Of No Account by Ruth Lamb

MRS. LIVESEY'S deputy promised to be a very efficient one. Adam and the children found everything in order when tea-time came, and to the little people, the sight of a young face had a great attraction. That of Sarah Evans might well have a charm for the small Liveseys, for, as we know, the mother who scrubbed from morning till night for the common good was very chary of praise or caresses. Too often the toil was accompanied by sharp words and fretful complaints, because her little namesake's hands were less skilful, her movements less quick, than were her own.

Sarah Evans, on the contrary, found much to praise. She told Adam that the children were "just wonderful for putting things in their places when they came in. Mrs. Livesey must have taken a world of pains with them," she said; "and it's a deal harder to get little ones in such neat ways, than to right up after them."

Adam assented, and said his missis was very clever in her way. Then he expressed his gratification at seeing that the very little ones had taken to Sarah so nicely.

"We shall get on all right, no fear. Maggie's quite a little woman, and can tell me where everything is, and what mother does when she's at home."

Sarah amazed the children by calling them "darlings," and, instead of bidding them sharply "do this or that," she said, "Maggie, dear, please shut the door," and so on.

It was evident that a kind word would go as far and produce as immediate obedience as a sharp one.

After tea, Adam strolled out by himself. He was not in the mood for company, and the little people were happily employed at home. Sarah Evans was telling nursery rhymes to the three youngest, and the eldest two were learning their lessons for the morrow.

Their father's mind was full of the parting with his wife, and the words which had preceded it. It had set him pondering whether they had not both missed their way somehow, and got off on a wrong track.

He certainly had with regard to Maggie, who, in spite of her sharp temper, had kept the warmest corner in her heart for him alone.

Who could doubt her love for the children? And yet she often called them "the plagues of her life."

How nice she could be when she had her best side out! If she were always, or even often like what she had been during those few precious minutes in the railway carriage, what a little heaven their home might be! Was there no way of bringing about such a state of things?

Thus mused Adam, and then it seemed as if the words of Richard Evans and the testimony of Mr. Drummond came with fresh force. Both of these ascribed the brightness of their lives to religion. They were happy men, of this there could be no doubt.

Finally, Adam, whose feet had all the while been tending towards Aqueduct Street, made up his mind to enter the Mission Room and see if he could get any light on the subject that was perplexing him. He had no idea how to make a start on the new road, and he thought it was best to try and find out during his wife's absence. She was against this sort of thing, and he remembered a remark made by her that very morning, as she unfolded her one carefully preserved stuff gown, and smoothed out its creases. "See, Adam, it looks almost as good as new. I am glad I never started going to church on Sundays. If I had, this gown would have been worn out, and I should not have one decent to go in now."

Adam was in good time, and he at first stood near the Mission Room door, then ventured inside, and waited until some one invited him to take a seat. "You can go where you like," he was told, so he placed himself where he could get a clear view of the platform. He had made up his mind to hear all he could, and if he felt in any way the better for his new experiences, to tell Maggie when she came home. If not, he would be silent.

Adam was not quite prepared to see Mr. Drummond. Indeed, he heard his voice before he did see him, for the manager came in along with the mission preacher, Mr. Kennedy. As they passed towards the upper end of the room, Mr. Drummond came close to Adam, and at sight of the striker's earnest face, his own brightened. He stopped for an instant to shake hands, and to tell Adam that he was glad he had not forgotten the invitation given on the previous Saturday.

"My wife's mother is ill, and she's gone to see her, I felt lonely, so I thought I'd come here for a bit," said Adam, as if his presence needed an excuse. Then he noticed how the manager went forward and talked to first one and another of the homely-looking men, such as himself, meeting them as if there were no social differences. In the group near the platform, he saw the two who had called at his door on the Saturday evening, and he observed how all their faces seemed to brighten as they exchanged greetings.

"And yet," thought Adam, "though Mr. Drummond makes himself of no account here, he's not the man to be trifled with at Rutherford's. What he says has got to be done. The place was never better ordered than it is now, but nobody ever says he isn't fair to everybody."

Adam's musings were interrupted by the giving out of a hymn, and at the same moment, a book was put into his hand, with the place found for him. He was not much given to singing, but he had a great love for music, and we know the charm his wife's voice had exercised over him in their early married days. It was a delight to him to find that the children "were so tuneable," though they sang more out of doors than in, because the mother complained that she could not bear the racket; it made her head ache.

Everybody knows how the little folks catch the tunes and words of popular hymns, though they often sing them with no knowledge of their real meaning, and Adam's were no exception. The moment he heard the tune, he recognised it as one that his children sang sometimes, but he had never noticed the words. Now he read them.