Several days went by, and no answer had come to old Joel’s letter. And each day Lily grew weaker. The doctor whom Joel had fetched to see the child said that he could do nothing for her; they were to give her anything that she could take and keep her as quiet as possible.
Lily was very happy; everyone was so good to her, she said.
Albert Joseph came the moment that school was over, and spent all his playtime with her. Mrs. McKay came in and out all day long and helped Old Grumpy to make the child’s bed and to get her all she wanted. The neighbors were constantly asking after their little favorite and sending her tempting dishes, which they thought she might fancy; and poor old Joel deserted his cat and sat beside her for hours.
The child did not talk much now; it tired her so much, she said. Only she would often raise herself, to put her arms round the old woman’s neck, and to kiss her, and sometimes she would say: “Grum, dear Grum, you do care, don’t you?”
And the old woman would answer, struggling to keep back her tears, “Yes, my bairn, I do care for you, very, very much.”
“But you must care for Jesus too, Grum,” the child would say, “that’s what I mean; for Jesus dying instead of us; don’t you remember, dear Grum?”
And then she would be tired and lie down again. They often thought she was asleep, and would move about quietly, and speak in whispers, and then she would open her eyes and smile at them and would say, “I’m not asleep, Grum; I was thinking about my hymn:
“Oh! Wash me, Lord, I pray Thee,
That so my soul may grow
As pure as is the lily,
And whiter than the snow.”
“That is a pretty hymn!” said Joel one afternoon as he was sitting beside her.
“Everyone in heaven is white like the lily!” said the child, “teacher said so; but she said we must be made white here first.”
“I’m sure you’re white enough, my pretty little lass!” said the old man.
“Only my face is white, not my soul. Not till Jesus washed me. But I’ve asked Him. And teacher said He would.”
Then she was tired and fell fast asleep. She slept so long, and so soundly, that they grew quite hopeful. Surely it was a good sign, and she would awake refreshed and better. A step came on the staircase several times when she was sleeping, and each time Old Grumpy thought it was someone from Devonshire who had come for the child. Each time she crept to the door on tip-toe and opened it very quietly and looked out expecting to see a strange face. But it was only one of the neighbors who had come to ask how she was, or one of the little McKays, creeping softly upstairs, that he might listen at the door, and tell his mother when Lily awoke.
Then another step came; but a step so noiseless that the old woman and Joel did not hear it.
Only the child heard it, and she looked up and smiled, and then went at once, and gladly, with the One who had come for her.
“I will come and will receive you unto Myself,” said the Lord. And stronger, more loving arms than old Joel’s carried the tired child up to the home of rest.
The old woman did not know that she was gone, and when Joel told her, for a long time she would not believe it. She was only sleeping; she would be waking soon, she said. But when Mrs. McKay came and convinced her that Joel was right, the old woman sat down on a stool by the fire and rocked herself backwards and forwards in the agony of her grief. She did not speak or take any notice of those around her. She only rocked herself and moaned.
The neighbors came in to look at the little body of the child they had loved so, but she never spoke to them nor turned round when they came in. At last Albert Joseph came and brought lovely white lilies-of-the-valley, which he had bought in the market to put round her little head and to lay in her little bosom.
“As pure as is the lily,
And whiter than the snow,”
he whispered to his mother as he did so. And then he went up to the old woman and put his hand on her arm; but she never gave any sign of seeing him or of knowing that he was there. Old Joel made many efforts to rouse her, but they were all in vain.
So she sat the whole of those three sorrowful days in the darkened room with the child beside her. She ate what they gave her; but she did not seem to know what she was doing and looked strangely at them all the time.
Then they took all that was left of her darling away; and still Old Grumpy did not move, nor cease rocking herself backwards and forwards. It was not until all this was over, and the neighbors had gone home, and the little room was empty and desolate again that Old Grumpy spoke, and then it was only to break out with her old terrible wail, in a voice so heartrending that Joel in the room below stopped his ears that he might not hear it. “Nobody loves me; nobody does! Nobody loves me; nobody does!”
“She’s gone quite mad again,” said the neighbors. “Poor old soul! Can nobody do anything to bring her to herself again?”
But, though they stood talking of it by the pump for hours together, no one could think of any plan for comforting the old woman.
“Nobody loves me; nobody does!” the old woman moaned on all through the night. “My cat loved me, and I lost her; my darling loved me, and I’ve lost her too. Nobody loves me; nobody does!”
The last links were being added very quickly to the chain now. The living, loving Lord, who had stood so long outside her closed door, had His hand on the latch now. He was leading her on, by this dark and sorrowful way, to Himself and to His love.
There was great excitement in Ivy Court about two days after the child’s funeral. It was caused by the arrival of a respectably-dressed middle-aged woman, who was a stranger in the town, she said, and who wanted Mr. Joel Smith. She was the child’s grandmother. She had come at last, but she was too late to see her little grandchild. Mrs. McKay took her into the house, and, with many tears, the little blue-eyed woman told her the sorrowful story. She told her of her daughter’s death—of the way in which the old woman came to have charge of the child—of her great love for her—of the way in which she had toiled for her, and denied herself that she might keep her—of her terrible grief now that the child was dead.
“She’s almost crazed,” said Mrs. Mckay. “She does nothing but rock herself and say over and over, ‘Nobody loves me; nobody does!’ You’ll maybe wonder we let her have the wee bairn; but she wasn’t crazed while she was here, not a bit, I do assure you!”
“God knows I’m only too grateful to her for being so good to my Emily’s child,” said the poor grandmother wiping her eyes. “But why did I not get this letter before?” she asked, taking her daughter’s letter from her pocket, and pointing to the date. “I thought Emily had forgotten me. I wrote to her again and again, and got no answer.”
“Well, mum,” said Joel, who had come in while they were speaking, “I’ll tell you how it was you didn’t get it. That old body they’re speaking of—she that has had care of that blessed child—she found this letter. But she didn’t find it afore she had got to love the child. And she felt it would break her heart to lose her; and not being a scholar, you see, she couldn’t read it, and she didn’t know who it was for. So, you see, she hid it away, and kept it as close as never was; and none of us never got a sight of it! So that’s just about where it is,” said old Joel, “and I’m not going to say it was right of Old Grumpy—quite the contrary. But the love for the child was what drove her to it, and I’ll take it as a great favor, and as kind as never was, if you won’t go for to mention it to her under present circumstances.”
“No, indeed, I won’t say a word,” said the poor grandmother. “I’ll only thank her for being so good to her. I should have come before, but the bad news about my Emily upset me so, and it’s a long journey. But I’ll go and see Mrs. What is her name? I never heard her proper name, I think.”
“What is her name, Mrs. McKay?” said Joel, turning to her.
“’Deed, and I don’t know,” said Mrs. McKay. “I do assure you; I don’t know! You see, it’s this way: The children in the court, long whiles ago, gave her the name of ‘Old Grumpy,’ and we’ve all stuck to it—not that she’s grumpy a bit now, poor old body, not at all! But if you be so kind as to call her ‘Grum’ ma’am, she’ll be best pleased; that’s what the child called her. It was always ‘Grum, dear Grum.’ Can’t you hear her sweet voice, Joel?”
“Aye,” said Joel with a sob and wiped his eyes with his coat-sleeve as he left the house to show Mrs. Havercroft the way to Old Grumpy’s room. “She was a blessed child, yon was, and as welcome as never was!”