Little King Davie
Date: 2025-07-07T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Poverty -- Juvenile fiction; Physicians -- Juvenile fiction; Clergy -- Juvenile fiction; Sick -- Juvenile fiction; Glory of God -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Little King Davie
or, "Kings and priests unto God"

Author: Nellie Hellis

Release date: July 7, 2025 [eBook #76454]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Jarrold & Sons, 1897

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76454

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE KING DAVIE ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

David listening to the preacher in the church porch.

LITTLE KING DAVIE

OR

"Kings and priests unto God"

BY

NELLIE HELLIS

Author of "Little Gladness," "Roving Robin," "Bennie, the Bread-Winner,"
"Martin Drayton's Sin," "Rob and Ralph," etc.

ONE HUNDRED AND NINTH THOUSAND

INTER FOLIA FRUCTUS.

LONDON

JARROLD & SONS, 10 & 11, WARWICK LANE, E.C.

[All Rights Reserved]

1897

TO THE

REV. WILLIAM JOHN KNOX-LITTLE.

CANON OF WORCESTER, ETC.,

TO WHOSE TEACHING SHE OWES MUCH,

THE AUTHOR IS GLAD TO DEDICATE

THIS LITTLE STORY,

WHICH IS FOUNDED ON ONE OF HIS SERMONS.

AND ON

A CERTAIN INCIDENT IN HIS OWN LIFE.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

I. DAVIE'S HISTORY

II. A DAY'S WORK AND ITS WAGES

III. DAVIE HEARS STRANGE NEWS

IV. IN THE HOSPITAL

V. DAVIE GAINS A NEW NAME

VI. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

VII. THE LONGING REALIZED

VIII. HOME, SWEET HOME

IX. GOOD-BYE TO LONDON

LITTLE KING DAVIE

Or, "Kings and Priests unto God."

CHAPTER I.

DAVIE'S HISTORY.

IT was a cold uncomfortable evening in January. Certainly the frost of the last few days had broken up, but the raw chilliness that had come with the thaw was far more unpleasant than the sharp biting atmosphere of yesterday. To make it worse, a drizzling rain had set in at dusk, which, if not "soaking" in its effect, caused the passengers to feel damp and cold to their very bones, and made them hurry along on their several ways, regretful that the frost was over, and anxious to get home to a warm fireside as quickly as possible.

But it is an ill-wind that blows nobody any good, and this change in the weather was hailed with delight by one class, if by no other. While the frost had lasted, there had been no sweeping to do, and boys and girls (for to become a crossing-sweeper needs no apprenticeship, and age and size are of little consequence) were thankful enough when the thaw turned the hard frosty roads into streams of mud and gave them plenty of work once more.

Among those who had shouldered their brooms that morning, and had gladly gone forth to their old occupation again, was little Davie Scott. To look at him nobody would have thought he was twelve years old, nevertheless that was Davie's age. Poor little fellow! During the greater part of his life he had lived in a close, stifling street in Westminster, and want of fresh air and insufficiency of food had stunted his growth, and given to his face that old, pinched expression which is too common, alas! among the children of the poorer classes in the great metropolis.

With this, there is generally a look of something else—of slyness, of cunning, and of depravity—which comes from a life already inured to sin and hardened in evil doing. It is pitiful to see it; for, ignorant, untaught, often homeless, half-starved, and for the most part wholly uncared for, what wonder is it that our little street Arabs lead the lives they too often do? But Davie, although he swept a crossing, and, in order to gain a few pence, not unfrequently sang in the streets, was widely removed from this class of children. Poor as he was, in one thing he was rich; he was rich in the love of a good mother. There is no greater blessing than that. Indeed, it is such an influence for good that however adverse the surrounding circumstances, it rarely fails to produce a truthful and upright life in the child.

Mrs. Willis had been twice married. Davie was born during the lifetime of her first husband, who was a sober, industrious man, who thought nothing too good for the wife and little son, whom he loved so dearly, and for whom he worked so hard. Looking back upon past times, Mrs. Willis always regarded those four years of married life as a happy dream from which her husband's sudden death had rudely awakened her.

Davie, of course, had no recollection of his own father, but he had a clear, and by no means an agreeable one, of the man whom Mrs. Scott had accepted for her second husband. Poor woman! She never made a greater mistake than when she took James Willis "for better, for worse." It proved to be all "worse" and no "better." He was a drunkard, and the years that followed were such that Mrs. Willis always shuddered when she thought about them. She soon found that if she would not starve, she herself must earn the money for her own and Davie's support.

Indeed, Davie was a sore point between husband and wife. "He was no child of his, and she might keep him," he used fiercely to tell her. As for the boy himself, he was terribly afraid of his step-father—as he had reason to be—and on those rare occasions when James Willis was in the house, poor Davie would creep out and wander for hours in the streets.

It was while thus aimlessly loitering about one evening that he followed a stream of people into Westminster Abbey. That was the beginning of a new life for the boy. He had always been fond of music, a street-organ afforded him untold delight. And he was never tired of humming over the tunes that were thus taught him, for having heard them once, Davie's ear was sufficiently good to enable him to retain them correctly in his memory. But this music in the Abbey was unlike anything that he had ever listened to before. The voices that, clear, and rich, and sweet, rose high at times above the low tones of the organ, and again were all but drowned in the crash and the thunder that vibrated through the grand old building till the very roof seemed to echo to the sounds, thrilled him with delight and awe. Davie had never dreamt there "could" be anything half so beautiful.

After that, Davie, when driven by fear from home, betook himself to the Abbey; or if it were closed, he would walk about the streets till he found some other place of worship into which he could creep to hear the music. That was the chief attraction for Davie, though he often wondered what the preacher "was talking about." But if he tried to listen, he never understood. He knew, of course, in a vague childish way, that it was "all about God," and there his knowledge stopped. He had learnt so much at the school to which his mother, when she had a few pence to spare, would send him for a week or two. This, however, happened only at long intervals, and, to tell the truth, Davie was not sorry—to go with only half a dinner was a misfortune that did cause him grief, but to keep away from school was a matter of rejoicing. This irregular attendance was by no means conducive to rapid improvement, and consequently poor Davie was always drudging away in the lowest class.

Again, he hated to be obliged to sit still; he was so singularly active and lithe, and so accustomed to run wild in the streets, that this forced inaction was irksome in the extreme. The singing was the one thing that made it endurable, of course he liked that, and then, home he would go to sing to the baby the song he had just learnt—that is, if his step-father were not in. For Davie, his mother said, was "wonderful handy with a baby," and, when nothing else would do it, his voice would soothe its wailing cries and hush it to slumber.

So the years passed on until Davie was eleven. During that time two little children had been laid to rest in the cemetery, and their places taken by two others—twins—a boy and girl, who were named respectively Tom and Polly. They were only a few months old, when one day Mrs. Willis was hastily summoned to the hospital to which her husband had been carried, apparently lifeless. He had met with a fearful accident while under the influence of drink, and though severely injured, would doubtless have recovered, but the habit of years had so weakened and enfeebled his constitution, that it had no strength to bear up against the shock. For a week or two he lingered on, then for the second time, Mrs. Willis found herself a widow.

After his death, Mrs. Willis's life, though even harder than before, was, at any rate, peaceful and quiet. Davie did his utmost to help his mother. What she would have done without him, she did not know; she "would just have had to go to the house," she supposed. He "minded" the twins while she was at her work, he swept a crossing, and he sang in the streets. He did anything, in short, that was likely to bring in a penny. And then they loved each other so! Perhaps that was the greatest comfort of all to her, for, poor woman, she had not a friend in the world, and had it not been for Davie's love, she would indeed have felt lonely. Somehow, it gave her heart to struggle on.

Yet it grieved her that he was obliged to work so hard for her, and that she should never again be able to send him to school. He was a very intelligent boy, and she felt sure that if he had proper training, he would be able to earn his living in a very different way from that of sweeping a crossing. She taught him as much as she could, to be honest and truthful, and gentle in his speech and manner—"just as his father used to be," she would say to herself with a sigh—but more she could not teach him. "She" thought it was very little, but in reality it was a great deal; of a still higher and holier life she could tell him nothing, for she did not know herself.

So mother and son struggled on together until a year had passed since James Willis's death. During the summer months they had the greatest difficulty to make both ends meet, but now, in the depth of winter, it was terribly difficult to find the wherewithal to live. For days and days they were obliged to go with little food and less fire. Piece by piece the furniture had been taken to the pawnshop, and on that morning when Davie had gone to his crossing, with broom in hand, matters were so bad that it seemed impossible they could be worse. And that brings us back to the beginning of the story. But the history of that particular day, or rather evening, shall have a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER II.

A DAY'S WORK AND ITS WAGES.

ALL day long Davie had swept a crossing in Harley Street—he knew better than to sweep in a neighbourhood where the inhabitants were not rich—and in that long day's work had only earned fivepence-halfpenny. It was very little, less than he usually had, but there seemed no hope of getting more. The passengers were few on such a wretched night as this, and as it was eight o'clock, Davie came to the conclusion that he had better make his way home, and hope for better luck to-morrow.

Had he been more fortunate, he would have run quickly through the streets, but Davie's heart was heavy, and light feet never keep company with a heavy heart. So he went slowly on his way, wishing that he had more than four-pence-halfpenny in his pocket—he had been obliged to buy some bread with one of the pennies—and wondering what they "should" do if his mother had not been able to finish and take back the four pairs of trousers which she had had from a wholesale tailors' firm.

