ain't a bit as I can't work, fur I can, real smart at 'chinery needlework. I gets plenty to do, too, but that 'ere landlady, she ain't a bit like mother; she'd trusten nobody, and she up this morning, and mother scarce cold, and says as she'd not let her room to Giles and me 'cept we could get some un to go security fur the rent; and we has no un as 'ud go security, so we must