The next day Christie had to go out as usual. Old Treffy seemed no worse than before—he was able to sit up, and Christie opened the small window before he went out to let a breath of fresh air into the close attic. But there was very little fresh air anywhere that day. The atmosphere was heavy and stifling, and poor Christie’s heart felt depressed and weary. He turned, he hardly knew why, to the suburban road, and stopped before the house with the pretty garden. He wanted to see those merry little faces again—perhaps they would cheer him; he felt so very dull today.
Christie was not disappointed this time. He had hardly turned the handle of the organ twice before Mabel and Charlie appeared at the nursery window; and after satisfying themselves that it really was Christie, their own organ-boy, they ran into the garden, and stood beside him as he played.
“Doesn’t he turn it nicely?” whispered Charlie to his sister.
“Yes,” said little Mabel; “I wish I had an organ, don’t you, Charlie?”
“Shall I ask papa to buy us one?” asked her brother.
“I don’t know, Charlie, if mamma would like it always,” said Mabel. “She has such bad headaches, you know.”
“Well; but up in the nursery she would hardly hear it, I’m sure,” said Charlie, regretfully.
“I should so like to turn it,” said Mabel, shyly looking up into Christie’s face.
“All right, missie; come here,” said Christie.
And standing on tip-toe at his side, little Mabel took hold of the handle of the organ with her tiny white hand. Very slowly and carefully she turned it—so slowly that her mamma came to the window to see if the organ-boy had been taken ill.
It was a pretty sight which that young mother looked upon. The little fair, delicate child, in her light summer dress, turning the handle of the old, faded barrel-organ, and the organ-boy standing by, watching her with admiring eyes. Then little Mabel looked up, and saw her mother’s face at the window, and smiled and nodded to her, delighted to find that she was watching. But Mabel turned so slowly that she grew tired of the melancholy wails of “Poor Mary Ann.”
“Change it, please, organ-boy,” she said; “make it play ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ mother does like that so.”
Christie knew that “Rule Britannia” lay between that and “Home, Sweet Home,” so he took the handle from Mabel, and saying brightly, “all right, missie, I’ll make it come as quick as I can,” he turned it round so fast that if old Treffy had been within hearing, he would certainly have died from fright about his dear old organ, long before the month was over. Several people in the opposite houses came to their windows to look out. They thought the organ must be possessed with some evil spirit, so slowly did it go one minute, so quickly the next.
But they understood how it was a minute afterward, when little Mabel again began to turn, and very slowly and deliberately the first notes of “Home, Sweet Home” were sounded forth. She turned the handle of the organ until “Home, Sweet Home” was quite finished, and then, with a sigh of satisfaction, she gave it up to Christie.
“I like ‘Home, Sweet Home,’” she said; “it’s such a pretty tune.”
“Yes,” said Christie, “it’s my favorite, missie. Where is ‘Home, sweet Home?’” he asked suddenly, as he remembered his promise to old Treffy.
“That’s my home,” said little Mabel, nodding her head in the direction of the pretty house. “I don’t know where yours is, Christie.”
“I haven’t much of a place to call home, missie,” said Christie; “me and old Treffy we live together in an old attic, and that won’t be for long—only another month, Miss Mabel, and I shall have no home then.”
“Poor organ-boy—poor Christie!” said little Mabel, in a pitying voice.
Charlie had taken the handle of the organ now, and was rejoicing in “Poor Mary Ann”; but Mabel hardly listened to him. She was thinking of the poor boy who had no home but an attic, and who soon would have no home at all.
“There’s another home somewhere,” said Christie, “isn’t there, missie? Isn’t heaven some sort of a home?” “Oh yes, there’s heaven,” said little Mabel, brightly; “you’ll have a home there, won’t you, organ-boy?” “Where is heaven?” said Christie.
“It’s up there,” said little Mabel, pointing up to the sky; “up so high, Christie. The little stars live in heaven. I used to think they were the angels’ eyes, but nurse says it’s silly to think that.”
“I like these stars,” said Christie.
