Outcast Robin : $b or, Your brother and mine : a cry from the great cityMeade, L. T.
General
Outcast Robin : $b or, Your brother and mine : a cry from the great city
Meade, L. T.
Abandoned children -- Juvenile fiction; London (England) -- Juvenile fiction; Poor -- Juvenile fiction
"Father, I want to put a wreath of Christmas roses round mother's
grave. You know how she loved them. I have saved
three-and-sixpence, and the florist round the corner has promised me
a nice bunch for that."
"Very well, my dear."
"But I want to measure the grave to-night, so that the wreath may be
just the right size."
Grumbling, expostulating, at last yielding, the old porter
accompanied his daughter. On the grave where the Christmas roses
were meant to hang, they found Robin.
"Not dead yet," said the old porter as he placed his hand on the
boy's cold breast.
"An answer to my prayer," thought Nell.
And as they carried him back to their comfortable home, the music of
a grand old saying was ringing in both their hearts--
"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my
brethren, ye have done it unto Me."
And so closed the sorrow of want. The hunger of the body and the
hunger of the heart at length found their needed food--bread and love.
There were no Christmas roses placed that year on the humble grave of
the porter's wife; but Robin was saved.
* * * * * *
This is my brother's story; it has to do with his pain more than his
joy. The dark clouds now having dispersed, and the sun shining on
his path, there is little more to tell of him. He stayed with the
kind porter and his daughter until his health was nearly restored,
and was finally admitted into the Westminster Memorial Refuge at
Streatham. Into this Home, but too little known to the general
public, he, the supposed son of a criminal, had a right to enter.
Here, kind hands were stretched out for such as him; and here he was
rescued, morally as well as physically.
* * * * * *
Last January--yes, it was last January--a young man, earnest,
noble-looking, might have been seen bending over a grave, a very
humble grave, in the West Brompton Cemetery. Placed at the head and
foot of this grave now, were two plain marble slabs: on the head slab
was carved a wreath of Christmas roses.
"Here I lost myself, to find myself," thought Robin, as he turned
away.
THE END.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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