"Well, my dear Eve," said Tim, "Bobby Frog is wicked enough for half-a-dozen Cains. In fact, you can't cane him enough to pay him off for all his wickedness."

"Bah! go to bed," said Cain, still intent on his line, which seemed to quiver as if with a nibble.

As for Eve, being as innocent of pun-appreciation as her great original probably was, she looked at the two boys in pleased gravity.

"Hi! Cain's got another bite," cried Adam, while Eve went into a state of gentle excitement, and fluttered near with an evidently strong desire to help in some way.

"Hallo! got 'im again!" shouted Tim, as his rod bent to the water with jerky violence; "out o' the way, Eve, else you'll get shoved into Gihon."

"Euphrates, you stoopid!" said Cain, turning his Beehive training to account. Having lost his fish, you see, he could afford to be critical while he fixed on another bait.

But Tim cared not for rivers or names just then, having hooked a "real wopper," which gave him some trouble to land. When landed, it proved to be the finest fish of the lot, much to Eve's satisfaction, who sat down to watch the process when Adam renewed the bait.

Now, Bobby Frog, not having as yet been quite reformed, and, perhaps, having imbibed some of the spirit of his celebrated prototype with his name, felt a strong impulse to give Tim a gentle push behind. For Tim sat in an irresistibly tempting position on the bank, with his little boots overhanging the dark pool from which the fish had been dragged.

"Tim," said Bob.

"Adam, if you please--or call me father, if you prefer it!"

"Well, then, father, since I haven't got an Abel to kill, I'm only too 'appy to have a Adam to souse."

Saying which, he gave him a sufficient impulse to send him off!

Eve gave vent to a treble shriek, on beholding her husband struggling in the water, and Cain himself felt somewhat alarmed at what he had done.

He quickly extended the b.u.t.t of his rod to his father, and dragged him safe to land, to poor Eve's inexpressible relief.

"What d'ee mean by that, Bob?" demanded Tim fiercely, as he sprang towards his companion.

"Cain, if you please--or call me son, if you prefers it," cried Bob, as he ran out of his friend's way; "but don't be waxy, father Adam, with your own darlin' boy. I couldn't 'elp it. You'd ha' done just the same to me if you'd had the chance. Come, shake 'ands on it."

Tim Lumpy was not the boy to cherish bad feeling. He grinned in a ghastly manner, and shook the extended hand.

"I forgive you, Cain, but please go an' look for Abel an' pitch into _him_ w'en next you git into that state o' mind, for it's agin common-sense, as well as history, to pitch into your old father so."

Saying which, Tim went off to wring out his dripping garments, after which the fishing was resumed.

"Wot a remarkable difference," said Bobby, breaking a rather long silence of expectancy, as he glanced round on the splendid landscape which was all aglow with the descending sun, "'tween these 'ere diggin's an' Commercial Road, or George Yard, or Ratcliff 'Ighway. Ain't it, Tim?"

Before Tim could reply, Mr Merryboy came forward.

"Capital!" he exclaimed, on catching sight of the fish; "well done, lads, well done. We shall have a glorious supper to-night. Now, Mumpy, you run home and tell mother to have the big frying-pan ready. She'll want your help. Ha!" he added, turning to the boys, as Martha ran off with her wonted alacrity, "I thought you'd soon teach yourselves how to catch fish. It's not difficult here. And what do you think of Martha, my boys?"

"She's a trump!" said Bobby, with decision.

"Fust rate!" said Tim, bestowing his highest conception of praise.

"Quite true, lads; though why you should say `fust' instead of first-rate, Tim, is more than I can understand. However, you'll get cured of such-like queer p.r.o.nunciations in course of time. Now, I want you to look on little Mumpy as your sister, and she's a good deal of your sister too in reality, for she came out of that same great nest of good and bad, rich and poor--London. Has she told you anything about herself yet?"

"Nothin', sir," answered Bob, "'cept that when we axed--asked, I mean--I ax--ask your parding--she said she'd neither father nor mother."

"Ah! poor thing; that's too true. Come, pick up your fish, and I'll tell you about her as we go along."

The boys strung their fish on a couple of branches, and followed their new master home.