It was her business to sew on the buttons, make the button-holes, put in the lining and pockets, and, in fact, do everything except the machine work, which had been done before they were given to her. For the four pairs she would have one shilling and four pence. If she had taken back her work there would be a fire and a supper awaiting him on his return, but Davie doubted very much that any such pleasure was in store for him. His mother had been so ill during the last few days that she had often been obliged to put aside her work and lie down for an hour or two.

That morning she had been worse than usual, Davie could hardly bear to look at her, she seemed so weak and poorly. And forcing himself to speak cheerfully, he had told her "she wasn't to fret if she couldn't finish the trousers, for that he was sure he should come home with a heap of coppers in his pocket—enough to last them for ever so long." After such a speech it was dreadful to go back with only fourpence-halfpenny.

As Davie went slowly down Regent Street, his attention was attracted by the brilliant light that streamed from the windows of a church. It was not in Regent Street, but a few yards down a narrow turning that opened out into that main thoroughfare. Davie felt that he should like to go inside for a little while, away from the damp and the cold, but he doubted whether he should be allowed to do so, because of his broom. He might, however, be permitted to sit in the porch. It would be better than nothing, and perhaps he would hear some music. That would be something quite new again, for since Davie had regarded himself as a "family man,"—that is, that he had a mother and a baby brother and sister to think about and care for,—he had almost entirely given up going to the Abbey. To creep into the porch then and listen to the music would be quite a treat.

The outer door stood open, and stepping inside, Davie found himself in a large porch. There was a bench running round the walls, and upon this he seated himself, resolving that if nobody turned him out, he would remain to hear the hymn which, he had no doubt, would be sung at the close of the service. But he had not been there very many minutes before he became aware of another sound, the sound of a voice so clear and ringing that at times Davie almost caught the sense of the words as he sat there with the wall between him and it. Then it was so sweet that it quite fascinated him, and he forgot everything in listening intently to the musical vibrations that, from being scarcely distinguishable, rose and swelled till they thrilled him through and through. So absorbed was he in listening, and so bent upon catching every echo of the voice, that he was unconscious of the entrance of an old gentleman, who, on catching sight of the little crossing-sweeper, stopped abruptly in his hurried passage across the porch.

To creep into the porch and listen to the music
would be quite a treat.

"My child, what are you doing there?"

The voice was not in the least sharp, nor was Davie an individual to be easily frightened, nevertheless he was considerably startled. The fact was, that for the moment he had almost forgotten his own existence. The question suddenly awoke him to a recollection of who he was, and where he was.

Starting to his feet, he gasped, "Please, sir, I was only a-listening to what the preacher was a-saying."

"But you can't hear out here, can you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What! Hear every word he says?"

"No, sir, not the words, 'tis the sound of it, the roll of it like, that I was a-listening to." Then emboldened by the kind look that was bent upon him, he added, "Please, sir, I may stay, mayn't I?"

"If you like, you may, but why don't you go inside?"

"I've got my broom, sir, and I thought as how they wouldn't let me go in with that!"

"Well, then, leave it outside."

Leave it outside! No, that would be most unwise. It might be stolen or get lost in some way. Davie's broom was his friend. Once lose it, and he did not know how he should get another, for brooms cost money, and money was very, very scarce. The gentleman saw that he and his property were not to be parted.

"Would you really like to come inside?" he asked kindly.

"Yes, sir, just," and Davie having now thoroughly recovered his self-possession, raised a pair of bright brown eyes to the questioner. Perhaps they, even more than his words, told the gentleman that he was in earnest.

"Come in with me then. If you behave yourself properly, there is no reason why you should not, broom or no broom."

And with that, he turned towards the door, while Davie, in a state of eager expectation, followed closely behind.

What a crowd, to be sure! Nothing but heads, heads, heads, and above the heads, far away at the other end of the church, looking down upon the people from the pulpit, was the preacher. His face was very pale, almost as white as the surplice he wore, and he had large black eyes that fixed themselves upon his hearers as if he would read their very thoughts. All this Davie took in at a single glance, and it seemed to the boy that as he came into the church the black eyes fixed themselves upon him and watched him as he followed his guide—with difficulty, for every available space was crowded with listeners—to a corner under the gallery.

"If you like to stand, you will be able to see as well as hear," whispered the old gentleman, pointing to a vacant seat upon a bench. It was a great wonder that it was vacant, but it was just in the corner, and in such a dark corner too that no doubt it had been overlooked.

"Now, if you'll give me your broom," he continued, "I'll put it under here for you; you won't inconvenience anybody with it then."

So saying he put the broom under the bench, and giving a hand to Davie, assisted him to mount.

CHAPTER III.

DAVIE HEARS STRANGE NEWS.

AND now Davie, instead of being below, was above the heads of most of the congregation, and from his little dark corner under the gallery had a capital view of the whole scene—of the brilliantly lighted church, of the great organ with its golden pipes far away out yonder, of the crowds of people, some standing, some sitting, and above all, of that wonderful face in the pulpit, with the large black eyes that looked straight and full into his. They made Davie feel quite uncomfortable; he was glad when, after a minute or two, they removed their gaze to some other part of the church, for then, free from their fascination, he could listen with delight to the musical tones of the voice that rang from one end of the building to the other.

Then gradually his attention was drawn to the subject of the preacher's sermon. So simple was the language in which it was couched, that, to his surprise, Davie found that he understood almost everything that was said. In that discovery, he forgot the "music" of the voice—except inasmuch as its sweetness made him feel happy in a half-unconscious manner—and began to follow the words. Then by degrees he grew breathless with interest, and listened eagerly to every syllable.

The words that the preacher repeated most constantly were these: "Unto Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father; to Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen."

As Davie not unnaturally and correctly supposed, they were the text. He knew too who was meant by "Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood," though as for understanding it, or in any way thinking that it had a personal reference to him or to any of his acquaintances, Davie did not. "Religion" was a mystery which no doubt the rich people who had money to spend and time to spare, could comprehend easily enough. It was not for "the likes of him," he thought, and consequently he had never troubled himself with the subject.

But this clergyman was talking as nobody else had ever done. He made Davie feel somehow as if he had known Him—the gentle, patient "Man in God," who had been poor, and friendless, and homeless, who had suffered hunger and thirst, who had remained night after night on the cold, bleak mountain top, and who had finally been put to a cruel and painful death.

"And all this He would have done," went on the preacher, "to purchase the life of any single one of us here to-night, ay, for the poorest, most wretched man, or woman, or child, in this vast city of London. But He did not rest satisfied with having bought us with the price of His own blood, with having spent long years of poverty and toil that He might know our sorrows and understand our griefs. No, He did more than that—He made us 'kings and priests unto God!' O think of the grandeur of it, think of the greatness!

"He does not bind us to Him with a bond of slavery, but with the glorious liberty of kingship—'kings and priests unto God and His Father.' Oh! My friends, if we did but bear this in mind, what trouble we should take, what care and pains we should spend, to make ourselves worthy of that honour—an honour that, thank God, can be claimed by all, rich and poor, high and low, learned and ignorant. That little fellow out yonder that sweeps his crossing in the street—" At these words the black eyes travelled once more to the dark corner under the gallery where Davie stood, and it seemed to the boy that the finger of the preacher pointed directly at him.

"That little crossing-sweeper," went on the preacher—while Davie, feeling quite sure now that the clergyman was talking to him, listened with eyes that kindled and glowed, and with a cheek that burned with excitement—"can be as much a king unto God as Queen Victoria upon her throne. Uncared for, ragged, and ignorant, he is dear in the sight of Christ as the child who has been redeemed by His own blood. What signify his rags if he be clothed right gloriously in the robe of righteousness? Of what matter his ignorance if he has the knowledge that will gain him life eternal? And to think that because he has never been told all this, he does not know that he can be a 'king unto God,' and has no idea of the honour which he has a right to claim as his own!

"Oh that I had it in my power to go forth and speak to him, ay, and to every other poor soul that is roaming the streets to-night, and tell them of what Christ has done for them; bid them wash their robes in the blood of the Lamb; show them the high state that is theirs; entreat them to give up the old, and begin a new life worthy of their kingship, and join with me and angels in the grand burst of praise and thanksgiving:—'To Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.'"

In the momentary silence that ensued, the black eyes moved away from Davie's corner. But though their fascination was gone, the words that had been uttered—directly to him, as it seemed—still rang on in his ears. Such a train of thought did they awaken that the rest of the sermon was lost to the boy. What did it all mean? That "he," a little ragged crossing-sweeper, could be a king unto God? Yes, that was what the preacher had said, and somehow Davie felt that whatever "he" said "must" be true. But "how" could he be a king? In what way was the wonderful change to be effected?

If he did but know somebody who would explain it! He would "so" like to understand it all. The preacher knew, of course. Ah! If only he could get hold of "him!" Dirty, ragged, poor as he was, "he" would tell him all he wanted to know, for hadn't he said he "wished" that he could speak to him?

The sermon came to an end presently, then followed a hymn. Though Davie did not know the words, his quick ear for music had made him long familiar with the tune, and had he not been so absorbed in the subject that engrossed his thoughts, he would have been singing away at the top of his voice. But the passing thought had grown into a longing, the longing into a resolution, and he felt that whatever might be the consequences, he must speak to the clergyman. But how was he to obtain an opportunity? That was the question. Two or three plans suggested themselves, but all were dismissed as not likely to prove successful. Then he remembered the gentleman who had brought him into the church. Perhaps he could tell him what would be best to do. But whether he could or could not, he had looked so kind and spoken so gently, that Davie felt sure he would not at any rate be angry with him for having told him of his wish and asked for his advice. Yes, he could not do better, he concluded, than beg the gentleman to help him.

