Grateful Peter's new year's gift
Date: 2026-03-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Orphans -- Juvenile fiction; Kindness -- Juvenile fiction; Poverty -- Juvenile fiction; Charity -- Juvenile fiction; Almshouses -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Grateful Peter's new year's gift

Author: Ruth Lamb

Release date: March 4, 2026 [eBook #78109]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1888

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78109

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRATEFUL PETER'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT ***

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

"REMEMBER THIS IS GOD'S DAY."

Little Dot Series.

——————————————

GRATEFUL PETER'S

NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

BY

RUTH LAMB

AUTHOR OF "COMFORTABLE MRS. CROOK," ETC.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY:

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164, PICCADILLY.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. AN UNEXPECTED PRESENT

II. RUN OVER

III. GLAD TIDINGS

IV. NEW HOMES

GRATEFUL PETER'S

NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

CHAPTER I.

An Unexpected Present.

ON the last evening of the year, the snow was falling heavily, and the same shrill wind that howled and whistled through the keyholes and roared in the chimneys was whirling the white flakes round the heads of the few people to be found in the streets.

What a night it was! That piercing wind laid hold of all the passengers. Some it drove onwards, nearly lifting them off their feet; others it forced backwards, making them fight for every inch of the way through the snow which it flung in their faces.

Umbrellas were of no use that night. Those who tried to use the frail shelters of silk or alpaca saw them turned into playthings by that unruly pitiless wind. Glad were they to furl them tightly again, though in many cases they only managed to carry home a battered bundle of broken ribs and silk. Nobody that could help it would be out of doors at all.

"I wish I weren't forced to be out," thought a little fellow called Peter Grant, as, tired with battling against the wind, he leaned against some railings to regain breath. "And it's little use stopping out. I've only taken three coppers to-night. Who'd stay to buy baked taters in this snow and wind? I've shouted myself hoarse, and nobody stops to listen. If plenty of folks were out, the wind wouldn't let them hear me."

Peter Grant was twelve years old, and a baked-potato merchant. He had a home—if that poor cellar in Number Three Court, Back Potter Street, could be called one—and he possessed what all great and rich people do not—a true friend. While Peter is leaning against the railings, I will tell you his story, so far as he can remember it.

Peter Grant was only a trotting thing of four years old when he lost his father, and from the neat little home they had been accustomed to, he and his mother were obliged to remove to one room in the court I have mentioned. Peter's mother went out washing and working; but a day came when she returned earlier than usual because she was too ill to finish her work.

Old Sally Graham, who lived in the cellar, used to take care of Peter during his mother's absence. She loved the little fellow dearly, and was Mrs. Grant's faithful nurse until, after a fortnight's illness, Peter was left motherless too. There was a talk of taking Peter to the workhouse, but his tears and Old Sally's pleadings induced the parish officers to give her a little weekly sum. So he stayed on with the only friend who loved him and could talk to him of his mother.

Perhaps it would have been better for Peter if he had been taken to the workhouse. There he would have had good plain schooling, and have been put to some regular trade. As it was, he grew up very ignorant.

Being a sharp lad, and eager to learn, he had somehow got to read pretty well, partly taught by other lads, partly by old Sally. He knew just so much of figures as a boy who sells small articles in the streets and goes on errands must obtain by every-day practice. Sally was too ignorant to teach Peter more than this.

As to God, religion, the Bible, church, or Sunday-school, neither she nor the boy ever looked on these things as concerning them at all. To be sure, Peter heard the bells calling people to the house of God on Sundays. And sometimes, when tempted out of Number Three Court into the wider streets, where on other days, he cried "Baked taters," he could see well-dressed folk going into the churches and chapels. But he only looked wonderingly at their nice clothes, and never thought of taking part himself.

Sunday! What was Sunday to Peter? I'll tell you, children. It was the day on which Peter had a clean shirt, and on which he often went without a jacket while Sally mended it, and he played at marbles out in the court with other lads. Sunday! Well, there was a little difference between it and other days. They had a bit of warm meat for dinner when they could, and Peter did not go out selling.

At one time, Peter plied his trade on Sundays the same as on other days. But on a particular Sunday evening in early autumn, as he was shouting to the passers-by to purchase "rosy apples three a penny," a gentleman said something to him which stopped his Sunday trading. Peter always remembered that gentleman's face. It was kind, though grave, and his hair was white, but his eyes were bright and his cheeks ruddy. Peter had pushed his hand full of apples in front of the gentleman, and, in his bold way, asked him to buy.

"No, my boy; I do not buy, and you should not sell, on Sundays," was the answer. "Do you not know this is God's day?"

Peter stared open-mouthed, and the gentleman went on speaking. "I was once a poor boy, and I believe I should be a poor man now if I had not been content to work on six days, and give the seventh part of my time to God. You have a ragged jacket. Do you expect to buy a good coat out of money earned on Sundays?"

Peter looked ruefully at his ragged jacket as the gentleman named it. He had been long vainly trying for a new one.

"I didn't know, sir," he stammered out; "I'm an honest lad, sir. I work hard for my living, and other lads and men too work o' Sundays as well as me."

"Did you not know it was wrong to sell and tempt people to buy on Sundays? If other people do wrong that does not make you right. You may be honest to your fellow-creatures, but you are robbing God of the day that belongs to Him. Do you go to school?"

"Can't afford it, sir."

"What is your father?"

"Haven't got one, sir; nor mother neither. I live with old Sally Graham, and she's a very good friend, sir. She always says I must never steal nor tell lies, nor do anything to get took up by the police."

This was about the sum of Sally's moral teachings.

