50 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
’ere little crust: and we'll go down in the morain’ all 
together and see what we shall find.” 
And Jerry went to lie down himself, but somehow he 
felt as if he'd no right to lie amongthem that night after 
his evil thoughts, so he went and stretched himself on 
the landing outside the threshold of the door, and by- 
and-by they all fell sound asleep. 
It was a cold place, was Jerry's. But the wind that 
whistled up the stairs and came up through every crack 
and cranny of the old boards only made him sleep the 
sweeter, for he dreamed it was the great wings that had 
come anigli him on the mound. 
And so they slept; and there in the room below, all 
by itself in the moonlight, on the clean white tablecloth, 
lay The Crust. 
Now in the morning Jerry woke with the sun on his 
face, and he got up and woke Nance and the children. 
He helped Nance on with her things, for she was very 
sick, and dressed each of the little ones himself, and 
while he dressed them, each had a different dream to 
tell him about the Crust, and the angels that were 
making a feast for them out of it. And Jerry listened, 
feeling as if his heart would burst, for what could he 
say if they all went down and opened the door and 
found only the Crust? Still he daren’t gainsay that 
there would be a feast. He washed them all, and made 
them kneel down and say the prayers Mercy had 
taught them, and he made the dressing and the prayers 
take as much time as he could, for he had great fear of 
going to the Crust. 
At last, shaking in every limb, he took up the two 
youngest, one on each arm, and went to the stairs, two 
more took hold of liis coat, and Nance dragged herself 
along after with the others, and so they all went slowly 
down. 
But when they had got to the foot of the stairs, and 
Jerry had laid his thumb on the latch of the room door, 
his heart quite failed him, for he seemed to see, before 
he opened it, the Crust lying there with the marks of 
the dog’s teeth in it, and all just as he had left it over¬ 
night ; so he turned and said to them, in a light kind of 
way,— 
“P’raps they haven’t done yet, little uns. You won’t 
he disappointed if so be they ain’t?” 
But seven pairs of black sharp eyes looked at him so 
suspicious and so keen, that Jerry thought he’d better 
get the worst over at once, so he lifted the latch and 
pushed the door in. 
He gave one look into the room before him , and then 
turned back suddenly, as if he’d had fire blown into his 
face. 
. “Nance, Nance!” he said, “here’s a judgment on 
ns! Here’s more’n I can bear. O, look, old woman! 
Down on your knees and look. O little uns, I didn’t 
believe not half myself,—but come along ! come and 
look.” 
The father and mother on their knees outside the 
threshold, and the children clinging to them, all stared 
into the room. 
There wax a feast spread on the cobbler’s table. Ay, 
a delicate feast. There was white bread, and there was 
wine, and rich pasties, and in the middle, where the 
■crust had lain, there was a shining silver basket of 
bright Christmas fruit. It was a fair table, I can tell 
you, for I saw it. Yes, I was there, and I saw it. And 
I saw Jerry, too, kneeling with his wife Nance, and tho 
children on the threshold. 
“ I knowed as You’d lieered me,” cried Jerry, present¬ 
ly, lifting his big full eye to the grimy ceiling. “And 
whatever hand You’ve done this by, human creetur’s 
baud or not, me and my little uns thanks You for it, and 
will never ’a’ done thanking You for it, while there’s 
breath in our bodies; and I forgive Dan Harroway as 
You’ve forgive me. I forgive him, and I’m at peace 
with him, let him do what ho likes.” 
Just as they were going to get up from their knees, 
the Christmas waits in the court began, and amongthem 
there was Nell Gwire and Alice Blane, the sweetest 
singers in all the country-side, and the music seemed to 
hold Jerry and the rest to their knees, for coming just 
then it was like angels’ voices givingthem a welcome to 
the feast. 
Nance and him both began to cry and cling to¬ 
gether : and then she, who had been a good singer in 
her tune, but hadn’t sung for temper for twenty years, 
began joining in. low and soft, with her face raised and 
her black hair falling all about her to (he ground ; and 
one at a time the little things caught up the tunc and 
sung out loud and shrill, like starved sparrows at the 
sight of rain. So loud and shrill and piercing that I 
couldn't stand it long, but went and picked them up 
and brought them into the room. When they all came 
in, treading as if the ground wasn’t common ground, 
Jerry saw me and said,— 
“Is thisyer doings, Matthew?” says he; and I said, 
“ No.” 
“Then.” says Jerry, “tell me what man's doing it 
is, that I may thank him, and that all my little uns may 
thank him.” 
“Jerry,” said I, taking him apart, “when you ran 
out in your sore trouble last night, you met a man.” 
“Ay!” said Jerry, looking at me hard. 
“You threw him down and told him your trouble, and 
before he had got free of his first fright, you saw who 
he was and left him.” 
“ Ay,” said Jerry with a shudder.' 
“You went up a mound in the brick-fields?” 
“ Ay.” 
“You went up and told your trouble to some one 
else. You didn’t see that man following you and listen¬ 
ing to you ? No. Nor you didn’t see that man looking 
at you through that window, when you laid your crust 
out.” 
“No,” said Jerry. 
“Well, he saw you, then; he saw all. and he came 
and knocked me up out of my bed, and we went in the 
night to Bassett and fetched Mercy, And that man 
fetched the best silver plate out of his father’s house, 
and the best Christmas pasties and wine, and we three 
laid the feast together.” 
“ And where is that man?” said Jerry, hardly notic¬ 
ing Mercy as she came from where she was feeding the 
children. 
“When he had laid the feast, Jerry, he went outside.” 
“ Is he there now? ’’ said Jerry. 
“ Perhaps he is.” 
Jerry said nothing more, but went out. 
Dan was there. 
“Dan Harroway,” said Jerry, “I’ve spoke words to 
you as I can’t never take ’em back, because they was 
true.” 