The hymn over, the people knelt to receive the benediction. Then, while the vast congregation began slowly to move towards the door, the organ once again resounded through the church. The crush was great, and Davie found himself so pushed and squeezed, that to get his broom from under the seat was a matter of difficulty. When he had accomplished it, he discovered to his dismay that he had lost sight of the kind old gentleman, who, during the service, had stood within an arm's length of him. So there was nothing for it but to act for himself, and he decided to wait at the church door until the clergyman came out. Then he would go boldly up to him and ask him some of the many questions that he longed to have answered.

To stand at the door, however, Davie found to be impossible; the crowd of people would not permit it. He was quite carried away by the stream, and the utmost that he could do was to take up a position against the wall of the church. But, alas for the little crossing-sweeper! No sooner had he planted himself and his broom in the very position from which he could get the best view of the people as they passed by, than he was addressed by a voice at his elbow.

"Now then, my boy, move on. I can't have you here."

There was no need to look up. Davie knew it was a policeman, and that whatever he chose to say was a law to be obeyed. Nothing daunted, however, he determined to wait at the top of the street, which was only a few yards distant. On the wide pavement of Regent Street he would be a less suspicious object for vigilant eyes. He felt confident that if he only kept a good look out for the clergyman he would be sure to see him, for it was far more likely that he would turn into Regent Street than into the narrow, dirty thoroughfare at the other end of the side street.

Although the rain had ceased, the pavements and road wore a miserably wet and unpleasant appearance. It was very cold too. Davie shivered as he stood patiently waiting in the chill night air. And he had need of patience, for though the stream of people coming from the church gradually became thinner and then ceased altogether, there was no sign of the clergyman. Davie began to fear that perhaps after all he had missed him. He determined, however, to wait a little longer yet, though there was no need now to keep a very attentive watch, for the foot passengers were not very many, and any person issuing from the side street could hardly have failed to be seen.

But if the foot passengers were few, the road was so full of vehicles, that their slow progress presently came to a complete standstill. Many of the carriages contained gaily-dressed people. But as that was a sight that Davie saw almost every night of his life, it would have failed to excite his wonderment, had he not noticed that most of the occupants were children. That naturally aroused his interest. And then how oddly, and yet how grandly, many of them were dressed!

There was one—a boy of about his own size—who was standing up and gazing out of his carriage window; he was a perfect blaze of jewels, and it quite dazzled Davie's eyes to look at him. Not that he was very near the little crossing-sweeper. Indeed, the carriage was almost in the middle of the road. But it so happened that the rays of a lamp fell full upon the boy as he stood looking out at what was going on around him, so that Davie had the benefit of a splendid view of his small but magnificent person. His tunic of blue and silver was studded with jewels. His broad-brimmed, drooping hat was decorated with a plume of feathers that touched his shoulder, and just in the front was a glittering star of diamonds that shot out brilliant rays of light with every movement of its wearer's head. Davie could just see the hilt of a sword that also was sparkling with gems, as was the gauntleted hand that rested on the window-ledge. It was a sight that almost took away the little crossing-sweeper's breath.

Who could he be? Where was he going, and why were so many of the carriages full of grandly dressed children, though none were so magnificent as the boy in the jewelled tunic? No prince could be more splendid, Davie thought.

In this new interest, he forgot everything else. He even forgot the purpose for which he had taken up his place on the pavement. And when the carriage moved slowly on, he kept pace with it, keeping his eyes fixed upon the boy who still stood at the window. Then all at once he saw another figure—that of a gentleman in a long black coat, who was in the act of crossing the road. It was a dangerous proceeding, but he dodged in and out between the carriages in a manner that showed he was accustomed to crowded thoroughfares.

But why did Davie suddenly start, and, grasping his broom, rush off in pursuit, regardless of horses and wheels? A lamp from one of the carriages had shown him the pale face of the preacher to whom he had been listening in the church. The boy and his jewels were instantly forgotten. Above the roar of the street Davie seemed again to hear the clear, ringing words, "Kings and priests unto God." And there is the clergyman. Davie has him in sight now, but soon it will be too late. If he would carry out that resolve of his, it must be now or never. There is not a moment to lose. Never mind the horses.

He is little and lithe, and can be here, and there, and everywhere in a moment. See, he is under the nose of one, and a wheel goes within an inch of his toes. Now, by a spring, he just saves himself from being trodden underfoot by a prancing steed that has waxed impatient at his own slow progress. Then—then there is a wild shriek—a piercing cry. The boy in the glittering dress is suddenly jolted in his carriage. The next moment he sees the pale face and still form of little Davie as he lies motionless upon the ground, crushed by the cruel wheel that has gone over him.

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE HOSPITAL.

IT seemed to Davie that he had been sleeping a very long while, and that from time to time he had awakened to find himself in a strange place with strange people about him. Gradually these indistinct impressions became clearer, and he began to think that he was in a hospital-ward—at least, it very much resembled the place to which he had gone with his mother to see his step-father after his accident. "That" was a hospital, Davie knew, and so he supposed was this. But how did he get here he had no remembrance of having been brought in.

Was there nobody whom he could ask about it? He would raise himself to see. Oh what was that—that terrible pain which took from him the power of moving, and made him sink back upon the pillow, white to his lips, and wet with the cold perspiration that started to his brow? Again for a while Davie knew nothing. When next he opened his eyes he saw a kind face smiling down upon him. He had seen it before, seen it without thinking about it, but now it somehow seemed to Davie that it was a face he "liked."

"There, now you're all right, but you mustn't try to move, because if you do you will hurt yourself. We all have so much pain that we 'must' bear that it's a pity to make it more of our own accord, isn't it?"

Davie tried to smile back an answer to the bright cheerful look that was bent upon him.

"Please, sir, I'm in a hospital, ain't I?" he asked in a weak, tremulous voice.

"Yes, my boy."

"What's happened to me? Was it an accident, sir?"

"Yes, you managed to get yourself run over and so they brought you here to be made well again. But indeed you must not talk any more. Now take this," and the doctor held a spoon to Davie's lips, "and then go to sleep. Perhaps when you wake you'll be better and able to talk. Though I am sure you won't, if you try to move; that's the very worst thing you can do."

And with that the doctor walked away, leaving Davie to fall almost immediately into a heavy sleep.

He awoke in pain, yet feeling much more like "himself" than he had hitherto done, and he quite enjoyed the food that the nurse brought him as soon as she saw that he was awake. Remembering the doctor's caution, he lay still after that, not attempting to move. One of his legs was bandaged; it felt stiff, and odd, and ached very much. What was the matter with it, he wondered. The doctor had told him that he had been run over, but he had no recollection of the circumstance.

Stay, though, hadn't he rushed across a street when it was full of moving carriages? Then little by little it all returned to his memory. The long day spent in sweeping his crossing, the few pence he had gained, the church, the wonderful sermon he had heard, his great desire to speak to the preacher, and the waiting for him outside the church. Then he had seen somebody so grandly dressed that the sight took away his thoughts from everything else, till suddenly he had recognised the clergyman for whom he was waiting. He had darted after him, and—there came a blank. He could remember nothing else. Then he began thinking of his mother, and at that thought grew restless.

Opening his eyes, he met those of the doctor, who had spoken so kindly to him a few hours previously.

"You are better now, I can see; that comes of obeying orders. Well, what do you want to say to me?"

"Please, sir, when shall I be well enough to go away?"

"I can't say: it depends upon a good many things. You will have a great deal to do with it yourself. Do exactly as you are told, and you'll get well all the sooner."

The answer was vague, but the cheerful voice made it sound hopeful, and Davie drew the conclusion that was most satisfactory to himself.

"Please, sir," he began again after a pause, "how long have I been here?"

"Let me see. To-day is Saturday, and you came in on Wednesday. Three days now."

"Three days," and it had seemed to him like a long sleep broken only by short intervals of half consciousness! "Three days!" What would his mother think! How anxious she would be about him! Perhaps, though, she knew why he had never returned home.

A flush rose in his cheek as he asked with trembling eagerness, "Does mother know I'm here, sir?"

"Yes, and she's been to see you."

Davie thought that he could not have heard aright.

"Been here?" he repeated in a low tone of bewilderment.

"Yes, but you were asleep at the time, and so didn't see her. She is coming again to-morrow. Now you may ask me one more question, and I think that must be the last for the present."

Davie thought that he had no other question to ask, then remembered that he had, and one, too, that he wanted very much to have answered.

"Please, sir, am I hurt very much?"

"Not so much, but it might have been more," was the cheerful reply. "Your collar bone is broken—that's why it hurt you so much when you tried to move just now. And I am sorry to say your right leg is broken, but I daresay you will be about again in a few weeks. As for the collar bone, that's just nothing at all. It will be as right as ever in a week or two."

His collar bone and his leg broken! The knowledge of the extent of his injuries overwhelmed him with such a rush of feeling that his eyes suddenly filled with tears, and his lips quivered so much that though he tried hard to speak he could not utter a word.

"I thought you were a brave boy, or I should not have told you all this," the doctor went on after a moment's pause. "Indeed, I've been thinking a good many things about you. Wouldn't you like to know why?"

"Yes, sir," was the scarcely audible reply.

"Well, I've found out something very curious—your name is David Scott, and so is mine. Now, isn't that odd?"

It was indeed. Davie had felt wonderfully drawn towards the good kind man with his cheerful smiling face. But this last piece of information made him feel that he and the doctor were quite friends. He gave him a very bright look by way of answer.