Poor Sally! She could not tell him of the loving Father in heaven, who has said He is "a Father of the fatherless." Neither had Peter ever heard of that dear Saviour who held out His tender arms for the children whom Jewish mothers brought to seek His blessing. Sally could not repeat the sweet invitation, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not," or tell him that he too might go to the same dear Saviour, and be sure of a welcome.

The gentleman seemed to understand Peter's position from these answers of his. He was one who had been raised from poverty to a high and honourable position, and he delighted to help others.

So he thought, "I will do something for this lad. Poor, ignorant, fatherless, motherless, living without hope and without God in the world, where could I find a better object to work on?"

Turning to Peter, he said, "Where do you live, my boy?"

"At Number Three Court, Back Potter Street—end house, sir, right-hand side."

"And what is your name?"

"Peter Grant; and I live with Sally Graham."

The white-haired gentleman wrote down Peter's name and address on a slip of paper, which he put into his purse for safety, and then said, "Do you think you would make sixpence more by selling apples to-night?"

"Oh dear no, sir; maybe twopence or threepence at most."

"Then take this sixpence. Go home, and try to remember this is God's day."

"Yes, sir," said Peter.

"I shall keep this paper, and you will most likely see me again."

"Thank you, sir," said Peter, and he touched his cap as the gentleman, with a kind good-night, turned away.

Peter at once started homeward, resolved that this unexpected windfall should buy an extra good cup of tea and a quarter of lump sugar for old Sally.

Poor and ignorant as Peter was, he was a truly loving grateful lad. He was not able to do much in return for his friend's kindness, but he did what he could.

Is it so with you, dear child-readers? Are you grateful to the parents who load you with so many marks of tenderness? Do you give them ready, joyful obedience, or deny yourselves for their sakes? And when you keep Christmas, feasting on good things, or delighting in your pretty gifts, while you watch the blazing lights on the Christmas-tree, decked by loving hands, what is your chief thought? Do you think of the gifts, or the Chief Giver? Of the pretty presents, or of Him who gave His dear Son that you, believing in Him, might have pardon and life?

Old Sally was standing at the end of the court when Peter returned home.

"You're home soon, Peter; are you sold out?" she asked.

"No; but a gentleman gave me sixpence, and said I mustn't sell on Sundays. And he wrote my name on a paper, and said I should see him again."

Sally asked many questions, considering that a person who bestowed sixpence without being asked for it, and held out hopes of future favours, was worth inquiring about. Peter told her all that had passed, described his appearance, from his gold-rimmed spectacles down to his quick firm step, and finished by saying, "He told me he was once a poor boy, too."

"That made the gentleman give you sixpence. When folks have known what it is to work for their money, they think about others; they know how hard it is to make ends meet if they keep honest."

"He had the sort of face you say it does you good to look at; and I should like to see him again," said Peter.

"I hope you will, then. But oh, dear me! Gentlefolks often promise things and forget all about 'em. I daresay they mean to keep them, but other things come in the way, and they forget."

"But this gentleman did not look as if he would."

"Maybe not. To my mind, they're much of a muchness, as the saying is. I never saw one I could altogether trust to."

(No, Sally; because the eyes of your understanding have not yet been opened to see Him whose "word is truth," and who, having promised, is ever faithful to perform.)

Peter gave Sally all the money he had taken, but kept back the sixpence. Though short of many things, she did not ask for it, but hoped he would save it towards the price of a new jacket. But he only thought of her comfort. He would have gone then to buy the tea and sugar, but he remembered that if it were not right for him to sell apples on Sunday, neither was it for others to sell tea and sugar.

It was hard work to keep the sixpence, when he saw how few grains of tea were left in the wide-necked bottle which did duty as a caddy. But he did keep it.

On Monday morning, he bought with it an ounce of tea, a quarter of sugar, and a bloater. He had the happiness of seeing his old friend enjoy her breakfast, though she exclaimed, "Eh, Peter, you'll never get a jacket if you spend all your money for me."

The boy ran off to his business, very happy at the thought of Sally's good breakfast. Many times he wondered if the white-haired gentleman would find Back Potter Street; it was such an out-of-the-way place. And then the question, "Will he try?" suggested itself.

He pictured again the kind face, answered the question, "Yes, I'm sure he will," then made extra haste to be home early.

He reached home out of breath, and gasped out, "Has the gentleman been?"

"No, Peter," answered Sally; "and if I was you, I wouldn't think too much about him. If he comes, it will be all right; and if doesn't, you will be less disappointed."

So many a day passed, and no gentleman came. Peter's heart sank within him when days grew into months.

And old Sally said, "I told you how it would be, Peter; there's no trusting to anybody's promises."

Peter sadly confessed that Sally was right, adding, "If that gentleman could go and say a thing just to disappoint a poor lad, I wouldn't trust anybody."

Still, the gentleman's words influenced Peter almost without his knowing it. He did not go to church or school, but, on the other hand, he neither bought nor sold on Sundays. It was not so much the words about God and the Sabbath that lingered in his mind. But he did remember the question, "Do you ever expect to earn a good coat with what you get by selling on Sundays?"

Of respect for God's day Peter knew nothing. But the ever-present need of a new jacket in place of his ragged one made every word relating to it of great importance. Somehow he felt that if he were to work on Sundays, he should have no luck. On the other hand, he looked for the new jacket as a reward which he deserved for giving up his Sunday business.

He was confirmed in the belief when his own and old Sally's combined savings did amount to enough for the purchase of a warm suit of second-hand clothes. In these garments, he was clothed on that cold December night—the last of the year—when we left him standing against the railings, amid the falling snow and piercing wind.

We must go back to him now. It is well he does not really stand there expecting us, is it not, dear children? Or he would be weary with remaining so long in the cold.

CHAPTER II.

Run Over.

