Sue, A Little Heroine | Page 2

"His disciples and Peter," she said to herself.
The street preacher had a magnificent voice. It seemed to roll above the
heads of the listening crowd, or to sink to a penetrating whisper which
found its echo in their hearts. The deep, wonderful eyes of the man had
a power of making people look at him. Sue gazed with all her might
and main.
"Father John be a good un," she said to herself. "He be the best man in
all the world."
After the discourse--which was very brief and full of stories, and just
the sort which those rough people could not help listening to--a hymn
was sung, and then the crowd dispersed.
Sue was amongst them. She was in a great hurry. She forgot all about
John Atkins, the little street preacher to whom she had been listening.
She soon found herself in a street which was gaily lighted; there was a

gin-palace at one end, another in the middle, and another at the farther
end. This was Saturday night: Father John was fond of holding
vigorous discourses on Saturday nights. Sue stopped to make her
purchases. She was well-known in the neighborhood, and as she
stepped in and out of one shop and then of another, she was the subject
of a rough jest or a pleasant laugh, just as the mood of the person she
addressed prompted one or other. She spent a few pence out of her
meager purse, her purchases were put into a little basket, and she found
her way home. The season was winter. She turned into a street back of
Westminster; it went by the name of Adam Street. It was very long and
rambling, with broken pavements, uneven roadways, and very tall,
narrow, and dirty houses.
In a certain room on the fourth floor of one of the poorest of these
houses lay a boy of between ten and eleven years of age. He was quite
alone in the room, but that fact did not at all insure his being quiet. All
kinds of sounds came to him--sounds from the street, sounds from
below stairs, sounds from overhead. There were shrieking voices and
ugly laughter, and now and then there were shrill screams. The child
was accustomed to these things, however, and it is doubtful whether he
heard them.
He was a sad-looking little fellow, with that deadly white complexion
which children who never go into the fresh air possess. His face,
however, was neither discontented nor unhappy. He lay very still, with
patient eyes, quite touching in their absolute submission. Had any one
looked hard at little Giles they would have noticed something else on
his face--it was a listening look. The sounds all around did not
discompose him, for his eyes showed that he was waiting for something.
It came. Over and above the discord a Voice filled the air. Nine times it
repeated itself, slowly, solemnly, with deep vibrations. It was "Big
Ben" proclaiming the hour. The boy had heard the chimes which
preceded the hour; they were beautiful, of course, but it was the voice
of Big Ben himself that fascinated him.
"Ain't he a real beauty to-night?" thought the child. "How I wishes as
Sue 'ud hear him talk like that! Sometimes he's more weakly in his

throat, poor fellow! but to-night he's in grand voice."
The discord, which for one brief moment was interrupted for the child
by the beautiful, harmonious notes, continued in more deafening
fashion than ever. Children cried; women scolded; men cursed and
swore. In the midst of the din the room door was opened and a girl
entered.
"Sue!" cried Giles.
"Yes," answered Sue, putting down her basket as she spoke. "I'm a bit
late; there wor a crowd in the street, and I went to hear him. He wor
grand."
"Oh, worn't he?" said Giles. "I never did know him to be in such
beautiful voice."
Sue came up and stared at the small boy. Her good-natured but
somewhat common type of face was a great contrast to his.
"Whatever are you talking about?" she said. "You didn't hear him; you
can't move, poor Giles!"
"But I did hear him," replied the boy. "I feared as I'd get off to sleep,
but I didn't. I never did hear Big Ben in such voice--he gave out his text
as clear as could be."
"Lor', Giles!" exclaimed Sue, "I didn't mean that stupid clock; I means
Father John. I squeezed up as close as possible to him, and I never
missed a word as fell from his lips. Peter Harris were there too. I
wonder how he felt. Bad, I 'spect, when he remembers the way he
treated poor Connie. And oh, Giles! what do yer think? The preacher
spoke to him jest