A London Baby: The Story of King Roy

It was a public confession, wrung from a proud and hard man in the moment of his deep humiliation and thankfulness, and doubtless the angels in heaven recording it rejoiced. But the earthly ears for whom it was meant were deaf. Never again would Meg hear human voice of either love or kindness; there was no place for Meg down here, she was going to a place prepared for her long ago in heaven. Her eyes travelled past those who surrounded her, and fixed themselves joyfully on a Presence unseen to any but her dying eyes.

“’Tis you, Lord Jesus Christ,” she said, “’tis you. You ha’ come your werry own self. I ain’t to live to be old, I ain’t to be ragged nor hungry no more. You – ha’ – come.”

She tried to stretch out her arms, but they fell to her side, the breath ceased, and Meg was in Paradise.

After all, brave Meg was the only one to die. For long before the daisies came into blossom on her grave in the country cemetery to which Warden had her carried, the roses had come back to the bonnie cheeks of sweet baby Roy, and the health and brightness to his eyes. He had been rescued in time to save his little life. In that re-united home a new order of things was established. Faith and Roy had never to complain of a cold or hard father again. The great tribulation of those terrible eight days had done their work on the man’s heart, and the death of Meg seemed to set the seal to it. Warden told Meg that he believed in Jesus Christ our Lord. It is enough to say of his future life, that he acted as only a man could act who carried that belief to its logical conclusion, and who very humbly and very prayerfully followed in the steps of the Master whom he loved. Faith and Roy were to grow up knowing the meaning of true fatherhood, both human and divine. And Hannah! God was very gracious to poor lost Hannah Searles. He gave her treasure back to his own, but He did not take him quite away from her. She still saw her baby boy, and as she grew steadier and more respectable day by day, and week by week, Warden gradually gave her more to do in his house, until finally she almost lived there.

“I said to the Lord that I’d be good ef He spared me the child,” she was often heard to say, “and I’m a trying. I’m a rare and wicked woman, God h’Almighty knows that werry, werry well, but I’m a trying hard to be good.”

The End.