Sue, A Little Heroine | Page 7

many weeks, even months. All that
could be done was done for him; but the little, active feet were never to
walk again, and the spine was so injured that he could not even sit
upright. When all that could be done had been done and failed, the boy
was sent back to his broken-down and widowed mother.
Mrs. Mason had removed from the comfortable home where she lived
during her husband's lifetime to the attic in a back street of Westminster,
where she finally died. She took in washing for a livelihood, and Sue,
now twelve years old, was already an accomplished little machinist.[1]
They were both too busy to have time to grieve, and at night were too
utterly worn-out not to sleep soundly. They were kind to Giles lying on
his sick-bed; they both loved him dearly, but they neither saw, nor even
tried to understand, the hunger of grief and longing which filled his
poor little mind.
His terrible loss, his own most terrible injuries, had developed in the
boy all that sensitive nerve organism which can render life so miserable
to its possessor. To hear his beloved father's name mentioned was a
torture to him; and yet his mother and Sue spoke of it with what
seemed to the boy reckless indifference day after day. Two things,
however, comforted him--one the memory of the angel figure over the
Martyrs' Monument at Smithfield, the other the deep notes of Big Ben.
His father, too, had been a martyr, and that angel stood there to signify
his victory as well as the victory of those others who withstood the
torture by fire; and Big Ben, with its solemn, vibrating notes, seemed to
his vivid imagination like that same angel speaking.
Though an active, restless boy before his illness, he became now very
patient. He would lie on his back, not reading, for he had forgotten

what little his father taught him, but apparently lost in thought, from
morning to night. His mother was often obliged to leave him alone, but
he never murmured at his long, solitary hours; indeed, had there been
any one by to listen to all the words he said to himself at these times,
they would have believed that the boy enjoyed them.
Thus three years passed away. In those three years all the beauty had
left little Giles's face; all the brightness had fled from his eyes; he was
now a confirmed invalid, white and drawn and pinched. Then his poor,
tired-out mother died. She had worked uncomplainingly, but far
beyond her strength, until suddenly she sickened and in a few days was
dead. Giles, however, while losing a mother, had gained a friend. John
Atkins read the sensitive heart of the boy like a book. He came to see
him daily, and soon completed the reading-lessons which his father had
begun. As soon as the boy could read he was no longer unhappy. His
sad and troubled mind need no longer feed on itself; he read what wise
and great men thought, for Atkins supplied him with books. Atkins's
books, it is true, were mostly of a theological nature, but once he
brought him a battered Shakespeare; and Sue also, when cash was a
little flush, found an old volume of the Arabian Nights on a book-stall.
These two latter treasures gave great food to the active imagination of
little Giles.
FOOTNOTE
[1] In July 1877 arrangements were made to provide for the families of
firemen who were killed in the performance of their duty, but nothing
was done for them before that date.
CHAPTER V.
EAGER WORDS.
When John Atkins was quite young he was well-to-do. His father and
mother had kept a good shop, and not only earned money for their
needs but were able to put by sufficient for a rainy day. John was
always a small and delicate child, and as he grew older he developed
disease of the spine, which not only gave him a deformed appearance

but made him slightly lame. Nevertheless, he was an eager little scholar,
and his father was able to send him to a good school. The boy worked
hard, and eagerly read and learned all that came in his way.
Thus life was rather pleasant than otherwise with John Atkins up to his
fifteenth year, but about then there came misfortunes. The investment
into which his father had put all his hard-won earnings was worthless;
the money was lost. This was bad enough, but there was worse to
follow. Not only had the money disappeared, but the poor man's heart
was broken. He ceased to attend to his business; his customers left him
to go elsewhere; his wife died suddenly, and he himself quickly
followed her to the grave.
After these misfortunes