“Yes,” said Mabel, “so do I; and you’ll see them all when you go to heaven, Christie, I’m sure you will.”
“What is heaven like, Miss Mabel?” asked Christie.
“Oh, it’s so nice,” said little Mabel: “they have white dresses on, and the streets are all gold, Christie, all gold and shining. And Jesus is there, Christie; wouldn’t you like to see Jesus?” she added in a whisper.
“I don’t know,” said Christie, in a bewildered tone; “I don’t know much about Him.”
“Don’t you love Jesus, Christie?” said Mabel, with a very grave, sorrowful face, and with tears in her large, brown eyes. “Oh! organ-boy, don’t you love Jesus?” “No,” said Christie; “I know so little about Him, Miss Mabel.”
“But you can’t go to heaven if you don’t love Jesus, Christie. Oh! I’m so sorry—you won’t have a home at all; what will you do?” and the tears ran down little Mabel’s cheeks.
But just then the bell rang for dinner, and nurse’s voice called the children in.
Christie walked on very thoughtfully. He was thinking of little Mabel’s words, and of little Mabel’s tears. “You can’t go to heaven if you don’t love Jesus,” she had said; “and then you won’t have a home at all.” It was a new thought for Christie, and a very sad thought. What if he should never, never know anything of “Home, sweet Home”? And then came the remembrance of poor old Treffy, his dear old master, who had only another month to live. Did he love Jesus? He had never heard old Treffy mention His name; and what if Treffy should die, and never go to heaven at all, but go to the other place! Christie had heard of hell; he did not know much about it, and he had always fancied it was for very bad people. He must tell Treffy about Mabel’s words. Perhaps, after all, his old master did love Jesus. Christie hoped very much that he did. He longed for evening to come, that he might go home and ask him.
The afternoon was still more close and sultry than the morning had been, and little Christie was very weary. The organ was heavy for him at all times, and it seemed heavier than usual today. He was obliged to sit down to rest for a few minutes on a doorstep in one of the back streets, about half a mile from the court where old Treffy lived. As he was sitting there, with his organ resting against the wall, two women met each other just in front of the doorstep, and after asking most affectionately after each other’s health, they began to talk, and Christie could not help hearing every word they said.
“What’s that place?” said one of them, looking across the road at a long, low building with a board in front of it.
“Oh! that’s our new mission-room, Mrs. West,” said the other; “it belongs to the church at the corner of Melville Street. A young man comes and preaches there every Sunday night. I like to hear him, I do,” she went on, “he puts it so plain.”
“Puts what plain, Mrs. Smith?” said her friend.
“Oh, all about heaven, and how we’re to get there, and about Jesus, and what He’s done for us. He’s a kind man, is Mr. Wilton. He came to see our Tommy when he was badly. Do you know him, Mrs. West?”
“No,” said Mrs. West; “maybe I’ll come tomorrow; what time is it?”
“It begins at seven o’clock every Sunday,” said Mrs. Smith; “and you needn’t bother about your clothes. There’s no one there but poor folks like ourselves.”
“Well, I’ll come, Mrs. Smith. Good-day”; and the two parted.
Christie had heard all they said, and had firmly made up his mind to be at the mission-room the next evening at seven o’clock. He must lose no time in making out what Treffy wanted to know. One day of the month was gone already.
“Master Treffy,” said Christie that night, “do you love Jesus?”
“Jesus!” said the old man; “no, Christie, I can’t say I do. I suppose I ought to. Good folk do, don’t they?”
“Master Treffy,” said Christie, solemnly, “if you don’t love Jesus you can’t go to heaven, and you’ll never have a home any more—never any more.”
“Ay, ay, Christie, that’s true, I’m afraid. When I was a little chap no bigger than you, I used to hear tell about these things. But I gave no heed to them then, and I’ve forgotten all I ever heard. I’ve been thinking a deal lately, since I was took so bad; and some of it seems to come back to me. But I can’t rightly mind what I was told. It’s a bad job, Christie, a bad job.”