Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

I could tarry with pleasure over this portion of my story, but my time is drawing short. My holiday is nearly at an end-the day after to-morrow my wife and I return to Fairhaven. We have enjoyed our honeymoon beyond description, although it is winter. Many a happy walk have we taken in the crisp cold air; many a happy evening have we spent by the cheerful fireside, Rachel busy with her needle, and I reading to her what I have written; breaking off every now and then to talk of the dear house in Buttercup-square, and of the dear ones in it; of the children at home in Fairhaven, and of the happy future there is before us, and we hope before them. The house in which we have been living during our honeymoon is completely covered with ivy up to the very chimneys, and the wrens find shelter there, and leave not a crumb of the bread we scatter for them every morning upon our windowsill. The holly-bushes are bright with crimson berries; Christmas will be with us soon; a bunch of Christmas-roses is on my table now. But one eventful circumstance remains to be narrated.

It was the autumn of last year; I had called into see Mrs. Silver early in the morning, to consult her on some arrangements for the Home. She asked after all there, and we fell a-talking, as we often did, about Blade-o'-Grass, who was very much changed in appearance from what she was. A stranger, looking upon her now for the first time, would never have guessed what her previous life had been; her dress was neat and modest, her hair was done up in a simple knot, hope and happiness dwelt in her face. Day by day she was strengthening her hold upon all our hearts; her gentle behaviour to the children, her gratitude and her love for all around her, her patience, her cheerful willingness, were very pleasant to behold. Mrs. Silver and I spoke of one fancy which Blade-o'-Grass indulged in. She seemed to have set Ruth before her as a model; and in the matter of dress and the fashion of her hair, she copied Ruth as closely as she could. The subject of her resemblance to Ruth had never been touched upon by any of us since my conversation with Rachel, although I am sure it was in the mind of my friends as it was in my own. But it seemed to be avoided by general and unexpressed consent. I was telling Mrs. Silver that before I left Fairhaven, Ruth had come with her child to spend the day there with Blade-o'-Grass, when the servant entered to say that a visitor wished to see Mrs. Silver very particularly.

'She says she don't think you know her, ma'am, but that she'll tell you who she is herself.'

'Let her come in, Emma.'

The visitor proved to be a tidily-dressed woman, of about fifty or fifty-five years of age; she looked like a farmer's wife. If I wished to describe her by a word, I should use the word 'comfortable.' In her dress and general appearance she was eminently a comfortable woman. She looked at Mrs. Silver very earnestly, and took the chair that was offered to her. There was something very homely and genial about her; and although I felt somewhat curious to know her errand, I asked Mrs. Silver if I should retire.

'Not unless this lady wishes it,' said Mrs. Silver.

'Love your heart!' was the reply, in a pleasant tone; 'I don't wish it if you don't. And I hope you'll forgive the liberty I've took in coming here; but I couldn't rest without seeing you, after coming all these miles.'

'You have come a long way, then,' said Mrs. Silver; 'you must be tired.'

The visitor laughed. 'I've come sixteen thousand miles over the water, all the way from Australia, and I'm going back there next month, please God!'

'You are an Englishwoman?'

'O yes, ma'am; I was born in London. Me and my husband emigrated eighteen year ago. It was the best day's work we ever done, though I love the old country, ma'am; but we were driven out of it, in a manner of speaking. My husband was a carpenter-he's a builder now, and we've done well, thank God, and our children are in the way of doing well too.'

'I am glad to hear it.'

'I'm the mother of fourteen, ma'am-twelve of them living.'

'That's a large family.'

'Not a bit too large out there; too large here for a poor man, but not there. I've been longing these five or six years past to come and see the old country once more before I die; and four months ago, my man said, "Well, mother, if your mind's set on it, we'd best go and get it over." So we've come, and we sha'n't lose anything by it. He's busy this morning looking at a steam-plough we're going to take back for our eldest son, who has a farm-if you'll excuse me for rambling on in this way, ma'am.'

'It interests me to hear you.'

'When a person comes back to the old spots, after being away for so many years, all sorts of curious feelings comes over her. It seemed to me as if I was in a dream when I walked through Stoney-alley this morning-'

'Stoney-alley!'

