Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking

“‘O!—she’s so smart, is she?’

“‘No, ma’am,—she’s not smart at all: he says–’

“But Mrs. Binch had passed on, and was out of hearing; and the little brown head stood still at the window again, leaning now on one hand. It was a smooth-brushed, round little head, seen against the open window. By and by another stopped, a lady this time; a lady dressed in black, with a grave, sweet, delicate face.

“‘How’s your mother, Sue?’

“‘She’s just the same way, Mrs. Lucy.’

“‘No better?’

“‘Not much, ma’am. It’ll take a long time, the doctor says.’

“‘And are you, poor little tot, all alone in the house to do everything?’

“‘No, ma’am;—there’s father.’

“The sweet face gave her a sort of long, wistful look, and passed on. Sue stood there yet at the window, with her head leaning on her hand; and whatever was the reason, so dull of hearing that her father had come down, seated himself in his work-chair, and taken up his shoe, several minutes before she found it out. Then she left the window and came to him.

“‘What shall I do, father?’

“‘She’ll want you directly,’ said the cobbler. ‘She’s asleep now.’

“Sue stood still.

“‘Don’t you want some dinner, Sue?’

“She hesitated a little, and then said ‘yes.’

“‘Well, see, dear, and make some more of that porridge. Can you?’

“‘Yes, father; there’s some meal yet. And there’s some bread, too.’

“‘You may have that,’ said the cobbler. ‘And I’ll go out by and by, and see if I can get a little money. Mr. Shipham had a pair of boots new soled a month ago; and Mr. Binch owes me for some jobs—if I ever could get hold of them.’

“And the cobbler sighed.

“‘If people only knew, they would pay you, father, wouldn’t they?’

“‘There is one that knows,’ said the cobbler. ‘And why they don’t pay me he knows. Maybe it’s to teach you and me, Sue, that man does not live by bread alone.’

“‘But by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God doth man live,’ his little daughter went on softly, as if she were filling up the words for her own satisfaction. ‘But didn’t we know that before, father?’

“‘Maybe we didn’t know it enough,’ said the cobbler. ‘I’m afraid I don’t now.’

“And as her back was turned, he hastily brought his hand to his eyes.

“‘But father, can one help feeling a little bad when—when things are so now?’

“‘‘A little bad’—perhaps one might feel ‘a little bad,’’ said the cobbler; ‘but if I believed all that I know, I don’t see how I could feel very bad. I don’t see how I could; and I oughtn’t to.’

“His little daughter had been raking the fire together, and setting on the coals a little iron skillet of water. She turned and looked at him when he said this, as if she had not known before that he did feel ‘very bad.’ He did not see the look, which was a startled and sorrowful one; he was bending over his shoe-leather. She left the room then and went after the meal, which she brought in a yellow earthen dish, and began silently to mix for the porridge.

“‘The Bible says, father–’ she began, stirring away.

“‘Yes, dear,—what does it say?’ said Mr. Peg.

“‘It says, ‘Trust in the Lord and do good; so shall thou dwell in the land, and verily——’’

“Susan’s voice broke. She stirred her porridge vehemently, and turned her back to her father.

“‘‘Verily thou shalt be fed,’’ said the cobbler. ‘Yes—I know it. The thing is, to believe it.’

“‘You do believe it, father,’ Susan said, softly.

“‘Ay, but I haven’t trusted the Lord, nor done good, any to speak of. It’ll stand good for you, daughter, if it doesn’t for me.’

“She had stirred her meal into the skillet; and now, setting down her dish, she came to his side, and putting her two arms round his neck, she kissed him all over his face. The cobbler let fall leather and ends, and hugged her up to his breast.

“‘That’s done me more good than dinner now,’ said he, when he had, albeit tearfully, given her two or three sound kisses by way of finishing. ‘You may have all the porridge, Susie.’

“‘There’s enough, father; and there’s some bread, too.’

“‘Eat it all up,’ said the cobbler, turning to his work again, maybe to hide his eyes. She stood leaning on his shoulder, just so as not to hinder the play of his arm.

“‘Shall I keep the bread for supper, father?’

“‘No, dear; maybe I’ll get some money before supper.’

“‘Whose shoes are those, father?’

“‘They aren’t anybody’s yet.’

“‘Whose are they going to be?’

“‘I don’t know.—The first pair of feet that come along that will fit ’em. If I sell these I’ll get some leather and make more.’

“‘Is that the last of your leather, father?’

“‘Ay—the last big enough; the rest is all pieces.’

“She stood a little while longer, laying her head on his shoulder; then came a knocking up stairs, and she ran away. The cobbler wrought at his shoe for a space, when turning his head, he dropped everything to go and see after the porridge; and he squatted over the fire, stirring it, till such time as he thought it was done, and he drew back the skillet. He went to the foot of the stairs, and looked up and listened for a minute, and then left it and came back without calling anybody. It was plain he must eat his dinner alone.

“His dinner was nothing but porridge and salt, eaten with what would have been a good appetite if it had had good thoughts to back it. And the cobbler did not seem uncheerful; only once or twice he stopped and looked a good while with a grave face into the fire or on the hearth. But a porridge dinner after all could not last long. Mr. Peg set away his plate and spoon, placed the skillet carefully in the corner of the fire-place, took off his leather apron, and put on his coat; and, taking his hat from the counter, he went out.

“There were no more stitches set in the shoe that afternoon, for Mr. Peg did not get home till dark. The first thing that happened after he went away, a gust of wind blew round the house and came down the chimney, bringing with it a shower of soot, which must have sprinkled pretty thick upon the open skillet. Then the wind seemed to go up chimney again, and could be heard whistling off among the neighbouring housetops. A while after, little Susie came down, and made for her skillet. She pulled it out, and fetched her plate and spoon, and began to skim out the soot. But I suppose she found it pretty bad, or else that it would lose her a good deal of the porridge; for one time she set her plate and spoon down on the hearth beside her, and laid her face in her apron. She soon took it up again; but she didn’t make a large meal of the porridge.

“She went up-stairs then immediately, and when she came down the second time it was near evening. She stood and looked about to see that her father was not come in; then she built up the fire, and when it was burning stood and looked into it, just in the same way that she had stood and looked out of the window. Suddenly she wheeled about, and coming behind the counter took her father’s Bible from a heap of bits of leather where it lay, and went and sat down on the hearth with it; and as long as there was light to see, she was bending over it. Then, when the light faded, she clasped her hands upon the shut Bible, and leaning back against the jamb fell fast asleep in an instant, with her head against the stone.