"Ah! That's better, I 'knew' you were a brave boy. Wouldn't you like me to call you David?"

"Nobody ever calls me that. Mother always says 'Davie,' and other people mostly say 'Dave.'"

"Very well, then, I'll call you Davie. Now, Davie, do you know you've actually made me break my own rule? Five minutes ago I said there was to be no more talking, and if I haven't been chatting away to you ever since. That's what comes of having a namesake for a patient."

He disappeared with that, and Davie was left to think over the conversation. How strange that he and the doctor should have the same name! People who had were generally related to each other, but the little crossing-sweeper felt sure that this gentleman could be no "relative" of his. And there he was right; it was merely one of those coincidences which are so often met with in life.

Then what was that he had said about being "brave?" Evidently he expected him to be brave. And so he would; the doctor should not be disappointed in him. He would bear his pain patiently, and do exactly as he was told.

His resolution was no sooner made than it had to be put into practice, for such a paroxysm of suffering came on that it was as much as Davie could do to keep from crying out aloud. Presently, however, the intensity of the attack passed away, and in the exhaustion that followed, the poor little fellow once more fell asleep.

CHAPTER V.

DAVIE GAINS A NEW NAME.

THE next day, in the early part of the afternoon, Davie had a visit from his mother. He cried a little when first he saw her, he could not help that, but he quickly brightened up again, and became deeply interested in what she was telling him. And no wonder, for it was really a marvellous story.

She told him, she had felt so much better after he had left her on the previous Wednesday morning that she was able to finish the trousers, take them back, and get the money for them. With that she had bought some coal, and quite a nice little supper. But, alas! no Davie had come home to help eat it, and all night long she had sat up for him, getting more and more anxious as hour after hour went by.

As soon as possible the next morning she went out in search of him. It had occurred to her that very possibly he had met with an accident, and so she went to hospital after hospital to make inquiries.

"And oh! Davie," she said, breaking off in her story, and speaking in a husky voice, "you can't think how glad, and yet how sorry, I was to find you at last."

He gave the hand he held in both his own a sympathizing squeeze.

"But I found something else besides you," she continued, after a moment's pause, and in a steadier voice. "What do you think it was?"

"I don't see as there 'could' be anything else besides me."

"Yes, but there was—'a five-pound note.' Fancy that!"

Davie stared at her in utter astonishment. He had heard of such a thing, of course, but he had never seen one, and he had always thought of it with something approaching awe. Surely his mother must be joking!

"Ah! You may well look surprised, but it's true, all the same for that."

"'Whoever' gave it to you, mother?"

"It has to do with your accident, dear, and perhaps we'd best not talk about that. The doctor told me I wasn't to say anything that would upset you."

"It won't upset me, mother, dear. I'd like to know."

"Well, it seems that the carriage that ran over you belonged to some rich people, who were on their way to a grand ball that the Lord Mayor was giving to a lot of little ladies and gentlemen. They were that sorry about you, you can't think. Davie, and the gentleman actually got out of his carriage and came along with you to the hospital. And he left a five-pound note, and said that as soon as ever your friends were heard of, they were to have it, and since that—but you are 'sure' this doesn't make you feel worse, Davie?"

"No, it makes me better, because when I'm listening to you, I don't seem to feel the pain so much."

"Not content with that, then, the gentleman came here again the next day. He came himself, Davie, he didn't send a servant. And he asked for my address, and, do you know, his wife, such a grand lady, a Lady something—Lady Cloudesley, that's it—actually came and saw me. The twins were as dirty as they could be, and the room in such a mess, but down she sat, and talked away as free as if she had been a poor woman herself. But oh! She was so gentle and kind, and I declare, if she didn't cry when I told her what terrible straits I'd been put to. And she told me to take heart and not fret, for she would give me work that would pay better than the trouser-finishing, and that it wouldn't be long before she came to see me again. She said, too, that she should come and see you as soon as ever she could."

Davie was right when he told his mother that it made him "better" to listen to her. It drew off his attention from himself, and he made a great many inquiries about the lady on his own account. It pleased him to hear about her and the little boy, for he had often thought of him, wondering what caused him to be dressed up in such a gorgeous fashion, and where he could possibly be going. He eagerly asked other questions about the ball.

"Did 'everybody' go dressed up like that?" "What did the children 'do' when they got there?"

But Mrs. Willis only knew the bare fact that on the memorable night of Davie's accident there 'had' been a ball at the Mansion House, and that the little boy in the carriage was the son of Sir John and Lady Cloudesley, the lady and gentleman who had been so kind to her.

Davie, however, learnt more of the subject, when about a week after that, Lady Cloudesley came to pay her promised visit.

He was very shy for a little while, and his "Yes, my lady," and "No, my lady," the only replies which he ventured to make, were uttered in a whisper.

But presently she began talking to him about her son, her only child, and then Davie plucked up courage to tell her how he had seen him that night of the accident, as "the little gentleman" stood looking out of the carriage window.

Lady Cloudesley took up the story from that point, and went on to say that when she and her boy arrived at the Mansion House, the rooms were already full of children, and how some were dressed like fairies, and some like knights, and some in national costumes.

Davie looked puzzled at that; he did not understand what was meant by "national costumes." And seeing it, Lady Cloudesley paused to explain. Her little son, for instance, was dressed as the royal princes of France used many years ago to dress. Then the children had danced in beautiful rooms that were brilliant with a hundred lights, and she told him what a pretty sight it was to see them gliding over the polished floor, as their feet kept time to the music.

At that word Davie grew more interested than ever. Music? Was there music? Yes. Was he fond of music? Ah! Wasn't he! And that led to such delightful conversation that the little invalid forgot he was talking "to a real lady as had a grand name," and was quite sorry when at length she rose to wish him good-bye.

As she did so, she took from a basket that she carried on her arm, a lovely bunch of grapes, and laid it on Davie's bed within reach of his hand. Certainly he had "seen" as fine in the large shops in Regent Street, but that he should ever "taste" such fruit had never entered his head in his wildest dream. Lady Cloudesley left, promising to come again some day, and well pleased with the boy's evident amazement and delight.

By so small a thing as a word, a look, the simplest action, or a gift so insignificant that it seems hardly worth the bestowal, what happiness do we afford to our poorer brethren! Surely the vibration of their hearts' joy on earth must be sometimes so deep and so full that holy angels in heaven beholding it must feel the beat of the throb, and be thrilled with the gladness that has first entered a human heart.

But the excitement caused by Lady Cloudesley's visit had been somewhat too much for Davie, and towards the evening he became restless with weariness and pain. Presently he fell into a light slumber. In an hour or two, however, he awoke, feeling rather worse than better. His collar bone was nearly well now, but his leg ached with a dull, "grinding" pain that was hard to endure patiently. Davie thought that if he sang softly to himself, it might help him perhaps to bear it, and accordingly he began humming an air that he had often heard in the streets. The tones, though low, were wonderfully sweet. They reached the ears of the man on the bed next to that of the little singer, and being fond of music, he listened with delight and eagerness. He and Davie had struck up quite a friendship, so he did not hesitate to beg a favour of him.

"Couldn't you sing a bit louder?" he asked, when there came a pause in the humming.

"Yes, I could, but I was afraid, as it might disturb some of the patients."

"I don't see as how it could disturb them. But don't you know something sweeter-like, not quite such a merry tune. There's my missus, she's precious fond of singing hymns to get the little 'uns off to sleep. Couldn't you sing a hymn now?"

"I don't know the words; I know lots of tunes."

"Well, let's have a tune. After all, it don't so very much matter about the words."

Rejoiced to find that his neighbour possessed "a kindred soul," Davie was anxious to do his utmost to afford gratification, and began ransacking his memory for an old fragment of a hymn that he had learnt long ago in his brief and irregular school-days. He was successful beyond his hopes.

"I know most all of the verses of one," he said, after thinking a few minutes. It begins like this:

"'Abide with me, fast falls the eventide!'"

"Ah! Let's have that," responded the man heartily; "it's a rare favourite with the missus."

Accordingly Davie began, and now his voice, clear and sweet to a degree, penetrated to the farthest extent of the ward, flooding it with a melody to which many a sufferer listened entranced, and forgetting his pain, lay soothed and comforted.

At a stated hour the patients were permitted to sing, or visitors to sing to them, but it was now late in the evening, a time when almost perfect quietness was observed in the hospital. The nurse, therefore, was on the point of telling Davie that he must reserve his singing till the next day, but glancing around, she perceived that the look of pain on many a face was exchanged for a peaceful and happier expression, and seeing such was the case, she felt she could not silence the strains that were so powerful to soothe. So she let him go on, and in a few moments became almost as spell-bound as her charges, by the rare sweetness of the boy's voice.

"Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies;
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."

Davie had not sung the whole hymn, but he remembered the closing verse, and encouraged by the silence, and carried away by the feeling that "music" always stirred within him, he put into that last one all the power of which he was capable. The words, "Abide with me," rang from one end of the ward to the other, and left echoes so sweet that one might well have believed that a choir of angels had taken up Davie's song, and that its distant strains were descending lightly to tell us for our comfort how near to this pain-ridden world of ours is that city of God, where "there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying."

The deep silence that followed was broken by a husky voice from the bed directly opposite to Davie's. Its occupant was a middle-aged man, who, though he had been in the hospital only a few days, had already proved himself to be of a singularly refractory and repellent disposition.