'I lived there a long time, ma'am; but I never knew until this morning what a dreadful place it is. I think I should die if I was compelled to live there again. There's the old shops there, just the same as they were eighteen years ago-all except Mr. Virtue's leaving-shop, which I was told was burnt down. You look as if you knew the place, sir.'

'I know it well,' I said, 'and Mr. Virtue also.'

'Ah, he was a queer old man! but he had a heart, though he was so grumpy! But I mustn't ramble. I've come to make a confession to you, ma'am, and to ask you after some one I nursed in these arms when she was a baby.'

Mrs. Silver turned pale.

'I've nothing to blame myself for, ma'am; what was done was done for the best. Do you remember anything that, occurred last Christmas-eve come twenty-three year ago?'

'Yes, I remember it well; very well,' replied Mrs. Silver, in an agitated tone. 'I have cause to remember it with gratitude. It was on that night, Andrew, that Ruth came to us; it was on that night I visited Stoney-alley, the place where this good woman lived.'

'You came to the very house in which I lived, ma'am, and you took away-bless your loving heart for it! – one of the sweetest children that ever breathed. The landlady brought her to you out of these very arms. Ruth, you say her name is. Tell me, ma'am-tell me-you know what it is I want to ask.'

'She is well and happy.'

'Thank God for that!'

'But you say the landlady gave me the child out of your arms. You are not her mother-' Mrs. Silver was unable to proceed.

'Love your dear heart, no! The poor child's mother was dead. But the landlady only told you half the truth when she told you that. She said there was only one baby-she didn't tell you that the poor mother was confined with twin-girls. On the Christmas-eve that you came to Stoney-alley I had them both on my knees-the sweet little things! They hadn't a friend, and we were too poor to take care of them. We had a large family of our own, and our hands were as full as full can be! As I was nursing the dears, the landlady came into the room in a flare of excitement, and said that there was a kind lady downstairs-it was you, ma'am-who wanted to adopt an orphan child, and who would give it a home and bring it up properly. The landlady said that if she had told you there was twins left in that way, she was sure you wouldn't be willing to part them, and that it would be a good thing, at all events, if one of the poor little ones could be taken care of. My husband thought so too; and though it cut me to the heart to part the dears, I felt it was the best thing we could do. We were a long time choosing between them; they were so much alike that we could hardly tell which was which; but one of them had a pretty dimple, and we kept that one, and sent the other down to you. If you remember, ma'am, you left your name and address with the landlady, and I never parted with the piece of paper you wrote it on, for I didn't know what might turn up. That is how I've found you out now.'

Mrs. Silver looked at me in distress.

'There is no need for sorrow here,' I said. 'If what I suspect is true, it is but a confirmation of what has been in my thoughts and in Rachel's also for a long time.' I turned to our visitor. 'I should know your name; Mr. Virtue has told me of you, and of your kindness to these babes. You collected money for them before they were a fortnight old.'

'Yes,' she assented with pleasant nods, 'and Mr. Virtue himself gave me a penny. My name is Mrs. Manning.'

'Tell me. What became of the other child?'

'That's what I want to know. If she's alive now, poor thing! she must be a woman grown; very different, ma'am, I'm afraid, from the child that you adopted. But if she wants a friend I'll be that friend. I'll take her back with me, if she'll come-my man wouldn't mind! She'd have a chance out there; and what's a mouth more or less at a full table, as ours is, thank God! a slice off a cut loaf is never missed.'

'You good soul! I said, pressing her hand. 'We want to know all you can tell us about the other child. Do you remember what name she was known by?'

'Ah, that I do, and a curious way it was how she came by that name! You see, ma'am, two or three blades of grass happened to sprout up in our back-yard, and the child took to watching them, and fell quite in love with them, poor little dear! This went on for three or four days, till one morning, when she was sitting by the side of the blades of grass, a lodger, hurrying along, happened to tread them down. The child was in a dreadful way, ma'am, and, as children will do, she hit at the man with her little fists. He pushed her down with his foot, not intending to hurt her, I do believe; and I ran out, and blew him up for his unkindness. He laughed, and said it was a fine fuss to kick up about two or three blades of grass, and that it was a good job for the child that she wasn't a blade of grass herself, or she might have been trod down with the others. From that time the child began to be called little Blade-o'-Grass, and that was the only name I ever knew her to have.'

