Chapter III: Concerning Jim Blewett and His Landlady

THE following morning the children awoke early, and the chill winter's dawn found them busily discussing the marvellous attractions of the wonderful doll. Annie was so excited that she could scarcely eat a mouthful of breakfast, and Maggie was nearly as bad. It was certainly not an inviting meal, being composed of a little weak tea and slices of bread and dripping; but the children ate so sparingly. Annie, posted up in bed, looked better than usual. She was a pretty child really, but sickness had made her wan, and had sharpened her features till she seemed all nose and eyes.

"What shall we call her?" she asked, pointing to the doll lying on the counterpane by her side. "She must have a name."

"Call her 'Rose,'" suggested Mrs. Blundell; "or do you want something that sounds grander?"

"I don't know," doubtfully. "What do you think, Maggie?"

"I think 'Rose' would do splendidly. She has such rosy cheeks, hasn't she?"

"Yes. And such lovely hair and eyes! She is beautiful! We will call her 'Rose,'" and the little invalid looked at the doll with admiring eyes, and gently smoothed the amber gown.

When breakfast was over Maggie started for school, and Mrs. Blundell was obliged to go out to take her work to the business-house that employed her; and for the first time in her life the time Annie spent alone did not seem very long. She lay back in bed, feeling perfectly happy and contented, talking to her doll, which she held in her weak arms, and every now and again pressing tender kisses on the blooming cheeks.

"Let us 'make believe,'" she whispered. "We are in a palace, a beautiful palace made of white marble, and the walls are shining with diamonds, and there is a grand feast for every one, and there are flowers everywhere! The King is having a party, and nobody is cold or hungry, because the King is so good and wise, he won't allow people to be unhappy or want for anything. It is warm, and oh, so comfortable! The King has asked us to sit by the fire with a lot of other little children, and we can feel the heat!"

The child paused, and shivered involuntarily, awakening suddenly to the reality; but in a minute she smiled, and continued to "make believe."

Meanwhile, the wintry sunshine was peeping through the tiny window; the mist was clearing, and in the streets people were remarking that there was a promise of a real old-fashioned Christmas.

Jim Blewett as he sat at his breakfast table looked at the sunshine, and smiled.

"The weather is going to change," he remarked to his landlady as she placed his fried bacon in front of him; indeed, "it has changed already. There's a more cheerful outlook this morning."

"Yes," she assented, "I expect we shall have a spell of real cold now. God help the poor folk if we do!"

"It will be healthier than all the damp we've been having, Mrs. Metherell."

"Maybe, but it'll be a deal more trying for the poor. You don't know London like I do, sir, or you'd know that!"

"I was bred in the country, thank God; and in the small town where I was brought up the poorest never lacked for fuel, I am sure. My father was the Vicar—he died several years ago—but in his young days, he had had some experience of London life, as he had held a curacy in the East End. He accepted a living in Cornwall when I was a baby, so my knowledge of London is built on what I heard from him, and my own two years' sojourn here."

"I was born and bred in London," Mrs. Metherell declared, "and I've an affection for the place, though they do call it modern Babylon. I don't suppose people are worse here than in the country. There's a deal of wickedness done in London, I must confess, but there's a deal of goodness too! For my part, I love the bustle, the continual movement, the life! It seems to me country folk are never properly alive!"

"I suppose all Londoners think that!" Jim replied laughing, as he looked at his landlady's good-humoured face. "I must acknowledge that you always strike me as being very much alive, and you say you're a real Londoner. You do not let the grass grow under your feet, Mrs. Metherell."

Jim knew no woman could possibly work harder than his landlady. She was at it early in the morning, and late at night; yet she was always bright and cheerful.

Mrs. Metherell was a little woman with a tip-tilted nose, a pair of honest gray eyes, and a wide mouth which was redeemed from ugliness by a beautiful smile. Her figure was spare, and she stooped slightly, as though she had been accustomed to carrying heavy weights, but she was quick in her movements, and her tongue was quite as nimble. Left a widow at thirty, she had, by means of this lodging-house in a quiet side street, contrived to bring up three children, and put them out in the world. They all had homes of their own now; but their mother kept on the lodging-house, and her cheerful countenance grew brighter still as the years passed on, and she found herself in easier circumstances.

Jim Blewett had lodged with Mrs. Metherell for the last two years. They had taken to each other at the beginning of their acquaintanceship, for, strange though it may appear, they were congenial spirits. The toil-worn Londoner and the country lad had much in common; they met on the ground of their wide-hearted Christianity. Mrs. Metherell often lingered thus for a few minutes' conversation, and Jim, being of a decidedly sociable disposition, always encouraged her to talk.

"You are not thinking of going home for Christmas, then, sir?" she asked.

Jim shook his head, whilst a shadow crossed his face.

"No," he said, "although my brother's wife has written and asked me to come, and my little niece Nellie sent a message to say it wouldn't be like Christmas if I was not there! But I have made up my mind not to go down till Easter. I want to work, and a break now would unsettle me, I know. If my mother and father were alive it would be different!"

"Ah! This season brings its sad memories to many a heart," Mrs. Metherell remarked, "but they cannot take away from the joy. The house will be well-nigh empty this week, as most of my lodgers will be away. I am going to give a party on my own account, sir!"

There was a twinkle in Mrs. Metherell's eyes as she spoke, which Jim was quick to notice.

"I hope you are going to invite me," he said, smiling; then, seeing Mrs. Metherell looked a little doubtful, "You surely won't leave me out in the cold!"

"It's a children's party, sir."

"So much the better! They are ever so much jollier than grown-up people's parties! I will help you amuse the children!"

"They are a few I know who will not be very likely to have anything done for their pleasure at home. I am going to ask them to come on Christmas Eve from four to eight. I shall give them a good tea—poor little souls! And I mean to dress up a Christmas tree for the occasion!"

"I shall insist on being present, Mrs. Metherell; and I'll help you dress the tree!"

A smile of gratification spread over the landlady's face as she answered:

"I am sure I shall be very glad of your assistance, sir. It's not much I'm able to do for my fellow creatures; but now, at Christmas, I think one ought to make a little extra effort to try to make others happy. It always seems to me Christmas is the children's festival especially, and I should like to think I was able to make some of His little ones glad, for His sake."

"Yes," Jim agreed. "I remember—oh! As long ago as I can remember anything—the excitement there used to be at home when this season drew near, and how my father used to remind us children that we must never forget in the midst of all the festivity the cause of our rejoicing."

"He was quite right, sir."

"Indeed, he was. Well, I hope you and I shall have a happy Christmas."

His thoughts flew to the child to whom he had given the doll the night before, but he made no mention of the matter to his landlady. And after a few more words she retired downstairs, and Jim turned to his breakfast.