"I have often heard that story about Saul," he said, "and how the wicked spirit was driven out of him by David's music, but I never 'understood' it till now." Then in a steadier voice, he continued, "I'd just got regular work, after having had nothing to do for weeks and weeks. And then I must needs tumble off that ladder, and be laid up for I don't know how long, and perhaps be naught but a poor cripple in the end. Ever since I've been in here I've felt as if I couldn't and 'wouldn't' bear it. But, my lad, your singing has brought a better feeling over me. It took me back again to the time when I was a little chap, and used to hear my mother sing as she went about her work. I hope you'll give us the hymn again to-morrow. I guess there isn't one here as wouldn't feel the better for it."

"Ay, you're right there," said Davie's next bed neighbour; "and I think," he continued in a voice that expressed no small delight at the idea, "as how we'd best call him 'King Davie.' He's been our King David to-night as one might say, only somehow it don't seem natural like to say David to Davie here."

"King" Davie! The words stirred up certain recollections in the boy's mind—recollections that were never long absent, it is true, but which now seemed awakened with an electric thrill. In imagination he saw a crowded church, a fervent, impassioned preacher. Again he seemed to be one of the vast congregation, and to be listening to that ringing voice as it cried with an exceeding earnest cry:

"Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father; to Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen."

He remembered the words and repeated them without a mistake, so great was the impression they had made upon him. The old longing, too, to know what they meant came back with doubled force. He felt instinctively that they bore reference to those things that tended to his eternal peace, and it occurred to him, with a strange sensation of alarm that perhaps he might never get well again.

During the last day or two, he had noticed a grave expression on Dr. Scott's face. And although he always answered his question of "How long will it be before I shall be quite well again, doctor?" with an encouraging "Not so very long, I hope, Davie," it seemed to the boy who was remarkably observant that it lacked the ring of heartiness with which his other questions were answered. Yes, he might die; younger children than he did every day.

On one or two occasions since he had been in the hospital, a lady had come, and sitting down by his bedside, had read to him from the Bible, and talked gently and lovingly about many things of which he had never before heard. She would be able to tell him what he wanted to know, and having resolved to open his mind to her the next time she came, Davie felt comforted.

CHAPTER VI.

A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.

SIX weeks had passed away, and Davie was still in the hospital. He had not at first made the rapid improvement that the doctors had anticipated. After a while, however, he had mended, and seemed to be going on fairly well, when again there came a relapse, and his recovery was considered doubtful. The broken leg had progressed satisfactorily; indeed he was able to use it a little, and had on one or two occasions sat up for half an hour. But it seemed as if the shock of the accident had been too much for the feeble body of the poor child, weakened by a long period of insufficiency of food and scanty clothing.

Dr. Scott feared that rapid consumption would set in, and that his little namesake would never go alive from his care. He was sorry, for he had quite an affection for the gentle boy who rendered such willing obedience, and had never been known to be discontented or impatient.

Nor was he the only one to whom Davie had endeared himself. He had been removed to another ward, but his singing was in as great request here as it had been in the other, and every day at a certain hour, he gladly did his best to impart the pleasure that the sweet tones of his voice never failed to afford to his hearers.

The name, "King Davie," had stuck to him, and all over the hospital he was known by it.

"After all, there is a good deal in a name, isn't there?" Dr. Scott had said to him one day, when it so happened that he had a spare moment in which to chat to his little favourite.

"I don't know that there is," Davie had answered with that usual pleased expression of countenance which any attention from the doctor was sure to call forth.

"There is in yours, any way. First, we find out that it is the same as mine, and then somebody goes and gives you a pet name that even I have adopted. Don't you think that a good deal?"

This talk had taken place not long after that evening when Davie's music had charmed away the evil spirit from the poor sufferer, and when, in the rush of feeling, caused by the recollections awakened by the name that had been given him half in fun and half in earnest, Davie had made a certain resolution. It had been carried out, and over and over again he had been told "the old, old story," and again and again had been explained to him the words that had puzzled him so much. But though he knew it with his head, he did not feel it in his heart. It was still a matter in which he had no "personal" interest, or rather, it seemed to him so vast and infinite a subject that the part of a poor little crossing-sweeper, destitute of learning, of money, and of everything else that is of value in the world's eye, was swallowed up and "lost" in it.

So the old longing to understand remained, and the cry of his spirit was still, "Oh! How I wish I understood." It troubled the child that it was so. Sometimes, for two or three days together, he would forget about it. He was very comfortable in the hospital, he had nice things to eat and plenty of them; everybody was good and kind; his mother often came to see him, and Lady Cloudesley had been on more than one occasion since her first visit. So that Davie seemed to have no want unsupplied, and he would feel happy and at peace, till suddenly the old thought would occur to him, "Supposing I was to die!"

Again had come back that grave look on Dr. Scott's face whenever he bent over him to feel his pulse and ask him how he did. Davie determined at last that he would beg the doctor to tell him honestly and candidly what his opinion was.

"Please, sir," he began rather hesitatingly, "I want you to tell me whether you think I ever 'shall' get well? It seems to me that I ain't very much better now than I was ever so long ago."

"Well, my boy, I 'hope' you will get well again some day."

Davie's brown eyes had a look of reproach in them, as he said, "I'd like to know 'really.' If I've got to die, I'd sooner be told."

"Then I will tell you," replied the doctor in a graver tone than he had ever yet used in addressing his little patient. "What I said a minute ago is perfectly true; we 'do' hope that you will get well, but the improvement is very slow, and you seem to gain very little strength, so that it is really impossible to say how it will end."

That meant—for Davie knew that the doctor even then was treating the subject in its lightest aspect—that of the two he was more likely to die than get well. He shut his eyes, and save for the slight quivering of his under lip, lay perfectly still for a minute or two.

Then looking up, he laid one little thin hand on the doctor's large and healthy one, and said simply and gratefully, "Thank you for telling me. I 'wanted' to know."

The doctor was touched.

"Is there anything you would like, Davie?" he asked. "'Anything' that I can get or do for you, I will."

His "face" said "No." Then suddenly the expression changed, and the cheeks that had been so white a moment before, grew flushed and rosy.

"There 'is' something, I can see, King Davie. What is it? Don't be afraid to tell me."

"Oh! If I might, if I could, I should 'so' like to see the gentleman as was a-preaching in the church I went into that night I got run over."

"Do you know his name?"

No, Davie did not; then he told the whole story, while the doctor listened patiently and attentively.

"I will try to find out who the clergyman was, and perhaps I may write to him and ask him to come and see you," he said, when the tale came to an end.

"Oh! Thank you, sir, I—"

But Dr. Scott dared not allow himself to linger any longer, and Davie's thanks did not reach the ear for which they were intended. He had, however, seen the look of joy that had lighted up the boy's face at his words, and he resolved to go to the church and make the necessary inquiry on the very first opportunity.

He went that evening. The church was open, and a few inquiries of the verger quickly put him in possession of the desired information.

Alas for Davie! It was by no means such as seemed likely to tend to a realization of his hopes. The preacher on the night of the accident was a Mr. Kilmarnock, one of the most noted preachers of the day. He had come from his parish in the north of England for the express purpose of preaching in that particular church on the evening in question, and, the verger said, he believed it would be some time before he would again visit London.

Dr. Scott felt very sorry for Davie. He could not forget the glad smile of delight which had illumined his face on hearing that at least an endeavour should be made to bring the clergyman to him. He knew the poor little fellow would be bitterly disappointed at the result of his inquiries at the church, and he quite disliked the idea of carrying the bad news to his bedside.

On his way thither, he chanced to meet the head nurse of the ward into which Davie had been carried, when first brought into the hospital. She had been much interested in his case, and now stopped the doctor to inquire for his little patient. Having a few minutes to spare, he told her of Davie's wish and of his own disappointment.

The lady looked grave.

"Years ago I knew Mr. Kilmarnock," she said. "I think he should be told of the boy's desire."

Dr. Scott laughed.

"Pardon me, but what good would it do?" he asked. "Consider the distance. If he were in London and knew the particulars of the case, he might come. Though even then, I doubt whether the numerous calls upon his time would permit it. After all, you know, it is only a little crossing-sweeper who wants to see him."

With that remark the conversation ended, but the subject still remained in the lady's mind. In vain she tried to put it aside. Again and again it returned, and always with a deepened conviction that it was her duty, at any rate, to let the clergyman "know" of the effect that his words had taken upon the boy, and of his earnest wish—probably a dying wish—to see him.

At last she could bear it no longer, and getting pen and paper, she sat down and related the circumstances as concisely as possible. She did not beg Mr. Kilmarnock to come. She merely told him of the child's desire. The letter written, she felt greatly relieved, and she was glad, now it "had" been done, that it was in time for the evening's post.

Early on the following day a telegram was put into her hand. A distressing case had come in during the night, and she had been kept so constantly in attendance that she had not so much as once thought of Davie. When she opened the telegram, however, he and his wish flashed to her memory in a thrill of joy and thankfulness.

These were the words that met her eyes:

"Thank you for letting me know. I hope to be at the hospital to-night."

CHAPTER VII.

THE LONGING REALIZED.

IT was dusk, and Davie was lying restless and in pain upon his bed. He had not been so well ever since that talk with the doctor, when he told him of his wish. The doctor saw how excited and feverish he was from the eager way in which he questioned him when next he came to his bedside.

"Have you found out who the minister was, sir? Do you think he'll come to see me?"

It was really the kinder thing to tell him the worst at once. Suspense was bad for the boy.