'Ruth is at Fairhaven,' I said to Mrs. Silver.

'We will go there at once,' said Mrs. Silver, rising. 'This will be a joyful day for both of them. You will accompany us,' to Mrs. Manning. 'You would like to see these sisters whom you nursed and were good to in their helplessness?'

'It's what I've been praying for, ma'am. Many and many a time, over the water, has my man and me talked of them, and wondered what has become of them. Fairhaven! It's a pretty name; but are they both there? and what kind of a place, is Fairhaven?'

'You shall see for yourself,' replied Mrs. Silver, with tearful smiles. 'And on the way the Master of Fairhaven shall tell you the story of these sisters' lives.'

How the good creature cried and laughed over the story I need not here describe. When I came to the end her delight knew no bounds. She shook hands with me and Mrs. Silver, her honest face beaming with joy, and said, under her breath, 'Well, this is the happiest day!'

Blade-o'-Grass and Ruth were in the garden. As we approached them Mrs. Manning raised her hands in astonishment, and whispering to us that they were as like each other as two peas, asked which was Blade-o'-Grass and which was Ruth. We told her; and, in her motherly homely fashion, she held out her arms to them. Blade-o'-Grass passed her hands over her eyes and gazed earnestly at Mrs. Manning.

'Do you remember me, my dear?' asked the good woman. 'I've come a long way to see you-sixteen thousand miles-to see both of you, my dears! I nursed you both on my knees before you were a week old-'

Her motherly heart overflowed towards the girls, and Mrs. Silver and I stole away and left them together. We did not disturb them for fully half-an-hour. Then we went softly towards them. Blade-o'-Grass was kneeling by the side of Ruth, looking into her sister's face with a look of unutterable love. Ruth's arm was embracing Blade-o'-Grass, and Mrs. Manning was standing, with clasped hands, contemplating the sisters with ineffable gladness.

My story is told.

I write these last words at Fairhaven. The morning after our arrival home, I stood upon the threshold of our little snuggery, which is built on an elevation, with my arm around my wife's waist, describing to her the picture which I saw. It was the play-hour of the day, and the grounds were filled with children, comfortably dressed. We have nearly three hundred children in our Home. Immediately before me, in the centre of a group of young ones, who were clustering round her, was Blade-o'-Grass, strengthened and chastened by the troubles she has experienced, beautified by the better sphere of life which she now occupies. The innate goodness of her nature has made her beloved by all. Of all our sisters she is the dearest.

We are making great preparations for Christmas. May it be as happy a time to you, dear reader, as, in all human probability, it will be to us and to the little ones who are in our charge!

THE END

BREAD AND CHEESE AND KISSES

Introduction,

which

serves in part as a

Dedication

to the

Memory of my Mother

* * * *

With a sense of infinite thankfulness upon me, I sit down to commence my Christmas story. This thankfulness is born of overflowing gratitude. I am grateful that I am spared to write it, and grateful because of the belief that the Blade of Grass I put forth a year ago was: out of the goodness of many sympathising hearts: not allowed to wither and die. It has been pressed upon me, and I have had it in my mind, to continue the history of the humble Blade of Grass that I left drooping last year; but the social events that have occurred between that time and the present would not justify my doing so now. I hope to continue it before long. By and by, please God, you and I will follow the Blade of Grass through a summer all the more pleasant because of the bleak winter in which it sprung, and by which it has hitherto been surrounded. In the mean time, the tears that I shed over it will keep it green, I trust. And in the mean time, it gladdens me to see a star shining upon it, although it stands amid snow and wintry weather.

As I sit in my quiet chamber, and think of the happy season for which I am writing, I seem to hear the music of its tender influence, and I wish that the kindly spirit which animates that day would animate not that day alone, but every day of the three hundred and sixty-five. It might be so; it could be so. Then, indeed, the Good Time which now is always coming would be no longer looked forward to.