THROUGH snow and wind, various sounds reached Peter's ears that New Year's Eve. He was not far from a large church—and oh, how merrily the bells were ringing! He knew what they were pealing so joyously for, and he meant to sit up and let in the new year to their poor cellar in Number Three Court, Back Potter Street.

Peter had been very anxious to do business that night, for he had been saving a penny at a time to buy old Sally a woollen comforter as a new year's gift. It was nearly paid for at the little shop where they dealt, and he meant it for a grand surprise.

As he turned over his few coppers, he rejoiced that he had enough for that; and he knew the morrow's wants were supplied already. But Peter heard other sounds between the pealing of the church bells. There was a children's party inside the house, and, as he stood leaning against the railings, their merry voices came ringing in his ears.

The little potato merchant felt inclined to envy the happy youngsters as he heard their pattering feet rushing from dining-room to hall and back again. The happy children meanwhile cared nothing for piercing cold or fast-falling snow outside. How should they? The fire was blazing cheerfully for them, kind friends had prepared a feast to gratify their childish appetites, and were even now adding to the sport by joining in it.

Papa, hot and panting, is playing the "blind man," and is dragged about by the arms, the coat-tails—anything, in fact, that can be laid hold of—while perhaps one tiny thing, contrary to all the rules of the game, is pushing herself in front of him, and shouting,—

"Please, catch me!"

Mamma, just as useful, plays tunes that set the little feet drumming on the floor, or does "Magic music" better than anybody else. And all the while, her motherly eye is on the alert to watch against accident to any of the young guests. All these knew nothing, or thought nothing of other little ones, just as able to enjoy these pleasures as themselves, but shut out by poverty from them all.

Of course, nobody could have guessed that little Peter Grant was leaning against the railings outside, shivering, in spite of his improved clothing, and very down-hearted because the storm was interfering with his trade, and he should carry home an unsold stock and very little money.

The boy lingered longer than he intended. In spite of himself, he was fascinated by those merry voices, which raised a longing in his mind to form one amongst such a company. But at length there came a lull, and he could hear nothing. The truth was, the youngsters were all sitting down to table to enjoy the nice things provided for them, though Peter could not see them through the closed shutters. Only a line of ruddy light strewing through a narrow chink hinted at the warmth and brightness within.

If Peter had waited a little longer, he would have heard the voices again, louder than ever, when the blazing dish of "snap-dragon" came in, and the crackers began to explode. And, later still, he would have heard the young voices rise in a simple hymn of praise to Him who had brought them all in peace and safety to the threshold of the new year.

But Peter did not stay long enough for these things. Slowly, for he had to face the wind, the boy started on his way to Back Potter Street. He had hard work to keep his footing, and at the crossings it was far worse. He made a rush to pass one of these, holding his basket tightly on one arm, and clutching his cap with the other hand.

Poor lad! His was unlucky haste. He felt a sudden shock, a blow that knocked him down, and sent his basket with its contents flying in all directions. Then he knew no more. He lay still and senseless on the ground, while the blood, streaming from a cut on his forehead, tinged the newly-fallen snow. Knocked down and run over! That was Peter's case. In his haste to cross the street, he had not noticed a rapidly advancing cab; and now he was lying with a cut face, a large bump at the back of his head, and a broken leg.

Now, I know as well as possible that all the children who read this story will be very sorry for Peter. They will think how very miserable it must be to have such hurts to end the old year and begin the new one with. Well, these things are not very pleasant. But cheer up, little friend readers. I will give you a peep into Peter's future—only a peep. You must wait and read the story through for particulars.

This accident, sad and painful as it may seem, is to be the beginning of a new and a brighter and better life for the orphan boy. It will bring him friends, and be the means, by God's blessing, of leading him to that best of all friends, the One that "sticketh closer than a brother."

Peter did not lie long upon the cold white snow. The gentleman who was the only passenger in the cab jumped out instantly, and bent over the injured boy. He was the father of a little girl, one of that merry party in the next street, to whose voices Peter had listened as he leaned against the railings. He was on his way to fetch home the child.

"Poor boy!" said he, as he leaned over Peter. "He is quite senseless. We must take him to the hospital without losing a moment. I was going to fetch home my little girl, but she must wait."

As tenderly and carefully as possible, the injured lad was conveyed to a neighbouring hospital. There he was soon restored to consciousness—a knowledge of pain present, and more to be endured in binding up his hurts and setting his broken limb.

It was over at last, and medicine given to soothe the boy to rest. But amongst all his pain, the lad thought of his old friend in the poor cellar and of the anxiety she would feel as she watched and waited for him.

The nurse saw that Peter was troubled and restless, and kindly asked if she could make him more comfortable.

"No, thank you, ma'am," said Peter. "I am troubled about old Sally that I live with; she'll be sitting up, not knowing what's got me."

"It is too late to send now. The gentleman that brought you here would have told your friends, only you did not come to yourself soon enough. Sally shall be told in the morning, and shall come to see you, too?"

"But she'll be in trouble about me all night."

There was no help for it. It was now just past midnight, and soon the pealing bells that had rung the old year out and the new year in would cease their pleasant clamour. Peter must content himself as well as he could. But when he at last sank to sleep, there were tears on his pale cheeks, caused not by his own bodily suffering, but by the thought of his old friend's lonely watchings, and of the fears she would have for his sake.

Children, when you lay your heads on soft pillows in comfortable rooms, are your thoughts ever turned in real gratitude towards the Heavenly Father whose kind hand bestows every blessing?