"Yes, Davie, I know who it was, but he doesn't live in London. He lives two or three hundred miles away, and so you must give up all hope of having a visit from him. Why, you don't mean to say you are going to cry about it! That isn't like our King Davie."

"Oh! It don't signify. It ain't of much consequence. I—"

Evidently he did not wish his tears to be seen. He had shed very few since he had been in the hospital—just on one or two occasions when he had been in intense pain that was all. By the manner, therefore, in which he received the news, Dr. Scott knew he felt the disappointment keenly, and he hurried away that the boy might have his cry out alone and in secret. When he returned, the subject was not resumed, and Davie managed to give him a parting smile.

The next day, however, on visiting his little patient, Dr. Scott was concerned to find him in a highly feverish state. He would allow no talking, and at once ordered a composing draught.

The medicine took prompt and good effect, but even in his sleep Davie was restless, frequently moaning, and talking rapidly and incoherently. But as the hours passed, he slumbered more quietly, and from the happier expression upon his face, his nurse knew that less harassing thoughts were passing through his brain.

That was true, for Davie was dreaming he was in that place of delight—Westminster Abbey. The organ, he thought, was pealing out a grand triumphant march, and the voices of the choir boys sang out an answering response. Then, as the music died away, a minister got up in the pulpit and began to preach. It was the same gentleman, who, during the last six weeks, had been so frequently in Davie's waking thoughts. Very attentively he listened to hear what he said, but he was far away and could not catch the words. This distressed him so much that he called out in a shrill, eager voice,—

"Please speak louder. I can't hear what you say."

"What is it, my poor child? What can't you hear?"

Davie opened his eyes and—"had" he been dreaming, or "hadn't" he? For there, leaning over him, was the face he had seemed to see in his dream—the face of the clergyman who had preached that wonderful "real" sermon in the church near Regent Street. It wore just the old earnest, loving look, only now, as it bent down so near to his, it appeared to Davie that the dark eyes were full of yet deeper compassion and tenderness than they had been on that night many weeks ago. And it was for "him," there could be no mistake about that now. Davie felt somehow as if he had known him all his life. He raised himself in a sitting position, and cried out eagerly,—

"Oh! I am so glad you are come. I've been wanting you ever so. I want 'you' to tell me how I can be a king."

He did not ask in vain.

Just for a moment Mr. Kilmarnock failed to comprehend the child's meaning. Then the remembrance of his sermon flashed across his memory. One brief earnest prayer went up from his heart that his words might be blessed to the poor little fellow, and sitting down by his bedside, he told him—without troubling Davie to answer any questions—the story of man's disobedience, of man's condemnation, and of man's redemption.

Davie, listening, understood it as he had never understood it before, for the Holy Spirit directed the words, and "now" they "entered his heart" with a new and marvellous meaning. It was for "him" then that Christ had died. He had suffered that "he" might live a life of endless joy and happiness; He had shed His blood that his sins—and Davie "felt" now that they were many—might be washed away. And all for "love"; for love of "him," poor, ragged, ignorant Davie!

"And so, dear child, you see that whether you live or die, you are Christ's. You are not afraid to die, 'now,' are you?"

"No."

The word came after a moment's pause, and then Davie lay for a while with closed eyes, and with a look of "restfulness" and peace upon his face that it had not worn for many a day. Presently he went back to the old question.

"Please, will you tell me now," he asked, as he looked eagerly at Mr. Kilmarnock, "how I can be a king? You said I could be a king that night, you know."

"'Kings and priests unto God and His Father.' Davie, do you know what is the chief duty of a king?"

He thought a moment before replying. A king did so many things that it was puzzling to specify any particular one or even a few of them.

"He's got to wear a crown, and ride in a grand carriage. Then he makes laws, and everybody must do as he tells them, and he can do just what he likes."

"No, a king cannot do just what he likes any more than anybody else can, and he has to obey the laws himself, as well as see that his people obey them. But I didn't mean that exactly. A duty is not something we may or can do, but something we 'ought' and 'must' do, and a king's chief duty is to serve others, not to be served himself. He has to live for his people; to see that they are ruled by just and wise laws; to take care that their health and education receive proper attention. In fact, to study every day of his life how to make them happy, and healthy, and prosperous. A king's whole life, therefore, is spent in service for others.

"Now, Davie, if you really love Christ, you will want to prove it by serving Him, and you will feel so happy and glad in doing it. That is what it means by 'kings and priests unto God.' A priest, you know, is the same as a minister, and if they do their duty, both kings and ministers spend their lives in working for, and serving others. When we love God then, and serve Him, we are kings and priests unto Him. Ah! Davie, that's a grand and blessed thought, and it should make us try very earnestly to please Him. We can never 'pay back' anything that God has done for us, but we 'can' try to keep His commandments, we 'can' be gentle, and loving, and patient, and we need never let a day pass without doing something to help others and make them happy."

"But supposing—"

"Yes, Davie."

"Supposing I was to die. I couldn't be a king then, because I couldn't serve God. I couldn't do 'anything' for 'anybody' then."

"But Davie, don't you know that in heaven you will be able to serve God far more and far better than you could here?"

"Shall I, sir? I didn't know it. I thought as how there wouldn't be nothing to do up there."

"That is a great mistake. I can't say exactly what will be given you to do, but it will be sure to make you happy and keep you always busy. Then, Davie, it will be 'perfect' service. Here, you know, it is so natural for us to be selfish, and impatient, and discontented that no service of ours is quite free from evil of some sort. But in heaven there is no sin, and so it will be a perfect service, holy and acceptable unto God."

Again there came a pause in the conversation, and again Davie broke it.

"I'm glad I shall be able to serve God in heaven," he said simply and heartily, "because, now I come to think of it, perhaps after all there wouldn't be anything much that I could do for Him here."

"I was in the hospital some time before you awoke, Davie," said Mr. Kilmarnock, with a slight change in his voice, "and the lady who was so kind as to let me know that you wished to see me, told me many things about you. She told me how hard you used to work to help your mother; how bravely you have borne pain since you have been here; and how patient and obedient you have been. She told me another thing, too, though perhaps it was such a pleasure to yourself, that you will scarcely believe me when I tell you that God would accept it as a service done to Him. I mean the delight you take in singing in order to please others and soothe away their pain. You see I have learned a great deal about you, 'King' Davie."

The child muttered something about being "so glad," but the excitement, caused by the clergyman's visit, and the long talk were beginning to tell upon him, and he lay back upon the pillow, pale and exhausted.

The nurse was quick to observe it, and brought him some light and nourishing food. That revived him, and he was able to give Mr. Kilmarnock, who had left his bedside for a little while, a bright and affectionate smile of welcome on his return.

"Davie," he said, "I have been to beg to be allowed to remain with you all night. It is against the rules for a visitor to do such a thing, but in this case it will be permitted. So I shall sit by you and watch you till you go to sleep."

That was very nice. It seemed to Davie that he had nothing left to wish for now. For a while he lay quite quietly; then certain uneasy movements of his limbs, and long-drawn breaths, gave token of the return of another fit of restlessness.

"Is there nothing I can do for you, my poor boy, to make you more comfortable?"

Davie shook his head in answer to the low-toned, compassionate inquiry of his new nurse.

"Poor little laddie! I wish I could just take you up in my arms and bear all the pain for you myself."

"Oh! Will you?—If I might—I—"

"What Davie?"

"If only you'd take me up and nurse me. Nobody has, ever since I wasn't much bigger than a baby, and mother—"

He did not finish the sentence, for a swift, interrogatory glance at the nurse in charge had been answered in the affirmative. How could she do otherwise when the doctor had said that very probably this would be the child's last night on earth, and when the clergyman, in order to get to him without delay, had travelled hundreds of miles in the greatest haste? So Davie was lifted from his bed, wrapped in a blanket, and lay happy and content in the strong arms of the clergyman, against whose breast the curly head nestled in perfect confidence and love. Then the eyelids drooped and Davie slept, but so quietly that, as the hours went by, Mr. Kilmarnock frequently put his cheek close to the boy's lips, for it was only by the slight wave of air he then felt, that he knew he yet lived.

So, motionless he sat with the child in his arms. For, though his limbs ached with the cramped position, he took care that no movement should disturb him. And all the while he was offering up silent prayer and praise—prayer that Davie might be accepted in God's sight as one of His children redeemed by the precious blood of Christ, and praise and thanksgiving that he himself had been permitted to come to the wandering lamb, and direct him home to the fold and the Good Shepherd.

And Davie still slept—slept on till day-dawn, when he awoke with a wonderful look of "renewed life" upon his face.

As the nurse took him from Mr. Kilmarnock's arms and laid him in his bed again, she whispered, "There is a change for the better, I feel sure."

And she was right. Davie had been to the very borderland of death, but that long sleep was the turning-point. He awoke, not to die, but to live, not yet to join that glorious company of "kings and priests unto God," in heaven, but to render on earth, for a while at any rate, that greatest and most blessed of work which consists of service done to God and man.

CHAPTER VIII.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

FROM the hospital, Davie was sent to a Children's Convalescent Home, a few miles distant from London. Never before had he been in such a place, and he was very happy there. It seemed quite like a palace to him, with its large rooms and many appliances for the comfort and health of its inmates. Then, how bright it was with flowers! For it was spring time now, and the earth was beginning to bring forth her loveliest and fairest blossoms. They made the large garden sweet with fragrance, and beautiful beyond description.

One corner of it was an especial favourite with Davie. It was a corner where the lily of the valley grew in rich profusion. Of all the flowers, he thought this was the loveliest, and he never wearied of looking at the tiny nodding bells and dark green leaves, a charming contrast both in size and colour to the dainty, spotless blossoms that leant against them for support.