Not that life should be a holiday: work is its wholesomest food. But some little more of general kindliness towards one another, of generous feeling between class and class, as well as between person and person; some little less consideration of self; some more general recognition by the high of the human and divine equality which, the low bear to them; some little more consideration from the poor for the rich; some little more practical pity from the rich for the poor; some little less of the hypocrisy of life too commonly practised and too commonly toadied to; some better meaning in the saying of prayers, and therefore more true devotion in the bending of knees; some little more benevolence in statesmanship; some hearty honest practising of doing unto others even as ye would others should do unto you: – may well be wished for, more appropriately, perhaps, at this season than at any other, associated as it is with all that is tender and bright and good.

Why does the strain in which I am writing bring to me the memory of my Mother? It is, I suppose, because that memory is the most sacred and the tenderest that I have, and because what I feel for her is inwoven in my heart of hearts.

But there is another reason. From her comes the title of my Christmas story. And this introduction serves in part as a dedication to the beautiful goodness of her nature.

I think that in this wide world: among the thousands of millions of human beings who live and have passed away: there is not, and never was, a woman who lived her life more contentedly, nor one who strove more heartfully to make the most cheerful use of everything that fell to her lot-of even adversity, of which she had her full share. She was beloved by all who knew her. To her sympathising heart were confided many griefs which others had to bear; and, poor as she was for a long period of her life, she always, by some wonderful secret of which I hope she was not the only possessor, contrived to help those who came to her in need. I remember asking her once how she managed it. 'My dear,' she answered, with a smile which reminds me of a peaceful moonlight night; 'my dear, I have a lucky bag.' Where she kept it, heaven only knows; but she was continually dipping her hand into it, and something good and sweet always came out. How many hearts she cheered, how many burdens she lightened, how many crosses she garlanded with hope, no one can tell. She never did. These things came to her as among the duties of life, and she took pleasure in performing them. I am filled with wonder and with worship as I think how naturally she laid aside her own hard trials to sympathise with the trials of others.

She was a capital housewife, and made much out of little. She had not one selfish desire, and being devoted to her children, she made their home bright for them. There was no sunshine in the house when Mother was away. She possessed wonderful secrets in cookery, and I would sooner sit down to one of the dinners she used to prepare for us (albeit they were very humble) than to the grandest banquet that could be placed before me. Everything was sweet that came from her hands-as sweet as was everything that came from her lips.

I would ask her often, being of an inquisitive turn of mind, 'Mother, what have you got for dinner to-day?' 'Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses,' she would reply merrily. Then I knew that one of our favourite dishes was sure to be on the table, and I rejoiced accordingly. Sometimes, however, she would vary her reply by saying that dinner would consist of 'Knobs of Chairs and Pump-Handles.' Then would I sit in sackcloth and ashes, for I knew that the chance of a good dinner was trembling in the balance.

But Knobs of Chairs and Pump-Handles was the exception. Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses was the rule. And to this day Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses bears for me in its simple utterance a sacred and beautiful meaning. It means contentment; it means cheerfulness; it means the exercise of sweet words and gentle thought; it means Home!

Dear and sacred word! Let us get away from the garish light that distorts it. Let you and I, this Christmas, retire for a while, and think of it and muse upon it. Let us resolve to cherish it always, and let us unite in the hope that its influence for inconceivable good may not be lost in the turmoil of the Great March, to the thunderous steps of which the world's heart is wildly beating. Home! It is earth's heaven! The flowers that grow within garret walls prove it; the wondering ecstasy that fills the mother's breast as she looks upon the face of her first-born, the quiet ministering to those we love, the unselfishness, the devotion, the tender word, the act of charity, the self-sacrifice that finds creation there, prove it; the prayers that are said as we kneel by the bedside before committing our bodies to sleep, the little hands folded in worship, the lisping words of praise and of thanks to God that come from children's lips, the teaching of those words by the happy mother so that her child may grow up good, prove it. No lot in life is too lowly for this earth's heaven. No lot in life is too lowly for the pure enjoyment of Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses.

I wish you, dear readers and friends, no better lot than this. May Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses often be your fare, and may it leave as sweet a taste in your mouth as it has left in mine!

PART I

COME AND SHOW YOUR FACE, LIKE A MAN!

