The Story of Jessie | Page 6

the knotty point, the
engine-driver, growing tired of waiting, let off a shrill whistle from his
engine and with the sound the little sleeper stirred, opened her eyes,
and sat up suddenly. The porter hastily disappeared from the doorway,
the station-master left the carriage too, but the guard remained, and
nodded and smiled at her reassuringly.
"You remember me, don't you, little one! I've brought you all the way
home, and here we are, and here is grandfather come to see you."
Jessie sat up and looked from one to the other with troubled eyes. "I
want mother," she said at last, with piteously trembling lips.
"Oh, now, you ain't going to cry again, are you?" cried the guard,
pretending to be shocked. "Good little girls don't cry. 'Tis time to get
out, too, the train is going on, and you'll be carried away, if you don't
mind what you're about, and then how will mother ever be able to find
you? Come along, get up like a good little maid."
Poor Jessie, really frightened at the thought of such a fearful possibility,
turned piteously to her grandfather, who had been all this time standing
by awkwardly, wondering what he could do or say. But at that look he
forgot himself and his doubts, and the guard and everything but the
pitiful frightened look on the little face.
"Come along with grandfather," he said coaxingly, dropping on his
knee beside her. "Come along with me, dear, and I'll take care of you
till mother comes. Granny is home waiting for 'ee with a bootiful tea,
and there's flowers, and a kitten, and a fine little rose-bush in a pot that
grandfather picked out on purpose for 'ee. Wouldn't you like to come
and see it all?"

"Will Jessie have roses?" she asked eagerly, her eyes growing bright
and expectant.
"Yes, I shouldn't be surprised if there's one nearly out already. Let's go
home quick, and see, shall we? It had got a bud on it when I left, maybe
it'll be out by this time, if not you can be sure it will be to-morrow."
The engine gave another shrill whistle, the train jerked and quivered.
Thomas hastily gathered up Jessie in his arms, shawl and all. "Where's
your box, and all the rest of it?"
"Haven't got any."
"Haven't got any! Your clothes, I mean, frocks and hats and boots and
suchlike."
"I've got on my boots," putting out her feet, and showing a very shabby
broken pair, "and there's a parcel there, my old frock is in it, and my
pinny, that's all."
Thomas picked up the parcel, and hurried out of the already
slowly-moving train.
"Tickets, please," said the man at the gate.
"Have 'ee got your ticket?" Thomas inquired anxiously.
"Yes," she nodded; "but you must put me down, please; it is in my
purse, and my purse is in my pocket, and I can't get at it while you are
holding me."
Her grandfather did as he was told, and Jessie, freeing herself from the
great shawl which enveloped her, shook out her frock, and diving her
hand into her pocket, drew out an old shabby purse. The clasp was
broken, and it was tied round with a piece of string, but her little fingers
quickly undid this, and from the inside pocket drew out her railway
ticket and a ha'penny. In giving the porter the ticket she had some
trouble not to give him the ha'penny too.

"I can't give you my money," she explained gravely, "for it is all I've
got, but I had to put it in there with the ticket, because there's a hole in
my purse that side, do you see?" and she showed it to the man, pushing
her finger through the hole that he might see it better. "It was mother's
purse, but she lost a sixpence one day, and then she gave it to me. It
does all right for me, 'cause I only have pennies," she explained gravely
as she put her purse back into her pocket again.
The porter agreed. "'Tis a nice purse for a little girl," he said quite
seriously; "there's heaps of wear in it yet, by the look of it."
Thomas Dawson stood by, his face all alight with smiles and interest.
"What a clever little maid 'tis," he thought, "and what a happy little soul
to be so ready to talk like that right away."
"Now, my dear, are 'ee ready? We must hurry on, or granny'll think you
ain't come, and she will be wondering what's become of me. Shall I
carry you again?"
"No, thank you, I'd like to walk, but I'd like you to hold my hand.
Mother always does; she's afraid I'll get lost with so many people