"Martha came to us only last year," said the farmer. "She's a little older than she looks, having been somewhat stunted in her growth, by bad treatment, I suppose, and starvation and cold in her infancy. No one knows who was her father or mother. She was `found' in the streets one day, when about three years of age, by a man who took her home, and made use of her by sending her to sell matches in public-houses. Being small, very intelligent for her years, and attractively modest, she succeeded, I suppose, in her sales, and I doubt not the man would have continued to keep her, if he had not been taken ill and carried to hospital, where he died. Of course the man's lodging was given up the day he left it. As the man had been a misanthrope--that's a hater of everybody, lads--n.o.body cared anything about him, or made inquiry after him. The consequence was, that poor Martha was forgotten, strayed away into the streets, and got lost a second time. She was picked up this time by a widow lady in very reduced circ.u.mstances, who questioned her closely; but all that the poor little creature knew was that she didn't know where her home was, that she had no father or mother, and that her name was Martha.

"The widow took her home, made inquiries about her parentage in vain, and then adopted and began to train her, which accounts for her having so little of that slang and knowledge of London low life that you have so much of, you rascals! The lady gave the child the pet surname of Mild, for it was so descriptive of her character. But poor Martha was not destined to have this mother very long. After a few years she died, leaving not a sixpence or a rag behind her worth having. Thus little Mumpy was thrown a third time on the world, but G.o.d found a protector for her in a friend of the widow, who sent her to the Refuge--the Beehive as you call it--which has been such a blessing to you, my lads, and to so many like you, and along with her the 10 pounds required to pay her pa.s.sage and outfit to Canada. They kept her for some time and trained her, and then, knowing that I wanted a little la.s.s here, they sent her to me, for which I thank G.o.d, for she's a dear little child."

The tone in which the last sentence was uttered told more than any words could have conveyed the feelings of the bluff farmer towards the little gem that had been dug out of the London mines and thus given to him.

Reader, they are prolific mines, those East-end mines of London! If you doubt it, go, hear and see for yourself. Perhaps it were better advice to say, go and dig, or help the miners!

Need it be said that our waifs and strays grew and flourished in that rich Canadian soil? It need not! One of the most curious consequences of the new connection was the powerful affection that sprang up between Bobby Frog and Mrs Merryboy, senior. It seemed as if that jovial old lady and our London waif had fallen in love with each other at first sight. Perhaps the fact that the lady was intensely appreciative of fun, and the young gentleman wonderfully full of the same, had something to do with it. Whatever the cause, these two were constantly flirting with each other, and Bob often took the old lady out for little rambles in the wood behind the farm.

There was a particular spot in the woods, near a waterfall, of which this curious couple were particularly fond, and to which they frequently resorted, and there, under the pleasant shade, with the roar of the fall for a symphony, Bob poured out his hopes and fears, reminiscences and prospects into the willing ears of the little old lady, who was so very small that Bob seemed quite a big man by contrast. He had to roar almost as loud as the cataract to make her hear, but he was well rewarded. The old lady, it is true, did not speak much, perhaps because she understood little, but she expressed enough of sympathy, by means of nods, and winks with her brilliant black eyes, and smiles with her toothless mouth, to satisfy any boy of moderate expectations.

And Bobby _was_ satisfied. So, also, were the other waifs and strays, not only with old granny, but with everything in and around their home in the New World.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

TREATS OF ALTERED CIRc.u.mSTANCES AND BLUE-RIBBONISM.

Once again we return to the great city, and to Mrs Frog's poor lodging.

But it is not poor now, for the woman has at last got riches and joy-- such riches as the unG.o.dly care not for, and a joy that they cannot understand.

It is not all riches and joy, however. The Master has told us that we shall have "much tribulation." What then? Are we worse off than the unbelievers? Do _they_ escape the tribulation? It is easy to prove that the Christian has the advantage of the worldling, for, while both have worries and tribulation without fail, the one has a little joy along with these--nay, much joy if you choose--which, however, will end with life, if not before; while the other has joy unspeakable and full of glory, which will increase with years, and end in absolute felicity!