It would be of no use for us to read the story of what this poor boy did and felt, unless we were to learn something from his example. He thought of the poor earthly friend who loved him, and was grieved at the thought of grieving her, even though he was not to blame for what caused her anxiety. Do you, dear children, ere you sleep, think whether your actions will please your Heavenly Friend? Are your eyes ever moist with tears, shed because you have been ungrateful to Him who has done all for you?

When Peter awoke on the morning of the new year, he scarcely understood where he was, or how he had come into this strange place. He saw that he was lying in a very clean bed, in a long room where there were other beds, each with its pale-faced tenant.

He tried to move, and became aware that his leg was held stiff and straight in wooden splints. There was pain in it too, and his head ached and throbbed. By degrees, Peter recollected what had happened the night before, and then thought of his old friend waiting and watching in vain.

It was a relief when the boy saw the kind face of the nurse who came to bring him some tea. He drank eagerly, but did not feel well enough to eat anything. The nurse bathed his face and made him as comfortable as possible, but she noticed the tears trickling down her young patient's cheeks.

"Does your leg hurt you much?" she asked.

"It hurts me, but I don't care so much about that. I was thinking about old Sally, and wondering how I could sleep when she was watching for me."

"It is very well you did sleep, poor boy," said the nurse.

She was a tender-hearted woman, and the sight of so much suffering had not hardened her, as custom does some people. She thought about a boy of her own far away at sea, and in her motherly fashion, she bent down and kissed poor Peter's cheek, saying, "Happy New Year to you; here's wishing you may soon be running about again."

How astonished she was when Peter broke out into a violent fit of sobbing.

"What is the matter?" she said in alarm.

"Have I hurt you? Don't cry, or you will be worse, and what will Dr. Turner say when he comes? It is his morning, and he'll be here in half-an-hour—now, don't fret, there's a good boy."

It seemed as though every kind word made matters worse, and the nurse became alarmed at Peter's continued sobbing. She was on the point of leaving him to seek some remedy, when he said, "Please, don't, go—you didn't hurt me. Only nobody ever kisses me, and—and I was glad."

"Bless the dear lad!" said the nurse. "Is that it? Well, I couldn't have believed. Then while you are my little patient, I shall kiss you, and you'll get used to it."

The nurse had now to leave Peter to look after other hurt and helpless people in the same room.

And, in the meanwhile, Peter tried very hard to give up sobbing. He had just succeeded when the nurse returned, bringing with her a gentleman to the boy's bedside.

"Well, my boy," said the gentleman, "how do you feel this morning? I have been kept awake by thinking about you. You will not remember me; but you were unfortunately knocked down by the cab in which I was going to fetch my little daughter home from a party."

"Was it in Kay Street, sir?" asked Peter.

The gentleman smiled at the question, and replied, "Yes."

"I'd been listening to them outside for ever so long. They were jolly," said Peter, recalling to mind the merry sounds that had so fascinated him.

"They were indeed, until I went in and told them of the poor boy who had got hurt and been taken to this place. It seems you had been feeling with them in their mirth, and then they felt for you in your pain and trouble. My little girl is in a cab outside now, and when you are well enough, I will bring her to see you. Now what can I do for you?"

"Please, sir, go and tell old Sally Graham where I am, and ask for her to come and see me. And, sir, if you would—"

"Would what? I will do anything I can for your comfort, either of mind or body."

"Well then, sir, will you please go to Robinson's shop, corner of Potter Street—it's on your way to our place—and ask them to let you have a woollen comforter that Peter Grant has been paying for. There's threepence in my trousers pocket that 'll make up all the money. I meant to give it Sally for a new year's gift, and I should so like to have it here ready when she comes to see me."

"Never mind the threepence!" said the gentleman. "I can put the rest to what has been paid."

"Please, sir, that wouldn't be me giving it."

So the nurse was appealed to, the coppers were taken from Peter's pocket, and the gentleman started on his errand, much struck with the unselfish spirit of the boy.

He found "Robinson's" easily enough, obtained the comforter, and by the guidance of the shopkeeper was soon at the entrance of the cellar in Number Three Court, Back Potter Street.

Old Sally Graham was on the look-out. She had not slept, and now with heavy heart and anxious face, she was straining her eyes in the hope of catching a glimpse of her boy coming home. It would be a sorrowful new year for Sally unless she knew that Peter was safe.

All Back Potter Street, and Number Three Court in particular, was in a state of astonishment when a gentleman descended from a cab and entered the latter.

Everybody in the court knew of Peter's absence and Sally's watchings; and when the visitor approached her abode, they somehow connected his coming with the boy's non-arrival. The general opinion was that "Peter had got hisself into trouble," and that the gentleman had something to do with the police.

It was not often that the presence of a visitor in Number Three Court was connected with good news.

"Your name is Graham, I think?" said Sally's visitor.

"Yes, sir; please, is it anything about my lad Peter?"

"Yes, it is. Don't be uneasy. He has had an accident, but he is in good hands, and will, I hope, soon be all right again. He has been very anxious about you, and wants to see you this afternoon."

"Eh, bless him! I am glad it isn't anything as he's done wrong. He's been a good lad to me, but I got afraid when he didn't come home. Where is he hurt, sir? How was it? Where is he? When may I go?" And a host of other questions were poured out so fast that the gentleman had enough to do to answer.

However, he did answer. And before he left Number Three Court, he gave Sally a little sum of money, promising that she should have the same weekly until Peter was able to help her again.

Then Mr. Russell went back to the hospital, and cheered Peter by giving him the comforter, and telling him that old Sally would be there in the afternoon to see her boy and receive her new year's gift.

CHAPTER III.

Glad Tidings.

A LITTLE while after the departure of Mr. Russell, Peter's first visitor, two more gentlemen came towards his bed. The younger of the two was the house-surgeon, who had set his leg the night before, and he heard him call the other gentleman "Dr. Turner."

