Sue, A Little Heroine | Page 8

John Atkins had a bad illness himself. He grew
better after a time, took to cobbling as a trade, and earned enough to
support himself. How he came to take up street preaching, and in
consequence to be much beloved by his neighbors, happened simply
enough.
On a certain Sunday evening he was walking home from the church
where he attended, his heart all aglow with the passionate words of the
preacher he had been listening to. The preacher had made Bunyan the
subject of his discourse, and the author of the Pilgrim's Progress was at
that time the hero of all heroes in the mind of Atkins. He was thinking
of his wonderful pilgrimage as he hurried home. He walked on.
Suddenly, turning a corner, he knocked up against a man, who,
half-reeling, came full-tilt against him.
"Aye, Peter," he said, knowing the man, and perceiving that he was far
too tipsy to get to his home with safety, "I'll just walk home with you,
mate. I've got an apple in my pocket for the little wench."
The man made no objection, and they walked on. At the next corner
they saw a crowd, all listening eagerly to the words of a large,
red-faced man who, mounted on a chair, addressed them. On the
burning, glowing heart of John Atkins fell the following terrible words:
"For there be no God, and there be nothing before us but to die as the

beasts die. Let us get our fill of pleasure and the like of that, neighbors,
for there ain't nothing beyond the grave."
"It's a lie!" roared Atkins.
The words had stung him like so many fiery serpents. He rushed into
the midst of the crowd; he forgot Peter Harris; he sprang on to the chair
which the other man in his astonishment had vacated, and poured out a
whole string of eager, passionate words. At that moment he discovered
that he had a wonderful gift. There was the message in his heart which
God had put there, and he was able to deliver it. His words were
powerful. The crowd, who had listened without any great excitement to
the unbeliever, came close now to the man of God, applauding him
loudly. Atkins spoke of the Fatherhood of God and of His love.
"Ain't that other a coward?" said two or three rough voices when
Atkins ceased to speak. "And he comes here talking them lies every
Sunday night," said one poor woman. "Come you again, master, and
tell us the blessed truth."
This decided Atkins. He went to his parish clergyman, an overworked
and badly paid man, and told him the incident. He also spoke of his
own resolve. He would go to these sheep who acknowledged no
Shepherd, and tell them as best he could of a Father, a Home, a Hope.
The clergyman could not but accept the services of this fervent city
missionary.
"Get them to church if you can," he said.
"Aye, if I can," answered Atkins; "but I will compel them to enter the
Church above--that is the main thing."
Soon he began to know almost all the poor folks who crowded to hear
him. In their troubles he was with them; when joy came he heard first
about it, and rejoiced most of all; and many a poor face of a tired
woman or worn-out man, or even a little child, looking into his, grew
brighter in the presence of death.

CHAPTER VI.
DIFFERENT SORT OF WORK.
Connie was a very pretty girl. She was between thirteen and fourteen
years of age, and very small and delicate-looking. Her hair was of a
pale, soft gold; her eyes were blue; she had a delicate complexion, pink
and white--almost like a china figure, Sue said; Giles compared her to
an angel. Connie was in the same trade that Sue earned her bread by;
she also was a machinist in a large warehouse in the City. All day long
she worked at the sewing-machine, going home with Sue night after
night, glad of Sue's sturdy support, for Connie was much more timid
than her companion.
Connie was the apple of Harris's eye, his only child. He did everything
he could for her; he lived for her. If any one could make him good,
Connie could; but she was sadly timid; she dreaded the terrible
moments when he returned home, having taken more than was good for
him. At these times she would slink away to visit Giles and Sue, and on
more than one occasion she had spent the night with the pair rather than
return to her angry father. Some months, however, before this story
begins, a terrible misfortune had come to Peter Harris. He had come
home on a certain evening worse than usual from