If I were asked to point to a space of ground which, of all other spaces in the world, most truly represents the good and bad, the high and low, of humanity, I should unhesitatingly describe a circle of a mile around Westminster Abbey. Within that space is contained all that ennobles life, and all that debases it; and within that space, at the same moment, the lofty aspiration of the statesman pulses in the great Senate House in unison with the degraded desires of the inhabitant of Old Pye-street. There St. Giles and St. James elbow each other. There may be seen, in one swift comprehensive glance, all the beauty and ugliness of life, all its hope and hopelessness, all its vanity and modesty, all its knowledge and ignorance, all its piety and profanity, all its fragrance and foulness. The wisdom of ages, the nobility that sprung from fortunate circumstance or from brave endeavour, the sublime lessons that lie in faith and heroism, sanctify the solemn aisles of the grand old Abbey. Within its sacred cloisters rest the ashes of the great: outside its walls, brushing them with his ragged garments, skulks the thief-and worse.

But not with these contrasts, nor with any lesson that they may teach, have you and I to deal now. Our attention is fixed upon the striking of eight o'clock by the sonorous tongue of Westminster. And not our attention alone-for many of the friends with whom we shall presently shake hands are listening also; so that we find ourselves suddenly plunged into very various company. Ben Sparrow, the old grocer, who, just as One tolls, is weighing out a quarter of a pound of brown sugar for a young urchin without a cap, inclines his head and listens, for all the world as if he were a sparrow, so birdlike is the movement: Bessie Sparrow, his granddaughter, who, having put Tottie to bed, is coming downstairs in the dark (she has left the candle in the washhand-basin in Tottie's room, for Tottie cannot go to sleep without a light), stops and counts from One to Eight, and thinks the while, with eyes that have tears in them, of Somebody who at the same moment is thinking of her: Tottie, with one acid-drop very nearly at the point of dissolution in her mouth, and with another perspiring in her hand, lies in bed and listens and forgets to suck until the sound dies quite away: a patient-looking woman, pausing in the contemplation of a great crisis in her life, seeks to find in the tolling of the bell some assurance of a happy result: James Million, Member of Parliament, whose name, as he is a very rich man, may be said to be multitudinous, listens also as he rolls by in his cab; and as his cab passes the end of the street in which Mrs. Naldret resides, that worthy woman, who is standing on a chair before an open cupboard, follows the sound, with the tablecloth in her hand, and mutely counts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, the last number being accompanied by a resigned sigh, as if Eight were the end of all things.

The room in which Mrs. Naldret is standing is poor and comfortable; a cheerful fire is burning, and the kettle is making up its mind to begin to sing. An old black cat is lazily blinking her eyes at the little jets of gas that thrust their forked tongues from between the bars of the stove. This cat is lying on a faded hearthrug, in which once upon a time a rampant lion reigned in brilliant colours; and she is not at all disturbed by the thought that a cat lying full-length upon a lion, with his tongue hanging out, is an anomaly in nature and a parody in art. There is certainly some excuse for her in the circumstance that the lion is very old, and is almost entirely rubbed out.

Mrs. Naldret steps from the chair with the tablecloth in her hand, and in one clever shake, and with as nimble a movement as any wizard could have made, shakes it open. As it forms a balloon over the table, she assists it to expel the wind, and to settle down comfortably-being herself of a comfortable turn of mind-and smoothes the creases with her palms, until the cloth fits the table like wax. Then she sets the tea-things, scalds the teapot, and begins to cut the bread and to butter it. She cuts the bread very thick, and butters it very thin. Butter is like fine gold to poor people.

'I don't remember,' she says, pausing to make the reflection, with the knife in the middle of the loaf, 'its being so cold for a long time. To be sure, we're in December, and it'll be Christmas in three weeks. Christmas!' she repeats, with a sigh, 'and George'll not be here. He'll be on the sea-on the stormy ocean. It'll be a heavy Christmas to us. But, there! perhaps it's all for the best; though how George got the idea of emigrating into his head, I can't tell; it seemed to come all of a sudden like. The house won't seem like the same when he's away.' For comfort, her thoughts turn in another direction-towards her husband. 'I wish father was home, though it isn't quite his time-and he's pretty punctual, is father.' She goes to the window, and peeps at the sky through a chink in the shutters. 'It looks as if it was going to snow. What a bright clear night it is, but how cold! It's freezing hard!' Turning, she looks at the fire, and at the cozy room, gratefully. 'Thank God, we've got a fire, and a roof to cover us! God help those who haven't! There are a many of 'em, poor creatures, and times are hard.' She turns again to the window, to takes another peep at the sky through the shutters, and finds the light shut out. 'There's some one looking into the room!' she exclaims, retreating hastily out of view. 'It can't be Jim-he's never done such a thing. He's only too glad to get indoors such nights as this. And it can't be George. And there's the lock of the street-door broken-no more use than a teapot with a hole in the bottom.' Being a woman of courage, Mrs. Naldret runs into the passage, and opens the street-door. 'Who's there? she cries, looking into the street, and shivering, as the cold wind blows into her face. 'Who's there? Don't sneak away like that, but come and show your face, like a man!'