"Have you any new cases?" asked the latter.

"Two or three. One, a boy of twelve, was knocked down and run over by a cab last evening."

"Much hurt?"

"Left leg broken, forehead cut, and a few bruises. Quite a poor lad—a baked-potato seller, I believe."

"Poor fellow! This is the one, I suppose. Well, my boy, how do you feel yourself this morning? Why, bless me! I declare I must know this lad's face. Look at me, boy. Did you ever see me before?"

"Yes, sir," replied Peter, feebly; for in Dr. Turner, he instantly recognised the gentleman for whose visit to his cellar home he had so long watched and waited in vain.

Yes, there by Peter's bed stood the white-haired ruddy-faced gentleman who gave him the sixpence, and whose words, though little understood, were the means of his giving up selling on Sundays.

"I thought so," said Dr. Turner. "You are the boy whose name and address I wrote down, and I promised that I would call to see you again. This is a nice new year's start for you."

"But you never came to see me, sir," said Peter, going back to his old disappointment, and speaking in a reproachful tone.

"I never did, Peter. You see I remember your Christian name. And what did you think of me for not keeping my promise?"

"I kept looking and looking for you, for I believed you would come. But Sally told me that gentlefolks often promise to do things, and first they put off, and then they forget altogether. So at last, I thought you were just like all the rest."

"Then you really believed I had forgotten all about you, Peter?"

"If I hadn't seen you write down my name, and where we lived, I should have thought you'd forgot them. And if I hadn't seen you put the paper in your purse, and the purse into your pocket, I might ha' fancied you'd lost it. I couldn't think anything but that you didn't care about coming, after all. And I was so disappointed."

"I don't wonder, Peter; yet I was not to blame, after all. What should you say if were to tell you my purse was stolen from me, with the paper in it?"

"Was it really, sir? I'm so glad!"

"Well, Peter, you're a nice fellow to say that—to be glad that I was robbed, and that some person was a thief—on Sunday night too."

The lad looked distressed, and his pale face became a bright crimson. "I didn't mean that, sir. I'm sorry you lost your purse; but I'm glad it wasn't because you forgot all about me that you never came, as you promised to do."

"I understand you, Peter. I did not miss my purse till Monday morning; and then, though I tried hard, I could not recollect your name or the place where you lived."

"You have come to see me, after all," said Peter, with a wan smile at his little attempt at a joke.

"Yes; and I want to help you to get better, which I shall not do if I talk. Beside, I have ever so many more patients to see; for doctors don't get a holiday even on New Year's Day. But, Peter, it is a blessed thing if, by giving up a little of our own ease, we can give comfort and rest to the suffering. I shall see you again to-morrow, and never fear but you'll do finely; only you must keep quiet."

"Sally's to come and see me, sir," put in Peter.

"It would be better not. Well, never mind—don't fret—she shall come, if it will make you happier."

Dr. Turner took Sally's address again, and put it in his waistcoat pocket. "Not in the purse this time, Peter; though, if I were to lose it, I should be able to find 'you' for a few days to come."

"Yes, sir," replied Peter, fully appreciating a bit of fun, though at his own expense, as he lay there helpless; "I shan't run away yet." Then he added, "I never sold anything on Sundays after that night you talked to me."

"That's a step on the right road, my lad. And now, as you lie there, don't be sad. Listen to those bells that are chiming so sweetly. They are telling the tale of the new year.

"And the sun is peeping in, and casting a bright streak upon your quilt, Peter; and I believe—I really do—that you will have a happy new year, though you have begun it here on your back, and are likely to stay there for the present."

Away went the doctor, and carried with him kind words as well as skill to other bedsides, and Peter lay contented, happy, hopeful, in spite of his hurts. Then the motherly nurse brought his medicine, and told him he looked so bright that he was like another lad; and the pleasant chime of bells, wafted on the wind, came with their music to his ears, and at last lulled him to rest again.

While Peter was sleeping, Mr. Russell paid a second visit, and left the parcel containing the "comforter," ready for Peter to present. He also brought nice fresh grapes for the lad, and there they were like a perfect picture when, hours after, he awoke.

In the meanwhile, too, Sally Graham had spent an unusually long time in "tidying herself" for the afternoon visit to the hospital, and had informed the inhabitants of Back Potter Street, and Number Three Court in particular, of all that had befallen "her lad," as she called Peter.

The neighbourhood was astonished for the second time that day by the presence of a second gentleman, who came in a real carriage of his own—not a cab—and called on Sally Graham. This was Dr. Turner, who in a few words told the old woman about his first meeting with Peter, the reason he had failed in his promise, and all that has already been related.

By dint of half soothing, half scolding, he made the old woman dry all her tears; and then, finding how clean and neat she had made herself, in spite of poor clothing, the doctor said, "I may as well save your legs a long walk. You are not quite so young as you once were, any more than I am, so you shall ride along with me. I have to make another call at the hospital."

Sally was almost overwhelmed at the thought of going in the doctor's own carriage.

And after it had disappeared from view, the inhabitants of Back Potter Street and its courts did little else but talk about what had happened and what else was likely to follow. Everybody prophesied all sorts of good luck to Peter and Old Sally, now gentlefolks had begun to take notice of them. They quite overlooked the fact that Peter was lying with a broken leg, and would be able to do nothing towards earning bread, for some time to come. They settled it quite comfortably that the gentlefolks would make it all right, and that the happiest of new years had just begun for Sally and Peter.

These neighbours did not know that a message was on its way to Peter—a sweet message of love and peace and mercy, which he had never heard, but which has been spoken to you, dear child-readers, many and many a time.

