A song-bird

"THERE, I've finished. How the days are drawing in, to be sure! I declare it's getting dark already, though it's only six o'clock."

The scene was an upstairs sitting-room in a dingy London lodging-house, on a September evening. And the speaker—Mrs. Grey—rose from her seat at the table as she spoke, and laid aside her writing materials with an air of relief, afterwards placing the letter, over the composition of which she had spent fully half an hour, on the mantelpiece. She then took an easy-chair by the window, whilst the other occupant of the room—her little daughter, Mavis, who had been watching the passers-by in the street—settled herself on a stool at her feet.

"Now we can have a nice chat, mother," Mavis said. "I've been longing to talk, but I haven't liked to disturb you. You've been writing a very particular letter, haven't you?"

"Yes, dear; but how did you guess that?"

"You looked so grave, and, I thought, sad. There's nothing very much amiss, is there, mother? Are you worrying because you haven't had any nursing to do lately? We've money left to go on with, haven't we?"

Mavis was a pretty little girl of ten years, with beautiful hazel eyes, and a quantity of soft brown hair which curled naturally and could never be kept tidy. Her expression was one of great anxiety, as she looked up into her mother's face and waited for her response.

Mrs. Grey did not answer immediately. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a self-reliant manner, and a countenance which inspired trust. She had been left a widow several years previously, since when she had had a hard battle to fight. For her husband, who had held a curacy in the East End of London, had had no private means, and at his death she had found herself nearly penniless.

Before her marriage, however, she had been fully qualified as a nurse, so she had taken up her old profession again, and had earned sufficient by private nursing to support herself and her child. Of late, she had been out of work, and things had looked dark altogether; but she owned a brave heart and was not easily cast down. So that it had been with awe as well as with surprise, that Mavis had observed her shedding tears over the letter she had been writing.

"As a matter of fact, we've very little money left," Mrs. Grey admitted, at length. "But I'm not troubled about that now, for I have been asked and have engaged to nurse a rich young lady who is threatened with consumption, and—and it is likely to be a long engagement."

"Oh, mother! You said you felt sure God would provide for us, and you were right. Who is the young lady? Does she live near here? Will you be away at night? How shall you manage?"

On previous occasions, when Mrs. Grey had been absent, Mavis had boarded with the lodging-house keeper, Miss Tompkins. And she thought very likely it would be arranged for her to do so again. She would have no objection to raise to the plan, for Miss Tompkins, a kind-hearted, elderly spinster, who had seen better days, was a great favourite of hers.

"I-I hardly know," Mrs. Grey answered, somewhat hesitatingly. "I don't like the idea of being separated from you, child, but I feel it must be."

"Oh, I shall be all right, mother!" Mavis declared, reassuringly.

"You don't understand, dear; I must explain. Miss Dawson—the young lady I have engaged to nurse—is the only child of a very rich man, and I do not think my duties will be arduous, but—but I shall have to go abroad with her—to Australia."

"To Australia!" echoed Mavis, aghast, the colour fading from her 'cheeks, a look of dismay in her hazel eyes. "Why, Australia's ever so far away—right at the other side of the world!"

"Yes. I shall be gone months, perhaps even a year or longer, it will depend upon the patient."

"Oh, mother," gasped Mavis, "you don't mean it! Say you don't."

"But I do mean it, my dear. I am to have a splendid salary, and shall be able to provide for you well during my absence. It would have been madness to have refused this post. Suppose nothing else offered? Then we should be face to face with want, and with the winter coming on, too. Don't look at me so reproachfully, Mavis."

"Mother, how can you leave me?" cried the little girl. "I don't mind living with Miss Tompkins for a few weeks, but for months, perhaps years—" She completed the sentence with a sob.

"It is not my intention to leave you with Miss Tompkins, my dear. I am thinking of sending you to your father's relations, if they will have you, and I expect they will. You know you've an uncle and aunt living at W—, near Oxford, and they have children about your age, a girl and a boy. Wouldn't you like to know them? I've written to your uncle to-night. You remember him, don't you? He came to your father's funeral, and once afterwards, he called to see us, when he was in town on business."