Let us look at Mrs Frog's room now, and listen to her as she sits on one side of a cheerful fire, sewing, while Hetty sits on the other side, similarly occupied, and Matty, _alias_ Mita, lies in her crib sound asleep.

It is the same room, the same London atmosphere, which no moral influence will ever purify, and pretty much the same surroundings, for Mrs Frog's outward circ.u.mstances have not altered much in a worldly point of view. The neighbours in the court are not less filthy and violent. One drunken nuisance has left the next room, but another almost as bad has taken his place. Nevertheless, although not altered much, things are decidedly improved in the poor pitiful dwelling.

Whereas, in time past, it used to be dirty, now it is clean. The table is the same table, obviously, for you can see the crack across the top caused by Ned's great fist on that occasion when, failing rather in force of argument while laying down the law, he sought to emphasise his remarks with an effective blow; but a craftsman has been at work on the table, and it is no longer rickety. The chair, too, on which Mrs Frog sits, is the same identical chair which missed the head of Bobby Frog that time he and his father differed in opinion on some trifling matter, and smashed a panel of the door; but the chair has been to see the doctor, and its const.i.tution is stronger now. The other chair, on which Hetty sits, is a distinct innovation. So is baby's crib. It has replaced the heap of straw which formerly sufficed, and there are two low bedsteads in corners which once were empty.

Besides all this there are numerous articles of varied shape and size glittering on the walls, such as sauce-pans and pot-lids, etcetera, which are made to do ornamental as well as useful duty, being polished to the highest possible degree of brilliancy. Everywhere there is evidence of order and care, showing that the inmates of the room are somehow in better circ.u.mstances.

Let it not be supposed that this has been accomplished by charity. Mrs Samuel Twitter is very charitable, undoubtedly. There can be no question as to that; but if she were a hundred times more charitable than she is, and were to give away a hundred thousand times more money than she does give, she could not greatly diminish the vast poverty of London. Mrs Twitter had done what she could in this case, but that was little, in a money point of view, for there were others who had stronger claims upon her than Mrs Frog. But Mrs Twitter had put her little finger under Mrs Frog's chin when her lips were about to go under water, and so, figuratively, she kept her from drowning. Mrs Twitter had put out a hand when Mrs Frog tripped and was about to tumble, and thus kept her from falling. When Mrs Frog, weary of life, was on the point of rushing once again to London Bridge, with a purpose, Mrs Twitter caught the skirt of her ragged robe with a firm but kindly grasp and held her back, thus saving her from destruction; but, best of all, when the poor woman, under the influence of the Spirit of G.o.d, ceased to strive with her Maker and cried out earnestly, "What must I do to be saved?" Mrs Twitter grasped her with both hands and dragged her with tender violence towards the Fold, but not quite into it.

For Mrs Twitter was a wise, unselfish woman, as well as good. At a certain point she ceased to act, and said, "Mrs Frog, go to your own Hetty, and she will tell you what to do."

And Mrs Frog went, and Hetty, with joyful surprise in her heart, and warm tears of grat.i.tude in her eyes, pointed her to Jesus the Saviour of mankind. It was nothing new to the poor woman to be thus directed. It is nothing new to almost any one in a Christian land to be pointed to Christ; but it _is_ something new to many a one to have the eyes opened to see, and the will influenced to accept. It was so now with this poor, self-willed, and long-tried--or, rather, long-resisting--woman.

The Spirit's time had come, and she was made willing. But now she had to face the difficulties of the new life. Conscience--never killed, and now revived--began to act.

"I must work," she said, internally, and conscience nodded approval. "I must drink less," she said, but conscience shook her head. "It will be very hard, you see," she continued, apologetically, "for a poor woman like me to get through a hard day without just _one_ gla.s.s of beer to strengthen me."

Conscience did all her work by looks alone. She was naturally dumb, but she had a grand majestic countenance with great expressive eyes, and at the mention of _one_ gla.s.s of beer she frowned so that poor Mrs Frog almost trembled.

At this point Hetty stepped into the conversation. All unaware of what had been going on in her mother's mind, she said, suddenly, "Mother, I'm going to a meeting to-night; will you come?"