A message? Yes; one meant for the ears of all mankind, for old and young, for rich and poor—the message that angels sang in the astonished ears of the Bethlehem shepherds as they watched their flocks by night, little dreaming that the Shepherd of Israel was so near at hand, in the form of a newborn babe. The "glad tidings" have not yet reached Peter; but they will come, borne on the lips of a little child.

There was a touching meeting between Peter and old Sally, who, however, behaved very well, considering. Sally was terribly afraid that the doctor would not let her come again unless she was very quiet. This made her control her feelings as far as possible, cheering the boy with hopeful words about himself and Mr. Russell's kind help in the way of money "to keep things going at home."

As to the "comforter" of bright scarlet wool, her new year's gift, Sally did not know how to admire it enough. Peter insisted that she should put it on at once, and his face was almost as bright as Sally's smart present when she declared it was "a comforter both by name and natur'."

Then Sally went home again, to shed in secret the tears which she had so bravely restrained while in Peter's presence, and to realise more than ever how very dull was the cellar in Number Three Court without her lad to brighten it.

After two or three days, when Peter's head had somewhat recovered from the effects of its bumps and bruises, Mr. Russell brought his little daughter Alice to see the boy. She was a warm-hearted little thing of nine years old, and thoughtful beyond her age. She had been very carefully and lovingly taught by a good mother, and her great desire was to be of some use in the world. Alice was very anxious to see Peter, of whom her father had told her a great deal, and at last she had leave to come and sit by him for a while.

"I am very sorry you had so much pain," said the little girl. "Are you better now, Peter?"

"My leg often hurts me a good deal, but my head does not ache. Still, you know, it isn't very pleasant to lie here always, when I've been used to run about the day through."

"No, it isn't; but I hope you will get quite strong before very long. Papa says you were standing outside that house in Kay Street Where the party was on New Year's Eve."

"Yes; I stood ever so long. Eh, but you were laughing and making a noise. I wished I was inside."

"I daresay, for it was so cold and windy outside. I don't know how you could stand at all. I should have had a cold and cough, and I don't know what beside, if I had stood there even a little while."

"But then, miss, I'm used to being out in all sorts of weather, and it does not hurt me."

"Papa says you go out selling things; but he has been talking to Dr. Turner about you, and he wants you to learn something better. I do hope you will."

The lad's face brightened, and he said, heartily, "Don't I wish I'd a chance!"

"You will have one, I know. Papa never forgets anything, and he says he'll help you. And see, Peter, here is some cake mamma has sent you, and two oranges. And now shall I read to you?"

"Yes, if you please, miss; and thank your mamma for sending me the things."

"What shall we read about?"

"Just what you like, miss," said Peter, rather amused at the question.

"Well, I've got something here. It is called 'The Old, Old Story.' Perhaps you have read it, though?"

Peter shook his head.

"Then I'll read it first. It's all about Jesus; and, as Christmas is only just over, it will be nice. Had you a merry Christmas, Peter?"

The boy smiled. He could understand how little the child knew of "his" world, so he just answered, "Middling, miss. But please read to me about Jesus. I don't know that story at all, I'm sure."

If ever a face expressed astonishment, that face was Alice Russell's. But, fortunately, she remembered that her papa had told her Peter was very ignorant, with no parents to teach him. So she thought it best just to read the "Old, Old Story," and let it speak for itself.

Very slowly and solemnly the child read the wondrous tale—

"Of Jesus and His glory,
Of Jesus and His love."

Peter listened—how he did listen! And, as the child's clear voice sounded in the long ward, other eyes were turned towards her, sounds ceased, and pale faces were lighted up as the words of that story which "always seems so new" reached their ears.

The little girl's thoughts were, however, absorbed in her story and him for whom specially she was reading. As she finished the tale of man's fall, of God's love for sinners, which made Him give His own dear Son to die as "the remedy for sin," she looked at Peter, while her own eyes were filled with tears.

Her young hearer was as much stirred as herself. As she closed the leaves of her little book, he said, "Miss, I never heard such a story as that before. It isn't true, is it?"

"Oh yes, Peter, it is. Why, it's in the Bible, and everything in the Bible is true. Mamma taught me about it when I was such a little girl; and I thought everybody knew, except the poor heathen in countries a long way off, where the missionaries go. But the next time I come, I'll bring my Bible, and read about it there."

"Will you come again to-morrow, miss? I do so want you to read again, and bring that story too."

"I'll leave it with you, Peter. It is not like a big book. You can read, I know, and the print is large, so you will hold it and read it easily. If papa will let me, and the doctors will not be angry, I will come again to-morrow. Now, good-bye. Papa is beckoning me away."

The child went to her father, who was in conversation with Dr. Turner. In reply to their questions, she told them what she had been reading, and that Peter had not heard of Jesus until she read him "The Old, Old Story."

"He wants me to come again to-morrow," she said. "Papa, you will bring me, will you not? And you will allow me to come in, sir, won't you?"

Dr. Turner smiled, and told the little girl she should come every day, if her papa liked.

"And I am to bring my Bible the next time. Peter has no Bible. Papa, I thought everybody in this country knew about Jesus."

"I wish it were so, my child," replied Mr. Russell. "But here, in Christian England, there are thousands of heathens who know nothing of Christ. Peter Grant has had no loving mother to teach him, and there are many who grow up just as ignorant. My little Alice will be very happy, and begin this year with gladness, if she should be permitted to bring the 'glad tidings of salvation' through Christ to the ears of this poor boy. And we will pray, little one, that God may bless you, and bring home the precious truths to this poor lad's heart by the teaching of His Holy Spirit."

CHAPTER IV.

New Homes.