"Yes," replied Mavis, dolefully. She had a somewhat hazy remembrance of a tall, stout man, with stooping shoulders, who had presented her with a big box of chocolates. She had the box still, it was one of her few treasures.

"He is a miller at W—, and is a very prosperous man, I believe. I have written to ask him to take you into his home, and I am sure he will. Come, my dear, don't cry. We ought to be very, very thankful that I have succeeded in obtaining such a good post."

In spite of her brave words, there were tears in Mrs. Grey's own eyes as she spoke. Her little daughter leaned against her knees and wept heart-brokenly, and she smoothed her tangled brown locks with a gentle, caressing hand.

Mavis knew by experience, that when her mother had quite made up her mind that a certain course of action was right, she would certainly pursue it. So by-and-by, she dried her eyes and tried to compose herself, but her heart was dreadfully sore. Mrs. Grey went on to explain that Miss Dawson was very young—only seventeen—and that the doctors hoped the long voyage and a few months' sojourn in Australia might do much for her health.

"I am very, very sorry for her, for she is terribly delicate," she said, pityingly. "She is motherless, too, poor girl! Her father has business engagements to keep him in England, or he would make the trip to Australia with her, himself. She will be completely in my charge, so mine will be a responsible position. It is very sad to see one so young, so weak and ill. Don't you feel sorry for her, Mavis?"

"Yes, of course I do," Mavis answered.

Then she added, with a touch of jealousy in her tone, "She will have you all to herself; but you won't forget your own little girl, will you?"

"Do you think that is likely?" Mrs. Grey asked, seriously.

"No, mother, indeed I don't," Mavis replied, feeling rather ashamed of herself; "but it is so very hard that we should be parted."

"It does appear so, dear; but, depend upon it, God knows best. You don't realize how worried I've been lately, wondering how we should manage, if I didn't get an engagement soon. Of course, I ought not to have felt like that. I ought to have remembered that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' And now it seems to me, that this work is the answer to my prayers, and that therefore it is the work God wishes me to do. It has come like light in darkness, and I want you to rejoice with me. Come, little song-bird, it grieves me to look at your gloomy face; let me see you smile."

Mavis tried to obey, but it was a sorry attempt. Her dead father had chosen her somewhat fanciful name, and it suited her well. For she was the possessor of a voice as sweet and clear as the bird—the song-thrush—after which she had been named. She was a healthy, bright, happy child who had never had a real trouble in her life till now. She remembered her father quite well, but he had died when she had been too young to realize her loss. She had certainly cried when, on inquiring for him, she had been told he had gone a long journey to a far country. But she had soon dried her eyes, and been consoled by the assurance that if she was a good girl, she would go to him some day.

Mavis had never thought much about her relatives. She knew her mother was an orphan who had been brought up at a charitable institution. And she had frequently heard her remark that she did not think she had any one near akin to her in the world, and that, but for her husband's brother, who wrote to her very kindly from time to time, there was no one to whom she could go for assistance or advice.

Now, as she sat at her mother's feet and tried to reconcile herself to the parting which seemed inevitable, the little girl reflected that it would be rather nice to have companions of her own age, and that it would be pleasant to live in the country. By-and-by, she looked up with a smile, and her mother saw that she meant to make the best of things.

"That's right, my dear," Mrs. Grey said cordially, "you're my sensible little daughter again, I see. We shall not be separated quite yet—"

"When will it be, mother?" Mavis broke in.

"In about a fortnight, I think. Mr. Dawson asked me if I could be ready by then, and I told him I could. Of course, if your uncle and aunt decline to have you at W—, I must arrange for you to remain with Miss Tompkins, but I would rather leave you with relatives. I've never been to W—, but I believe it's a very pretty place; the nearest railway-station is Oxford. Perhaps I may take you to W— myself."

"Oh, mother, I hope you will."

"We shall see."

Mrs. Grey rose as she spoke, lit the gas, and pulled down the blind. Then she took up the letter she had written, and remarked, "It may as well go to-night. I will put on my bonnet and cloak and post it. You may come with me, if you like, Mavis, and we will have a look at the shops."

"Oh yes," Mavis agreed, readily.