From this corner, too, Davie was the witness of another of God's marvellous works—and it afforded him even more pleasure than the lilies—the soaring lark, which in its upward flight towards the blue sky overhead, warbled forth such melody that the boy listened in wonder and delight, yet always with a feeling that the bird was but giving utterance to its joy that the earth was so fair and beautiful, and to its praise to God for the creation of the world and itself. And many deeper lessons yet did Davie learn from the lark. Doubtless they came home with all the more power because they were given in a language that was full of meaning to him—the wonderful language of music.

Many pleasant events served to mark that happy time at the Convalescent Home, but perhaps the proudest and happiest day of all to Davie was that on which he received a letter from his dear friend—for as such, though with the deepest respect, he always thought of Mr. Kilmarnock.

It was a beautiful letter, full of wise counsel and affectionate encouragement, and ended with the promise of another at no very distant date.

After a month's visit—but even that was all too short for Davie—came his last day at the Home. Although it was long ere the benefit had made itself apparent, the strengthening food, the care, and the attention he had received ever since his accident, brought about a good result in the end, and he now looked a very different boy from the pale, half-starved little crossing-sweeper of three months ago, or even from the feeble invalid who had been sent from the hospital to gain strength and vigour in the pure country air.

His mother came to fetch him, and quite a crowd collected to wish him good-bye, for Davie had made many friends among his young companions of the past month, and it is difficult to say whether they were the more sorry to lose him, or he to go. The name he had won for himself in the hospital had followed him to the Home. And now they all called out in chorus, "Good-bye, King Davie, good-bye, good-bye."

He was very silent during the journey, and his mother, thinking he was tired, drew him up close to her side and made him lean upon her. Her shoulder made a comfortable resting-place for his head, and as he sat with closed eyes and perfectly still, Mrs. Willis quite believed he was asleep.

But Davie was not asleep. He was thinking of what he had to do—of the future that lay before him. It was by no means a bright picture. It meant hard and disagreeable work, and for 'home,' the bare room at the top of a high house in a dirty street in Westminster, where he and his mother, and the "little 'uns" "had" lived, and "would" live till the end of the chapter, as Davie supposed. True, it had not been so very dreary and uncomfortable once. He remembered that on those days when they could afford to have a fire, it had seemed to him cheerful and cosy enough. But lately he had enjoyed far pleasanter quarters, and he shrank from the bareness of the room, with its two or three dingy pieces of furniture.

But that was wrong, as Davie knew right well, as Mr. Kilmarnock would have told him had he been there. Then he recalled certain passages of the clergyman's letter, for it had been read to him so often that he now almost knew it by heart.

"Remember," Mr. Kilmarnock had said, "that you have resolved henceforth to serve God. You must never go back from that; and don't be afraid of what lies before you. You must expect troubles, but God will help you through them all. Recollect for your comfort, that though He sometimes sends 'as much' as we can bear, yet He never sends 'more' than that. Just go steadily on doing your duty; live for 'others,' not for 'yourself,' and it will make you happy both in this world and the next."

Such thoughts as these did good, and though his heart was still heavy, it was with quite a bright face that Davie stepped out of the train at Westminster. Some marks of the accident yet remained, a slight limp was one of them, and his mother was anxious that they should take a cab from the station to their home. She had more than one reason for her proposal, but that Davie should not be over-fatigued was the chief. He would not hear of it, however, declaring stoutly that he was quite equal to the walk.

"But, mother, this isn't the right way," he said, as she took a turning that was certainly not in the direction of what for a long time had been "home" to him.

"We don't live in Brock Street now, Davie," was her reply. "I've taken a couple of rooms in Ringdon Road."

"In Ringdon Road! But that's quite a nice street. The rent's ever so much higher there, isn't it?"

"Yes, but you see I'm better off now than I have been for years. Lady Cloudesley, she's been that kind that I declare I've often felt quite queer about taking all the things she's sent me. Then better than that, she's given me plenty of needlework, and recommended me to other ladies, and Dr. Scott, he's done the same. I get well paid for it, too. How much do you think I earned last week, Davie?"

"I don't know, mother."

"Thirteen shillings. What do you say to that?"

She was delighted with the look of incredulity with which this piece of information was received. "Ah! Home isn't the same place as it used to be, I can tell you," she went on cheerfully. "That's 'one' reason why I wanted a cab; I thought, perhaps, as how you wouldn't notice the way we went then, and so you wouldn't know anything about the change till we got to Ringdon Road.

"However, I may as well go on and tell you all about it now. We've got a good big room, furnished quite pretty with some things that Lady Cloudesley sent me. It's got a bed in it for the twins and me, but you wouldn't know it in the day-time, for there's a curtain to draw right across, and then you'd take it for a regular sitting room. Then just opposite, so that if you were bad and called out in the night, I could hear you in a minute, there's a nice little room that you're to have for your very own, Davie. It ain't very big, of course, but it holds a bed, and a chair, and a bit of a table. And, as if that wasn't enough, Lady Cloudesley sends a beautiful picture—leastways, 'tisn't a picture exactly, it's a text done in gold and coloured letters, and framed,—

"'He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.'

"Those are the words. Lady Cloudesley said as how she thought they'd be just the sort that you'd like. And there are the twins! They're grown so that I expect you'll hardly know them."

Mrs. Willis stopped for sheer want of breath.

Davie waited till she had recovered it.

"I am sure I shall be able to go to work to-morrow," he said bravely, though his heart sank still lower at the near and by no means enchanting prospect of a day's sweeping in the streets. "I am quite well now, you know, and I can stand for a good long time without feeling tired."

"There, Davie, don't go saying nothing about that," rejoined Mrs. Willis hastily. "You aren't going to work at anything just yet, I can tell you, and then I hope it won't be at the sweeping business. Perhaps you won't mind seeing to the twins a bit, but that's as much as you'll do at present. Time was—" and now from being husky, Mrs. Willis broke down completely, and went on in a voice choked with sobs—"time was when I couldn't help myself, but was obliged to let you go on slaving and starving for me. That's all altered now, I hope. If it's months and months before you get to work again, you needn't fret. Never fear, but I shall be able to earn enough for all."

There was no time for any reply from Davie, for they had now arrived at the house where Mrs. Willis lodged. And there, on the door-step, standing hand-in-hand and anxiously awaiting their arrival, were the twins.

As their mother had said, they were very much grown. They were wonderfully improved too, in looks, being quite fat and rosy now. And then they could walk quite quickly, whereas when Davie saw them last, Polly could only stand with the help of a chair, while Tom went from place to place on all fours.

But when Davie, led by the twins, entered the room of which his mother had been telling him, he could scarcely believe his eyes. It more than answered the description. It had two windows, and was most comfortably furnished, even to a square of carpet in the middle of the floor beneath the little centre table. This same little table was just now groaning beneath the weight of a feast that was tempting to behold, as was evidently the opinion of the twins, for no sooner had they reached the door than they left their long absent and sorely-missed brother, and rushing towards the more fascinating goodies, clambered on their chairs with simultaneous shouts of—

"Can din now, moder, can din now Dadie's tome."

They were good children, however, for when they found that their patience was to suffer a yet further trial, they submitted quietly, and sat sucking their thumbs with a relish that doubtless owed much to the anticipated richness of the plum-cake, the centre of attraction to their longing eyes and watering mouths.

"Now, Davie, just you look here."

He followed his mother across the passage and into another room—a very tiny one this time.

"Why, it's 'beautiful!' You don't mean to say it's for 'me' to sleep in!"

"Yes, Davie, it's your very own. You're going to have it all to yourself, dear, and if you feel bad from the children's noise, you can just come in here and be quiet a bit. You don't know what a pleasure it's been, to get it all nice and comfortable for you, against you come back."

Davie tried to speak but he couldn't, and his mother, seeing how matters were, and knowing his thoughts, perhaps, almost as well as he did himself, put her arms around him, and folded him in a close and warm embrace. At that, the tears that he had been struggling to keep back, burst forth, and for a few minutes he sobbed upon his mother's breast as though his heart would break.

"Oh! Mother, I've had such bad thoughts. I didn't want to come home, and now it's all so nice and so comfortable. I don't deserve it—I don't deserve it."

She soothed and comforted him, calling him her "own Davie," her "best of boys," and many other loving names.

Then, his tears having ceased, they went back to the other room. It was quite a merry tea-drinking. The twins were brimming over with happiness—as they were with plum-cake, before the meal came to an end—and said such queer things that Davie had no sooner finished laughing at one than he went off into a fresh peal at another. Smiles and tears kept close company with him that night, but after all, there were more of the former than of the latter, and Davie felt strangely happy when his mother came to tuck him up in his little bed in his tiny room.

Left alone, his thoughts turned into a more serious channel. How good, how "very" good, God had been to him! He would never be fearful again; he would trust Him for the future. And had he not cause? Out of what had seemed at first nothing but a terrible misfortune had come the greatest blessings both to him and his mother. How could he "prove" his gratitude and love? He knew well enough, though passively by faith yet actively by "service."

Looking up at that moment, he saw the illuminated text on the wall at the foot of his bed; a moonbeam fell upon it, and by its light he was able to read the words:

"He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much."

They seemed wonderfully applicable to his case, and somehow they reminded him of the "other" text he loved so dearly. With the words of that upon his lips, Davie fell asleep.

CHAPTER IX.

GOOD-BYE TO LONDON.