MR. RUSSELL and Dr. Turner had soon found out how extremely ignorant Peter was. In the neighbourhood of his poor home, the name of God was seldom used except in blasphemy. That name Peter knew, and that was almost all. They were anxious to teach him better things, and now that he was obliged to lie quiet, they wished to sow the precious seed of God's Word, in the hope that it might take root and bring forth fruit to God's glory and Peter's eternal good.

"I believe a child would be the best teacher for Peter," said Dr. Turner. "Let your little girl come and read to him. She is sure to repeat her mother's lessons in the boy's ears, and we can guide her as to what she should read."

Little Alice knew nothing except that she was to be allowed to read to the poor boy in the hospital, but she was delighted to go and ask her mamma for a copy of "The Old, Old Story," first to read to, then leave with Peter. This was readily given to her, as we have seen.

To Peter the little book was a great treasure. He read it again, and the more he read, the more he wondered. He wished for his child visitor's return, and his face flushed with pleasure as he saw her coming softly towards his corner of the ward.

"I've read the story three times over," he said, without waiting for any greetings from Alice.

"And you like it, don't you?"

"Yes, only I don't understand what it means."

"I've brought my Bible, and that will tell you. Doesn't it seem strange to have such a big book to make us understand that little thing? But you see that 'Old, Old Story' is just Bible story turned into verses."

It would take too long to tell the particulars of Alice's lessons to Peter. She was eager to tell, and he to learn. He asked endless questions, and she began by reading first the story of Adam and Eve, and then other portions of Scripture, so that he might learn about Jesus.

How the lad was charmed with the account of the Babe of Bethlehem, cradled in a manger! Then of the Great Physician healing all manner of sickness, and enabling the lame to walk, all in a moment, the blind to see, and the dumb to speak.

He learned that Christmas, with its gaily-decked shops, its ruddy holly-berries and shining mistletoe, its good cheer and kind wishes, had a deeper better meaning. He saw that it was a remembrance of the time when the angels came with their song, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill towards men."

He, lying there helpless, realised as few can do, what joy it would be to hear the Saviour say, "Arise, take up thy bed and walk." And he, who had often known what hunger was, seemed to see the bountiful Giver blessing the loaves and feeding the hungry multitude in the wilderness. He wanted to know what had become of Jesus. Where was now this Saviour?

So, day by day, little by little, Peter heard the whole story, not only of the life, but the death of Christ, and of His being now exalted "a Prince and a Saviour" at the right hand of God. He lay and thought of these wondrous things—so old a story, yet to him so new. And then he said, "Surely He could not die for me. I was not living then."

Then the elders came in to little Alice's aid as teachers, and strove to make plain what she could not. When Peter understood at last that he too had a share in that great Saviour, his heart was filled with grateful gladness and a wish to do something to show his gratitude.

Many read the story without a thought of love to this dear Saviour. But, to the poor lad who now heard it for the first time, it seemed wonderful that anybody could help loving Jesus.

Time sped, and Peter continued to recover steadily. He wondered whether, after all, he should have to go back to Number Three Court, Back Potter Street, and begin his old trade again. He shrank from the thought of it. He had had a glimpse of a new and better life, and he longed to see more. The hospital had been to Peter a precious ark of refuge. He would never think of it as the scene of his pain and suffering, but of healing and peace for soul and body.

Back Potter Street and its courts had dirt and squalor, rough, coarse actions, and impure words as their constant surroundings. And even old Sally, with all her love, had been able to tell him nothing of that love "which passeth knowledge." He wanted to go on learning himself, and that his old friend should become a scholar too. How was this to be brought about?

The day drew near when Peter would be discharged cured. While anxious to work, he was almost afraid to think about going out into his world again. He would have to bid farewell to the motherly nurse who had been so tender and kind; to the doctors, whose skill had been the means of his cure; and, above all, to the child-teacher who had first brought to him the message of the gospel. Why, in leaving the hospital, he would turn his back on the best home he had ever known. Peter's fears and doubts were soon set at rest. His friends had been busy for him, and, after having shown so much kindness, would not now leave him to battle with the world alone.

"So you are to go out to-day, Peter," said Dr. Turner, on the morning fixed for the lad's discharge.

"Yes, sir," answered Peter. "I told Sally about it last time she was here."

"That is all right enough; but we are not going to let you out of our hands altogether yet. We have a nice place belonging to the hospital, a few miles away in the country. It is called a 'Convalescent Home,' and it is for patients to go to, who, like you, are well, but not very strong. You are to go there for three weeks to get up your strength and learn something about flowers and fields and green trees."

Peter could hardly believe his ears. What, go away into the country, where little Alice told him the sky was so blue and the air so fresh, and filled with the smell of flowers and the song of birds!

"By the way," said the doctor, "it will be rather early for flowers, but the air of spring time is sweeter than any. You will come back with checks like roses."

The boy tried to speak his thanks, but broke down in the attempt, and then said something about what old Sally would do without him.

"She has managed so far, Peter, and you may safely trust her to Mr. Russell and me. She is coming to see you before you go to the 'Home.'"

Peter said good-bye to his old friend, and was a little surprised to see her in such good spirits.

What a delightful three weeks was that which followed. All was new, strange, and beautiful. Peter's delight was only equalled by his wonder at the marvellous works of God. Peter saw Dr. Turner two or three times, and that kind friend promised that, at the appointed time, he would take him home. And so he did.

Was it to the poor cellar in Back Potter Street, Number Three Court? No, indeed. The doctor took him to a neat little cottage with just two rooms—one of a long row, and farther out of the town, and there he saw his old friend Sally Graham.

"Eh, my boy!" shrieked the old woman, as she seized his hand, her eyes overflowing with gladness. "See what the doctor and Mr. Russell have got for me; this nice little house, and I'm to have it as long as I live, and a bit of money to keep me in victuals, too. And you 'are' looking red and stout! Who'd have thought such luck would come out of your broken leg on New Year's Eve?"

Who, indeed? But there was more "luck" still, as Sally called it. The two gentlemen had exerted themselves so well that they had gained a place for Peter in an excellent school, where he would be fed, taught, lodged, and clothed almost free of cost.

This arrangement would not allow Peter to live under the same roof with his old friend, and at first she could scarcely bear the idea of parting with him. But the school and the almshouses in which Sally was to find a home belonged to the same institution.

She would see her lad often, and he could spend his weekly half-holiday there. Beside, it would be "a grand thing for the lad;" and this conquered all objections.

What a change it was both for the boy and the old woman! Instead of the racket, the dirt, and the evil habits and language of Back Potter Street, were quiet, order, cleanliness, and decent behaviour. And, instead of jacket-mending by old Sally, and marble-playing in the court for Peter, they both sat on Sunday in the same church, learning more of that old, yet ever new story of "Jesus and His love."

With all Peter's desire to do his best and show his deep gratitude to the kind friends who had been so good to him, he found it very hard at first to obey rules and learn lessons. After the free, uncontrolled street life to which he had been accustomed from infancy, it was a most difficult matter to sit still for any length of time. But Peter fought against inclination, because he knew restraint was for his good; and his friends encouraged him to persevere. Above all, Peter had by this time learned another, and very precious lesson—he had learned to pray; and when the battle was too much for him to fight alone, he sought strength from God.

Peter was, of course, a very backward scholar, and had to sit side by side with boys not much above half his age for a time. But a boy who works and prays is sure to get on, and Peter made fair progress. When three more New Years' Days had passed, there was a consultation between Dr. Turner and Mr. Russell as to what Peter must do to earn his living. No boy could stay in that school after sixteen years of age; and if Peter had not been so very backward to begin with, he must have left earlier still.

"I like the lad," said Dr. Turner; "and I would take him to learn my own profession, but he began his education so late that it would require many years of study beyond the ordinary time to fit him for it."

"Peter is cut out for a tradesman," said Mr. Russell. "His early experience and natural sharpness will come in well behind a counter, though a hard student he could never be."

PETER'S NEW MASTER.

The doctor agreed to this, and Peter was apprenticed to a grocer. He gained great favour from his master, and repaid it by doing "with his might" whatever his hand found to do.

Old Sally lived to see her lad prospering in the world. Amongst the lady customers whom Peter served with his own hand was one whom he first knew as the little girl—Alice Russell—that read to him the "Old, Old Story" as he lay helpless in the hospital, many years before. We may be sure that it was with willing service, he supplied her wants at all times.

Twenty years after Peter was apprenticed, and longer still after that New Year's Eve which was the turning-point in his life, he sat at his desk writing a letter.

It was the last evening of the year, and his thoughts were going back to that stormy December night when he was carried, hurt and senseless, to the hospital. What changes these four and twenty years had brought!

Here was Peter Grant, once a seller of baked potatoes, and living in a cellar, now the prosperous and wealthy tradesman. He had followed kind Dr. Turner to the grave with a heavy heart, several years before. Yet his good friend had not forgotten the lad whom he had helped to lift out of vice and poverty. He had no son of his own, or any very near relative, so he left Peter a sum of money, which enabled him to become a partner in the business. He is sole master now, for his old employer and partner has retired.

And Peter has little children of his own, and a bright home, and he is "Mr. Grant" to everybody. He has heard that the hospital which sheltered him is in want of more help than usual; that there is not room enough, and that if one thousand pounds could be given, and a new wing built, the sick and poor might find shelter enough and to spare.

Peter was a grateful lad; he is a grateful man now he has the means to do good. And as he writes the letter I spoke of, there is a happy look on his pleasant face.

The children are drumming at the countinghouse door, for "father" has promised to come and romp with them. He always gives the little folks a party on New Year's Eve, and enjoys inside the shutters a repetition of those sounds to which he once listened while leaning against the railings outside, amid the falling snow.

"I will come directly, children," he says. And while he answers, he seals his letter, first enclosing a slip of paper torn out of a book, to which he adds some writing.

Then father joins the children and the romp begins anew.

On New Year's Day, the treasurer of the hospital received a letter, and after reading it, he went with a joyful face to tell some good news.

"A gentleman," said he—"I am not to tell his name, or any particulars—has sent a note enclosing a cheque for a thousand pounds to build the new wing we want so much. He writes that, as a poor boy, he received shelter, healing, and, what is better than all, the first sound of those 'glad tidings' that the angels brought at Christmas-tide, while he was under the roof of the hospital. And now God has prospered him, and he desires to impart to others the same benefits so freely bestowed on him many a year ago."

There were many, dear children, who had no idea where that letter and the money came from. But I can tell you that the thousand pounds which paid for building the new wing to the hospital was nothing else but Grateful Peter's New Year's Gift.

God will take care of you. All through the day
Jesus is near you to keep you from ill,
Waking or resting, at work or at play.
Jesus is with you, and watching you still.

He will take care of you, All through the night
Jesus the Shepherd, His little one keeps;
Darkness to Him is the same as the light,
He never slumbers, and He never sleeps.

He will take care of you. All through the year
Crowning each day with His kindness and love,
Sending you blessings, and shielding from fear,
Leading you on to that bright home above.

He will take care of you. Yes, to the end
Nothing can alter His love for His own;
Children, be glad that you have such a Friend;
He will not leave you one moment alone.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
LONDON: KNIGHT, PRINTER, MIDDLE STREET, ALDERSGATE, E. C.

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Table of Contents

- GRATEFUL PETER'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

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