The man pauses at the challenge, stands irresolute for a moment or two, then walks slowly back to the window, with hanging head.

'Show my face, like a man!' he repeats, sadly, bitterly, and with a world of self-reproach in his tone. 'There's not much of that stuff left in me, Mrs. Naldret.'

'Good Lord!' she exclaims, as he stands before her like a criminal. 'It's Saul Fielding!'

'Yes,' he replies. 'It's Saul Fielding, God help him!'

'Why can't Saul Fielding help himself?' she retorts, half angrily, half pityingly. 'There was stuff enough in him once-at all events I thought so.'

'Show me the way!' he cries; but lowers his tone instantly, and says humbly, 'I beg your pardon, Mrs. Naldret, for speaking in that manner. It's ungrateful of me to speak like that to any of George's friends. and least of all to his mother, that George loves like the apple of his eye.'

'So he does, dear lad,' says the grateful woman, 'and it does my heart good to hear you say so. But you've nothing to be grateful to me for, Saul. I've never done you any good; it's never been in my power.'

'Yes, you have, and it has been in your power, Mrs. Naldret. Why, it was only last week that you offered me-'

'What you wouldn't take,' she interrupts hastily; 'so you don't know if I meant it. Let be! Let be!'

'-That you offered me food,' he continues steadily. 'But it's like you and yours to make light of it. You've never done me any good! Why, you're George's mother, and you brought him into the world! And I owe him more than my life-ay, more than my life!'

'I know the friendship there was between you and George,' she says, setting the strength of his words to that account, 'and that George loved you like a brother. More's the pity, because of that, that you are as you are.'

'It is so,' he assents meekly; 'but the milk's spilt; I can't pick it up again.'

'Saul, Saul! you talk like a woman!'

'Do I?' he asks tenderly, and looking into her face with respect and esteem in his eyes. 'Then there's some good left in me. I know one who is stronger than I am, better, wiser, than a hundred such as I-and I showed my appreciation of her goodness and her worth by doing her wrong. Show my face like a man! I ought to hide it, as the moles do, and show my contempt for myself by flying from the sight of men!'

Filled with compassion, she turns her face from him so that she may not witness his grief.

'She is the noblest, the best of women!' he continues. 'In the face of God, I say it. Standing here, with His light shining upon me, with His keen wind piercing me to my bones (but it is just!), I bow to her, although I see her not, as the nearest approach to perfect goodness which it has ever been my happiness and my unhappiness to come in contact with. Ay; although virtue, as humanly exercised, would turn its back upon her.'

'Are you blaming the world, Saul Fielding,' she asks, in a tone that has a touch of sternness in it, 'for a fault which is all your own?'

'No,' he answers; 'I am justifying Jane. I blame the world! a pretty object I, to turn accuser!'

He appeals to his rags, in scorn of them and of himself.

'Saul Fielding,' she says, after a pause during which she feels nothing but ruth for his misery, 'you are a bit of a scholar; you have gifts that others could turn to account, if they had them. Before you-you-'

'Went wrong,' he adds, as she hesitates, 'I know what you want to say. Go on, Mrs. Naldret. Your words don't hurt me.'

'Before that time, George used to come home full of admiration for you and your gifts. He said that you were the best-read man in all the trade, and I'm sure, to hear you speak is proof enough of that. Well, let be, Saul; let the past die, and make up your mind, like a man, to do better in the future.'

'Let the past die!' he repeats, as through the clouds that darken his mind rifts of human love shine, under the influence of which his voice grows indescribably soft and tender. 'Let the past die! No, not for a world of worlds. Though it is filled with shame, I would not let it go. – What are you looking for?'