THE next morning, Davie again pleaded to be allowed to go forth with broom in hand to his old quarters in Harley Street. His mother, however, would not hear of it, nor would she allow the subject to drop till she had received a promise from him that he would take a whole week's holiday before attempting to do anything.

"By the end of that time, Davie," she said with a peculiar smile, "who knows but what something may have turned up for you?"

The week was not over when Lady Cloudesley came. Doubtless Mrs. Willis had her reasons for hinting at the chance of "something turning up" for Davie, for the lady had not been seated many minutes before, turning to him, she said,—

"Davie, I have a proposal to make to you."

He had not the least idea what she meant, but he answered readily,—

"Yes, my lady."

"I have been talking about you to a friend of mine—the Vicar of St. Mary's in Foster Street. I have been telling him how nicely you can sing, and he says he shall be glad to have you in his choir. You would like to go, wouldn't you?"

"What, go and sing on a Sunday in the church, do you mean?"

"Yes, and on other days too, when there are services. Of course you will get paid. You are to have five shillings a week."

Five shillings a week, and all for doing what would be the greatest pleasure to him! Davie's eyes sparkled.

"And then your voice will be properly trained," went on Lady Cloudesley, "and you will be taught to sing by note. In time, I shouldn't wonder if you became quite a great singer, and able to earn ever so much money."

That was rather too much to believe, but it was not surprising that Davie's face was radiant with delight. Lady Cloudesley's words had taken a great weight from his mind. He had feared, though he had not said a word to his mother, that his limping gait would be a serious drawback in the sweeping business. Now, if he could earn five shillings a week regularly, there need be no thought of going back to street work. But Lady Cloudesley was speaking again, and if he would hear what she was saying, he must put other matters aside.

"I have made one other arrangement for you," she said. "I did it without consulting your mother, but I feel sure she will not object; indeed, I think she will be very glad that you should do what I propose. I have arranged that you should attend the St. Mary's Schools. There you will learn so many things that I cannot even tell you what they will be. You will like that too, won't you, Davie?"

He said "yes," but there was no quick response, and no sudden light of joy flashed into his eyes as it had done when he had heard that he was to become a chorister. Recollections of certain wearisome days of long ago took away all charm from the prospect of a return to school routine, and he had so long enjoyed the freedom of the streets that he disliked the idea of any kind of enforced restraint. Nevertheless, he felt very grateful to Lady Cloudesley for taking so much trouble on his account. He remembered, too, that he was lame now, not to any great degree certainly, but enough to take away the "keen" pleasure that he had once experienced in active employment.

"I hoped you would like it 'very' much, Davie."

"I daresay I shall after a bit, my lady," he replied, "and thank you for getting me into the school, but just at first it's a bit startling to think of."

Lady Cloudesley smiled. She understood quite well all that he had left unsaid, and liked her little protégé the better for his honesty.

From that time a new life began for Davie, a wonderful life, and such a happy life that looking back upon the "last year," he quite pitied the poor little Davie Scott he had then been. Instead of something very much like a prison, as Davie had foolishly imagined the school would be, it proved a delightful place. Very soon he could read quite fluently, and that step gained, learning was no longer a task but a pleasure. Of course with his heart in his work, he made rapid progress, and the faith Mrs. Willis had always had in Davie's intellectual powers, "if only he had the chance," proved to be of good foundation.

As soon as he could write in a manner which he considered "well enough," he sent a long letter to Mr. Kilmarnock.

If his week-days were pleasant to him, his Sundays were still more so. Then to sit in the chancel, and join in psalm, and hymn, and anthem, was to Davie a delight indescribable. It was not in his nature to do anything by halves, but when it came to "singing," every effort was strained to produce a good and finished result. And it was for "the service and glory of God"—in that to Davie lay the greatest joy of all.

Many a bright bit of pleasure, too, broke the regular daily work of the boy's life. On two different occasions he spent a whole day in the country. The beautiful things he saw there served for talk for many an evening afterwards.

Then, at intervals of three or four weeks, he would pay Dr. Scott a visit. He was sure to be welcomed with a smile and a hearty hand-shake, and there were always kind inquiries as to what he was doing, and how he was getting on. The boy would go away feeling all the happier for the encouraging, "Bravo, King Davie!" which never failed to greet the announcement of his last achievement at school or in the choir.

******

It was just about a year after Davie's accident that one morning Mrs. Willis received a letter. As he was now the better scholar of the two, it was passed over to him to read. He recognised the handwriting in a moment.

"Oh mother!" he cried. "It's from Mr. Kilmarnock. I am 'so' glad. I was beginning to think that he'd forgotten his promise to write again some day."

There was pride mixed with the pleasure with which he unfolded that letter. Before, when he had received one, he had been obliged to have it read to him, now he could make it out for himself, and, thanks to the care with which it had been written, it was so legible and clear that he did it without difficulty. The nature of its contents was startling in the extreme.

Mr. Kilmarnock wrote to ask Mrs. Willis whether it would be pleasant to her to remove into the country? If so, he could offer Davie a post as chorister in W— Cathedral.

"I shall for the future," said the writer, "reside at W— during certain months of the year, and as I take a great interest in your son, it will be a satisfaction to me to be able to see him frequently. I think, too, that country air will be better for his health. As regards yourself, my recommendation would keep you well supplied with plain needlework, and as Davie would receive a larger sum at W— for his services than he does in London, you would, at any rate, be no worse off than you are now. Talk it over with your son, and let me know your decision."

There were a few more sentences, but Davie did not stop to read them.

"Oh, mother, shall we go?" he cried.

"I don't know, Davie," she said. "It's all come so sudden that I can't seem to get my thoughts together. 'You'd' like it, wouldn't you?"

"Oh! I should. Just think what it must be to 'live' in the country. Then there would be Mr. Kilmarnock! Fancy seeing him as often as I see Mr. Crawford."

Mr. Crawford was the vicar of St. Mary's.

"It seems to me that you care more for Mr. Kilmarnock than for anybody," said Mrs. Willis in a tone that betrayed jealousy, though she did not intend that it should.

Davie looked up.

"No, mother, I love you better than anybody in the whole world, but I can't help loving Mr. Kilmarnock too. Even now I can't think of him a-coming all that long way to see me in the hospital without feeling choky-like. And then to sit as he did a whole night long with me on his lap, and never moving an inch for fear of waking or hurting me. I don't think there's many would have done that for a poor little chap like me, as everybody thought was a-dying. And there's other things besides that, mother."

"I know, Davie. I don't mind, and if you like we'll say no more about it, but pack up and start off at once."

Of course the question was not settled in quite such a hurry as that, but the early spring found Mrs. Willis's lodgings empty, and she, and Davie, and the twins comfortably settled at W— in a cottage not far from the Cathedral.

Perhaps Mrs. Willis went all the more willingly because Lady Cloudesley told her that she usually spent the summer months at W—, and that when next there she would not fail to use her influence to get her work.

But after all, London had not been left without regret. Saying good-bye to St. Mary's and the school, Davie declared to be "horrid work," and when it came to bidding Dr. Scott farewell, he half wished that they had never decided to go away.

But once at W—, Davie no longer regretted that they had come. His joy at seeing Mr. Kilmarnock was unbounded. The clergyman was greatly concerned to see him so lame, but he did not doubt that fresh air and country diet would soon effect an improvement. And good medicines they proved.

When Mrs. Willis perceived how well he was beginning to look, how the old limp was gradually leaving him, and how light-hearted and merry he always was now, she too felt glad that they had exchanged the city for a country life.

And when a year or two had passed, she could not imagine how she could have been so foolish as "ever to have minded" giving up her lodgings in the close, dirty street in London, for the pretty ivy-covered cottage that was her pride to keep the picture of order and cleanliness.

So "all things worked together for good" to Mrs. Willis and her children. The twins grew apace, and Davie was so happy that his life seemed one never-ending joy. The new school was as delightful as the old, and oh! how great a happiness and honour it was to him to contribute his part towards that glorious music in the beautiful old cathedral.

Fresh, and clear, and sweet, rang out the young voice of the chorister, and by the tone of deep feeling with which the words of prayer and praise were sung, it was evident that Davie uttered them with his heart as well as his lips.

Nor did he forget to whom his happiness was owing. "God has been so good to me. If only I could love Him more, if only I could serve Him more!" was often his inward cry. Then he would remember one of the lessons that the lark had taught him. "What" it could do, it did with all its strength. It took wing, and getting as near to its Maker as it could, simply warbled forth its burst of joy and praise.

So in his home, in his work, and in his heart, Davie strove to render "kingly" service—to be "faithful in the least." And though, of course, he often fell short of his desires, yet it was but to persevere the more earnestly in his onward and upward journey.

His mother, noting him, began to think "that after all there must be something in religion." So curiosity first led her to search into the matter, and that led to something deeper—to a trust in Christ as her Saviour.

Once when Mr. Kilmarnock paid her a visit—a rare event, for it was seldom he had a spare half-hour—she told him about it, and how Davie—though he had never known it—had been the means, under God, of leading her to the knowledge of "Christ and Him crucified."

On his way to his home, it so happened that the clergyman met Davie returning from school. Doubtless it was the recollection of that conversation with his mother which caused Mr. Kilmarnock's eyes to rest upon him with even more affection than usual, and to say at parting—and what memories the words awoke in the boy's mind!

"Good-bye, King Davie. Remember that is a name which need not end with this life. God grant that you may be worthy of it."

The End.

Jarrold and Sons, Printers, London Street, Norwich.

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Table of Contents

- LITTLE KING DAVIE

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE