Transcriber's note: Any unusual or inconsistent spelling is printed as is.

LOST GIP has been reprinted from

THE DAY OF REST.

One Penny Weekly. Price Sixpence in Monthly

Parts, with an Informational Number.

FRONTISPIECE.

BY

Hesba Stretton

AUTHOR OF

"JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER," "LITTLE MEG,"
"THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA," ETC., ETC.

SIX ILLUSTRATIONS.

11,000.

LONDON:

HENRY S. KING AND CO.

65 Cornhill and 12 Paternoster Row.

———

1873.

[All Rights reserved.]

CONTENTS.

———————

CHAPTER I. GIP'S FIRST BREATH

CHAPTER II. GIP'S HOME

CHAPTER III. LOST IN LONDON

CHAPTER IV. LOST IN JERUSALEM

CHAPTER V. A NEW FRIEND

CHAPTER VI. MRS. SHAFTO

CHAPTER VII. A SAD SIGHT

CHAPTER VIII. MR. SHAFTO

CHAPTER IX. SEEKING THE LOST

CHAPTER X. IS IT TRUE?

CHAPTER XI. AN AWAKENED CONSCIENCE

CHAPTER XII. TWO MOTHERS

CHAPTER XIII. JOHNNY'S SUNDAY SUIT

CHAPTER XIV. PASSING AWAY

CHAPTER XV. FOUND AT LAST

CHAPTER XVI. GONE

CHAPTER XVII. A VISION

CHAPTER XVIII. LEAVING THE OLD HOME

CHAPTER XIX. THE END

LOST ITEM.

———————

GIP'S FIRST BREATH.

Walking down one of the back streets in the East End of London on a hot summer day is definitely not a pleasant or refreshing experience. The street is narrow, and the gutters along the sidewalks are usually clogged with trash thrown out from the houses on either side. Piles of rotting fruit, potato peels, and decaying cabbage leaves are scattered along the pathways, eagerly searched through by hungry children, whose only concern during the summer months is to somehow satisfy the constant hunger they feel.

There’s no sweet smell in the air—nothing fresh; any scents that are present are anything but pleasant. The sun beats down on the closely packed houses, grimy pavement, and dry streets, making it feel like fever is always lurking in the heat of these sultry days. At each end of these streets, there’s usually a lively bar that’s doing booming business; the dry air leaves everyone thirsty, and the door swings open and closed constantly as men, women, and children come and go.

But behind these main roads, there are narrow alleys and courts where the heat is even more unbearable. No breeze flows through them; they are so hidden away that the people living there feel no shame and no fear of being seen by anyone less miserable than themselves. There's an overwhelming level of suffering and degradation. The filth becomes more disgusting, and the diseases it causes become more deadly. Half of the children born there die before reaching their first birthday. Only those who are particularly strong or receive special attention from their mothers survive to see their second year. Funerals for babies happen so often that they barely draw any attention, except from the children who have managed to survive the usual fate, and who follow the small coffin to the end of their alley, leaving it there to be taken away to some unknown place. As for the mothers, most of them seem to have lost their natural love for their little ones and are relieved to be free from a responsibility that would only make their lives even heavier.

It was in one of those cramped, stuffy alleys that a boy was hanging around, one hot summer afternoon, outside the door of a small house in the far corner away from the street—a poor home, like all the others, with more pieces of brown paper in its windows than actual glass. The four rooms, two on each floor, were occupied by as many families, along with their lodgers. There seemed to be a bit of commotion inside, with several women bustling around, visible through the open door as they went up and down the stairs. At that time of day, there were hardly any men in the yard because most were costermongers, busy at work. However, the alley was fairly filled with nearly naked children, playing loudly in the open gutter or fighting with each other even louder.

The boy didn't join any of them but watched with a distracted and worried expression, occasionally peeking through the open door or listening closely to every sound coming from the room at the top of the rickety staircase. Suddenly, he heard a weak, wailing cry, and tears filled his eyes—he didn't know why—but he quickly wiped them away and turned his head to avoid anyone seeing them.

"Sandy!" shouted a woman's voice from the top of the stairs. "Sandy, can you give us your jacket to wrap the baby in?"

If it were the dead of winter, he would have gladly taken off his tattered jacket for the new baby. He had a deep affection for young, defenseless beings, and he had cared for two other babies before this one, watching them both slowly weaken and die in this unhealthy environment.

He didn't care much for his mother; how could he, when he rarely saw her sober? But the babies were very important to him; even more than the mixed-breed dog he had managed to keep hidden for a long time, but which had been taken away because he couldn't pay the fee. There was no fee for babies;—Sandy remembered that happily. The police wouldn’t pay any unwanted attention to this new little one. He could carry it around, play with it, and teach it all kinds of fun tricks, without the risk of losing it.

"Is it a gel or a guy?" he asked eagerly of the woman, who rushed downstairs for his jacket.

"A little gel!" she replied. "A real little gypsy, with black eyes and black hair all over her head."

"Get her to me as soon as you can," urged Sandy, rubbing his hands and bouncing on the doorstep to release some of his excitement.

He sneaked around the fruit seller's cart, sat down on
one of the baskets, and then peeked at the new little face.

"You can have her directly," said the woman; "it's as hot as an oven everywhere today."

"I'll come for her," Sandy said, following her to the door.

In a few minutes, a small bundle was given to him, wrapped in his old jacket; and he walked softly and carefully downstairs, holding it in his arms.

He couldn't find a quiet spot where he could admire his new treasure because he didn't want all the noisy, shouting kids in the alley crowding around him, which they would do the moment he sat down on the doorstep with that mysterious little bundle in his lap. A quick look around revealed a fruit seller's cart leaning against a corner, with a couple of baskets on the ground. He quietly went around it and sat on one of the baskets; then, slowly opening the jacket, he peeked at the new little face.

How was it that tears filled his eyes again? The memory of Tom and little Vic, now resting in their small coffins deep in the ground, returned to him so clearly that he couldn’t focus on the baby for crying. He knew it was wrong, and he was mad at himself and really worried about anyone discovering it, yet for a minute or two, he couldn’t shake it off. But after wiping his eyes with his jacket sleeve, he found that he could see clearly enough to look closely at his prize.

A thorough gypsy, no doubt about that. Eyes as black as coal, and her little head was all covered with the darkest hair. She lay contentedly in his arms, looking up at his face seriously, as if she could really see it, and wanted to know what kind of brother he was going to be. Sandy stretched his face into a broad smile, whistled to her softly, put his finger in her tiny mouth, and bounced her gently on his knee.

The baby was "as good as gold;" she didn’t cry, keeping their hiding place safe. But her dark, serious eyes never left Sandy’s face.

"Oh! I wish there were someone who could keep it alive for me!" thought Sandy, sadly.

He had a vague feeling that there was someone, somewhere, who could save the newborn baby from dying, just like Tom and little Vic had. In the streets, he had seen plenty of rich babies who had everything they needed, their cheeks chubby and rosy, unlike the frail, sickly babies in the alley. But how it worked, whether it was just because they were wealthy or if there was someone who cared enough to keep them alive, he couldn't say. He often watched them with longing eyes, admiring how cute they looked in their blue or red cloaks and white hoods, and he now wished with all his heart that he could find someone to keep little Gipsy alive for him. He called the baby Gipsy, and no one in the alley bothered to call her anything else. What was the point of registering a baby who was guaranteed to die soon?

Sandy's mom was back to her usual routines in just a few days. She made her living, when she bothered to, by selling fruits and vegetables on the street, like most of her neighbors. When she had enough willpower to save four or five shillings from the pub down the street, she would rent a cart for a week and stock up on cheap fruits and veggies, and Sandy would help her push it. But that happened very rarely; it was more common for her willpower to give in to the temptation of one more drink.

Then Sandy had to rely on himself and managed to scrape together a meager supply for his needs by selling matches near the Mansion House or any other busy spot, where one in a thousand people passing by might see him and happen to buy from him. Often, when there wasn’t a baby at home, he wouldn’t go there for weeks and would sleep wherever he could find a place to rest—in an empty cart or under a tarp; sometimes even without any shelter if he couldn’t find one.

If his mom found him during these moments of wandering, the only way she showed their relationship was by asking for any change he might have and searching through his rags for it. It was only when there was a baby that Sandy went home every night, bringing with him a sticky piece of cheap candy that had more poison than sugar in it.

Gip was left in his care even more than the other babies. By this time, his mother had become such a heavy drinker that she showed little interest in her. Occasionally, she would grab her in her arms and stumble back from the liquor store, which really worried Sandy. But generally, she ignored Gipsy, leaving the boy to look after her as best he could. This was actually good for the baby. Sandy would carry her out of the bad air and into the wider streets, often pausing longingly at a bakery window until he could get a healthy crust for her to nibble on.

His jacket remained nearly the only piece of clothing she had, and as winter set in, he shivered from the cold, until his numb arms could barely hold her. But he endured this without a complaint, because who was there to talk to? He had never had a friend he could approach and say, "I’m hungry, cold, and nearly naked."

He had never heard that it was once said, "Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

Was it possible that Sandy could be one of the least of His brothers and sisters?

There was, however, this major and final problem in Sandy's situation. If anyone had given him clothes, doing so to honor their Lord, his mother would have quickly pawned the clothes and used the money for the spirit-vault.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links.

GIP'S PLACE.

WHETHER Gip was naturally stronger than Tom and little Vic, or whether Sandy had learned from experience how to take better care of her, she survived the first critical year and looked like she might make it through another. It's true, she was small and underdeveloped, her poor little arms were thin, and her face was pale with big dark eyes that were usually very serious but would light up happily when she saw Sandy. She had been given more gin than milk: Sandy could only remember two or three times that a nice woman had given her a sip of rich blue milk, who occasionally shared a bit of bread with them.

But her teeth were coming in, which would help her if he could find something for her to eat; and he watched their growth with great delight, often cradling her as she cried and wailed all night long in his arms, while the mother was passed out in a drunken stupor. Gipsy was getting clever as well, quickly picking up the cute tricks that the other babies hadn't lived long enough to learn.

Now that she offered a promise of life, he started to think about how she would grow up and what he should do with her when she became a big girl. Anything would be better than being like their mother! If he could just figure out a way to improve his own situation, then he could help Gip as she grew up!

Sandy had little chance of getting ahead. His worries and responsibilities were piling up quickly, along with the pressing need to earn more money somehow. Gip wanted more food, and soon his old jacket, which she wore, would be falling apart, not to mention his own shabby and torn condition. He became quite a nuisance around the Mansion House and other places, chasing after gentlemen and begging them to buy a box of matches. More than once, he was turned over to the police, who would give him a not-so-unfriendly smack on the ears and tell him to get lost.

What was his job but to take care of himself and Gip, finding ways to grab enough food to keep them alive? Unfortunately, there was a second part of the job—to occasionally buy some old item at Rag Fair, without which he wouldn't be allowed to roam the streets and would have to stay home and starve. Sandy was often on the edge of despair; but even at the worst, things would improve a bit. His mother, in her drunken haze, would drop a sixpence, or once even a shilling; and Sandy's sharp eyes would catch it, and his quick fingers would grab it, like a windfall. Or one of the neighbors would give him a day's work pushing a barrow, paying him sixpence for it, along with some small potatoes or frost-bitten turnips at the end of the long day. Then, Gip and he would have quite a feast.

"Where am I supposed to go, Gip?" he asked one day, after the police had been especially tough on him. "Where am I supposed to go, and what am I supposed to do? Mind my own business, huh? Well! What if I don’t have any business? And I don’t see myself having any business anywhere, really. I don’t know what you and I were born for. They'll start telling you to mind your own business as soon as you can run around in the streets."

Gip looked back at him with her bright black eyes, seeming to understand the situation he was in, but unable to help. By now, she could talk a bit and manage to get to the entrance of the alley to wait for him to come home. When she spotted him, she would waddle over to meet him, her unsteady steps making Sandy's heart race with worry that she might fall. Sometimes she did fall, and with a shout that drew everyone's attention, he would rush forward and scoop her up in his arms before she had a chance to scream.

Gip could also trot alongside her mother, gripping her frayed skirt, as the woman dragged her worn-out feet to the nearest bar. Sometimes, she would yell at the child, but more often, she would take her inside and pour the last couple of drops of gin down Gip's throat, especially when her funny faces and antics made everyone laugh loudly, as if the little girl’s excitement was a source of great joy. Gip was quickly learning the way to the bar and would head there on her own when she got bored playing in the gutter with the other kids and wanted to find her mother; she was too heavy now for Sandy to carry her, and she was too young to run by his side while he tried to sell matches on the streets.

Sandy came home one evening feeling really low and downhearted. It had been a rainy day, and no one had paused in their hurried rush about their business to look at his soaked fusee boxes. They were completely drenched, even though he had tried his best to keep them covered under his jacket. But he was soaked to the bone himself, with water dripping from his thick, messy hair and trickling coldly down his face and neck. Night had fallen; yet the rain kept pouring down, driven along the streets by a strong west wind. The light from the lamps shimmered in pools of water on the pavement, through which he splashed carelessly with his bare feet. The pipes that drained the roofs leaked and poured down on him like waterfalls as he hurried along, staying close to the houses for whatever shelter they could provide.

Gip couldn't be waiting and watching for him on a night like this; and it's just as well she couldn't, because he had brought her nothing—absolutely nothing—not even one of the stale buns he sometimes begged for her. It was tougher than anything else, worse than the rain, to think that maybe she would have to go to sleep hungry—crying for food, while he had none to give her.

No, Gip wasn't at the corner. He looked closely into the doorway where she often sat when he walked by, and he felt his heart sink a little lower, as if he were disappointed not to find her there.

For once, the alley was quiet and empty; not a single soul with a home was out that night. A couple of windows flickered faintly with the light of a candle inside, helping him steer clear of the gutter, where the water flowed noisily like a stream. But the room where his mother lived was completely dark—not a single glimmer of light from either a fire or a candle.

He lifted the latch and went inside, calling softly into the darkness, "Gip! Little Gip!"

Not a sound responded to him; Gip’s sweet, high-pitched voice was quiet. Maybe she was still with her mom in the spirit-vault. Or, maybe she was just being quiet for fun; it was one of her cute tricks to hide and stay as still as a mouse when he came in, while he pretended to search for her everywhere: in their empty cupboard, under their mom’s bed, and even up the chimney, as if Gip could be there! Then she would suddenly burst out laughing and run at him from her imagined hiding spot, where he had seen her all along.

Sandy quietly made his way across the dark room to the candle, which was sitting in the neck of a bottle on the mantelpiece, and attempted to light it with some of his damp matches. But they fizzled and flickered just for a moment, leaving him in the darkness of the still and possibly empty room.

But eventually, he managed to get a match to burn long enough to light the candle. He could see everything in the small, empty room at a glance. There was his mother's old flock bed on the floor, and there was his mother herself lying on it in a deep sleep, her face swollen and red, and her ragged gown pulled over her; because long ago, the only blanket and old bedspread had been sold at the pawn shop, and there was no chance of ever getting them back.

But was Gip there? Sandy could clearly see that there was no little Gip under his mother's gown or beside her on the bed. She was not there; she was not anywhere in the room. He stood still in his confusion, his eyes wandering around the bare walls, and his heart beating painfully. If little Gip wasn't home, where could she be?

He couldn't handle his pain and fear for long. He ran to his mother's side and shook her hard by the shoulder, yelling as loudly as he could in her ear.

But she was almost like a dead person. It was tough to wake her up, and even tougher to bring her to her senses. She sat up in bed and tried to hit him, but Sandy dodged her.

Once again, from a safe distance, where he was definitely out of reach, he shouted his question at her.

"Where's Gip?" he shouted. "Mom, what did you do with my little Gip?"

"Gip?" repeated his mother, in her slurred, tipsy voice, "Gip? I lost her; couldn't find her anywhere. She's around here somewhere."

That was it. Sandy's mom lay back down on the bed and drifted off into a deep sleep.

Little Gip was missing.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

Missing in London.

FOR a minute or two, Sandy stood still again, confused and motionless, just like before, staring at the spot where Gip should have been next to her mother, and barely able to accept that he wouldn’t see her small white face suddenly appear from among the rags, and hear her cry,—

"Here you are, little Gip!"

The wind and rain pounded against the window, soaking through the paper that covered most of the panes. Down in the alley, there was an unusual stillness. Suddenly, he thought he could hear Gip crying and wailing in the storm, and he could see her wandering barefoot on the wet stones, her damp hair hanging over her little face. There were so many streets in London, with countless twists and turns! Gip was lost among them, wandering alone in the rain and the wind and the darkness, trying to find Sandy and calling for him to come and take her home again. Just the thought of it made his heart ache.

It was only for a minute or two that Sandy hung around, since there was no time to waste. Then he quietly crept over to his sleeping mom and carefully checked her pocket. Nope; she hadn't come home until she spent every last penny; he didn't have a dime to his name either.

But he took his stash of matches with him; because he had decided in those couple of minutes that as soon as he found little Gip, he would take her to some far-off part of London and never return to their drunken mother. He felt almost victorious when this idea popped into his head, even though he was deeply upset. Gip would be old enough to run alongside him soon, and when she got tired, he would carry her. They would live together in any nook or cranny. He knew several places where, if he laid Gip next to the wall and slept outside himself, maybe she wouldn’t feel the rain and cold too much. Some of the other match boys would help him out when luck was on their side, and he would return the favor when he could. One thing he was determined about—he would never go back to his mother again, never!

He walked slowly into the quiet alley, still hoping he might hear Gip calling from some dark corner.

He called out to her, first softly, then louder and louder, until some of the neighbors opened their doors or windows and asked what was going on and why he was making such a noise.

"Mom's gone and lost Gip," he said, holding onto the hope that maybe she was safe in one of their homes. "Has anyone seen her? It's an awful night, bad enough to drown the cats outside, and she's such a little girl. Mom's dead drunk and doesn’t know anything about her. Hasn’t anyone seen little Gip?"

The women chatted to each other across the narrow alley about Nancy Carroll and her drunkenness, but none of them knew anything about Gip, except that she had been spotted with her mother heading down into the street just before dark. A couple suggested that maybe she had been harmed as a complication, and Sandy felt a chill run through her at the mere thought of such a terrible thing.

"No, no!" he shouted. "No one would have the heart to do that; she's such a pretty little girl. No, no! Mom would never do something like that; she’d be nice to her sometimes, she would, when she was herself; and little Gip was never a bother."

"Drink will make Nancy Carroll do anything!" said a sharp-voiced woman, who took pride in not getting drunk more than once a week, and only on a Sunday when business was slow.

Sandy didn’t stick around to talk about that awful question with her; instead, he was even more determined to leave and prove the suspicion wrong by finding Gip. Tucking away his supplies, which he needed to support both himself and Gip, as best as he could under his jacket, he turned and dashed down the dark passage into the street.

But once he arrived, which way should he go—right or left? In the alley, this confusion hadn’t bothered him because there weren’t two ways for Gip to get lost. There were spirit-vaults that his mother visited at either end of the street. All around him was a tangled web of streets, with lanes, alleys, and courts crossing each other, extending for hundreds of miles. True, little Gip couldn’t have wandered too far yet, since she was too small and weak; but if Sandy picked one direction, she could be going in the opposite one, and every step he took would just make the distance between them greater.

First of all, he went to both of the spirit vaults, which were crowded this wet night, and searched every corner, asking the busy staff behind the counters if they had seen a little girl all alone. But she wasn't there, and there was nothing else to lead him to her. Still, he had to make a decision, and trusting his luck, Sandy took off running as fast as he could through the now empty streets, glancing into every doorway with his quick, searching eyes, and shouting "Gip! Gip!" up every archway and passage where she might have found shelter, if she had been smart enough.

It was a terrible night, one that Sandy would never forget, even if he lived to be a hundred. The rain poured down relentlessly, and the fierce winds whipped past him, blowing open his ragged clothes, forcing the icy rain to hit his bare skin. But his fear for Gip made him almost oblivious to his own misery, tiredness, and hunger. Little Gip had no shoes, no bonnet, or jacket; just an old cotton dress that Sandy had bought very cheaply at Rag Fair; so cheap and worn that his mother hadn’t seen it worth selling again.

To imagine Gip out in this rain and wind was torture for him; he could handle the lesser discomfort of being soaked and freezing himself. Along the quiet streets, crossing intersections, and turning corners, Sandy moved as fast as he could, stopping occasionally to catch his breath on a doorstep for a quick minute or so, until the eastern sky turned grey and the clouds above lightened up, and morning arrived, slowly waking up the entire city; but he still hadn’t found Gip. She was still missing.

As the streets got crowded, he realized that his chances of seeing or hearing her were slim. But he couldn’t stop searching. It felt like he couldn’t live without little Gip. Losing her this way would be a hundred times worse than seeing her lying dead in her tiny coffin, like the other babies, watching the lid being nailed shut over her peaceful face, and following her with quiet tears to the cemetery far away; where the ground would swallow them up, and that would be the end of it! They would never be cold, hungry, or beaten again. Why couldn’t Gip have died instead of this horrible misfortune happening to her? He would never stop looking for her until he found out if she was alive or dead.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

Lost in Jerusalem.

FOUR days later, Sandy was still looking for his lost Gip, feeling more hopeless and defeated than ever. London had never felt so massive to him; he had never realized how crowded it was with people, all of them strangers; many of them seemed like they were against him. He didn't know a single friend among them. There were a few match boys who were nice to him when they were doing well, but they didn't completely agree with Sandy's plan to only search for Gip while they worked to support him. They had already exchanged some harsh words about it, and Sandy could see that even these old friends were likely to abandon him soon.

It was Sunday afternoon, but that didn’t mean much to him, other than the streets were clearer and there was a better chance of spotting Gip. It was quieter too, with less noise from wheels, so she’d be able to hear him if he shouted. The day was nice, and the low autumn sun was shining through the smoke and mist. Sandy had lost his eager step and searching look; although finding Gip was still all he lived for, he was strolling along with tired feet and a heavy heart.

Sunday used to bring him some joy, even back in the day. He often took Gip to London Bridge, where the fresh river air would swirl around them and make her laugh. He was headed there now; but soon, he spotted a group of people gathered in an open area, and he quickened his pace, because in a little crowd like that, he always imagined he might see a small figure about the size of Gip, making him briefly think he had found her.

There was a chair in the center of the knot set against a wall, and a young man stood on it, speaking in a clear and very serious voice. His face was friendly, and his bright eyes seemed to focus on every face in the crowd around him.

"The kid's lost!" he said,
right as Sandy walked up and heard, and the
words pulled him immediately into the group of listeners.

"The child is lost!" he said, just as Sandy came within earshot, and his words immediately pulled him into the group of listeners. "The child is lost; can you believe that? He was with them when they left the city in the morning; he walked along the streets with them, talking to his mom and dad. Then they lost track of him, but they thought, 'He must have gone off with some of the neighbor's kids,' and they carried on without a second thought.

"But when night fell and they were about to have dinner at the inn, Mary would ask her husband, 'Have you seen Jesus?' She would say it in a calm tone, never believing that He was lost. 'Have you seen Jesus?'

"And he would probably answer, 'No, but He’s definitely with the other kids; I'll go and get Him.'"

"But He was not with the other kids. Then they got scared, and they went from one friend or family member to another, asking, 'Do you know where our son Jesus is? We've lost Him!'"

"Everyone replied, 'No: He was with us this morning when we left the city; but it’s been a while since we last saw Him.'"

"It was nighttime, and they couldn’t go back to the city until morning. Do you think Mary got any sleep that night? Do you think she could lie down peacefully, close her eyes, and forget about her huge and sudden trouble? Oh, no! She must have been wondering where her lost child was, where he was sleeping, and if he was hungry and homeless in the big city they had left, or maybe wandering around in the fields and woods outside, with nowhere to rest his head. She kept an eye out for morning, and at the very first hint of light, she was on her feet, ready to run all the way back to the city."

"And all the way back, they would ask everyone they met, 'Have you seen our son Jesus of Nazareth?'"

"Those who didn't know them would say, 'Tell us what your son is like.'"

"Then Mary tried her best to describe Him as accurately as she could; she was familiar with every expression on His face and every tone of His voice. But probably the most straightforward thing she could say, the detail most people would recognize Him by, would be, 'He wears a little coat that I made myself, and it's all in one piece, without seams, woven from the top throughout.'"

"Most people view clothes as simpler than faces. But she didn’t hear anything about Jesus before they arrived in the city."

"They roamed the streets, searching everywhere for the child Jesus. They searched with sadness, deep sadness. Imagine losing your child, maybe the only one you had, in this vast city of London; never knowing where they had gone or whose care they were in; at night not knowing if they were sleeping somewhere safe, and during the day not knowing if anyone was giving them food."

"Wow, that's just like me and Gip!" shouted Sandy, moving through the crowd to get closer to the speaker, and listening intently, afraid he might miss a single word.

"Finally," he added, "Mary suddenly said, 'How silly we are! When we were here with our son, we hardly went anywhere except to the Temple, and that's where Jesus always loved to go. Let's go look for Him there.'"

"So they went up to the Temple, which Jesus loved to visit the most; and there they found Him! Imagine how all that sorrow instantly turned into great joy; and how, as they returned home to Nazareth with their child, their hearts would leap with happiness every time they looked at Him."

"And now Jesus, who was a lost child back then, is searching for us, all of us like lost children, straying from the house and home of God, our Father. You know you're far from God; you’ve lost your way and don’t know how to get back to Him. We’re like foolish little kids who follow some spectacle down the streets until they lose sight of how to return and can only wander farther and farther away, until eventually, if they aren’t found, they will forget all about their old home, or that they ever had one."

"Have you forgotten your home with God? Or do some of you wish and long to return to Him? Well, God has sent Jesus to look for you and to show you the way back. He is searching for you now, just like Mary searched for Him with sorrow; and if He finds you, all His sorrow will turn into great joy. He will be content with all the pain you have caused Him."

"You can't see Him, you can't hear His voice; but He is here with us, right next to us. I'm speaking for Him because you can hear my voice and see my face. And I’m saying to each one of you, Jesus Christ is looking for you, is reaching out to you. Are you ready to be found? That’s the question. He can’t make you go home. Do you want to have a home with God?

"Feeling lost, are you? Yes, you are lost. Some of you are lost in drunkenness, maybe; some in theft: all of you are lost in sin and misery. But I have this message for each one of you:

   "'Jesus has come to seek and save those who are lost.'

"You just need to talk to Him, to reach out to Him, like a lost child calls for its mother, and He will rescue you."

Sandy didn't miss a word, even if he couldn't understand them all, no matter how simple they were. A hymn was sung, and a short prayer was said, then the small congregation dispersed, and Sandy walked on to London Bridge. He stepped aside into one of the supports and leaned over the railing, as if he were watching the river rushing and swirling against the massive pillars beneath him. The water sparkled with light from the setting sun, but he noticed neither the river nor the sky. His mind was overwhelmed with new ideas. He was thinking about the story of a Child who had once been lost like Gip, but who was now looking for those who were lost. A person nobody could see, but who walked the streets to guide people back to God. Could this Jesus help him find little Gip?

"You were lost once yourself," he said, speaking half aloud without realizing it; "and you were found again just fine. When you're out there looking for people now, maybe you'll run into little Gip, and please take care of her for me."

"Who are you talking to?" asked a voice as soft as his own, right next to him.

Sandy turned around quickly, nearly angry, embarrassed for having been overheard.

Behind him stood a boy about the same height, using crutches, with a pale and thin face like little Gip's. However, there was a friendly smile in his eyes as he looked directly at Sandy. His clothes were worn but warm, and he had a red wool scarf wrapped around his neck, along with knitted gloves on his hands. To the ragged, barefoot boy, he almost seemed like a gentleman, just as he was about to sneak away, feeling a mix of shyness and anger, when the stranger reached out his hand to stop him and accidentally dropped one of his crutches. He would have fallen onto the hard stone pavement if Sandy hadn’t caught him in his arms.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links.

A NEW FRIEND.

"WE are going to be friends, you see," said the lame boy cheerfully, as Sandy helped him lean against the parapet while he grabbed the crutch. "I didn't think I’d ever catch up to you, even though I’ve been following you as fast as I could all the way from where Mr. Mason was preaching. You liked his sermon, right? I noticed you listening like you’d never heard anything like that before, and it’s all true, and more. I thought I’d ask you how you felt about it, and when you turned in here, I finally caught up with you. Now, would you mind telling me who you were talking to, almost out loud?"

The lame boy's voice was honest, and his face lit up with a friendly smile that Sandy had never experienced before. He couldn't keep his heart closed off from him. Besides, he had been wanting to talk to someone about little Gip; someone who wouldn’t make fun of him or be angry like the other fusee boys were. Still, he felt shy, and his brown face turned red as he leaned over the railing again, staring down at the swirling water beneath the arch, with his head turned away from the stranger.

"I was talking to Him like that gentleman mentioned," he said in a very low voice, "the One who was lost Himself when He was a little kid; lost in the streets, you know. The gentleman said now He has grown up. He always walks up and down the streets looking for people who are lost. So I was asking Him to take care of my little Gip if He comes across her."

"Who's little Gip?" asked the kind, cheerful voice next to him.

"Oh! she's my little girl!" cried Sandy, laying his head down on the stone edge, but trying his best to speak calmly. "Mother's little girl, you know; and mother got drunk last Tuesday, the night it rained heavily, and lost Gip somewhere; and I've been looking for her everywhere since, checking every corner I can think of; and I'm starting to be afraid that Gip's dead!"

It had been tough for Sandy to say all this; but when he got to the word dead, his voice caught, and the sobs he had been holding back burst out strongly. He felt the strange boy's arm wrap around his neck; so surprised was he that his sobbing stopped, and he held his breath to hear what the boy was saying.

"If little Gip is dead," he whispered, "she's gone to heaven to be with the Lord Jesus, and she can never be hungry, cold, or lost again. There are thousands and thousands of little children there, all good, happy, and safe; and He loves them so much! Nothing can ever hurt them again, because He’s always taking care of them. If little Gip is dead, she has to be with the Lord Jesus."

"I didn't know that," Sandy said softly. "I don’t know anything. I don’t even know if my little Gip is dead. I would rather have her than let Him have her. She loved me so much; I could make her happy, I really could; and keep her safe. I’ve never seen Him like you describe, or heard about Him before now. Gip didn't know Him any more than I do, and she’d be much happier with me; and wherever she is, she’ll be missing Sandy, who used to give her peppermint and candy, and take her to see the pretty shops. If Lord Jesus finds her, He should let her come back to me again; because it’s not Him who has cared for her and looked after her since she was born."

Sandy's shyness faded as he expressed his thoughts; now he looked at the lame boy with a mix of indignation and angry defiance, thinking that no one had a better claim to Gip or could make her happier than he could.

The stranger looked a bit sad and confused, but he kept his hand on Sandy's shoulder to stop him from running away.

"I wish you would come and talk to Mom about it," he said, after a pause. "She's lost three kids, and she says they're happier than they could have been with her. If little Gip isn't dead, Mom will know what to do and how to start looking for her because she's the smartest woman in all of London; and I'll help you search for her. I'm not strong enough to work, but on a nice day like this, I can get around on my crutches and go farther than you'd think. I call them my wings. Yes, I'll look for little Gip, just like you, if you'll come with me and tell Mom."

Sandy hesitated for a moment. Next to him, the disabled boy seemed so impressive that he hardly felt worthy to go home with him; but he hoped to get advice and help in finding Gip, and he couldn't pass up any opportunity. He observed the stranger adjusting himself on his crutches with a new, compassionate understanding, and the thought that he could easily walk away made him stay closer by his side. He would have walked behind him, but the boy didn’t seem to grasp that.

"Stay close to me," he said; "I want to talk to you. My name is John Shafto, and we're heading to the place where I live. Tell me your name and where you live while we walk. Look! I can fly as fast as you can walk, unless you run."

He was easily keeping pace with Sandy, his pale face turned toward him, full of eager interest and friendliness. Sandy had never seen a face or heard a voice like that before.

"My name's Sandy Carroll, sir," he replied, moving closer to John Shafto, as all his stoicism had melted away like frost in the sunshine. "And my mom's called Nance Carroll. She's always drunk. If she’s sober for even a little while in the morning, it doesn’t last longer than she can get a few coins. I was starting to worry little Gip would pick up the habit since my mom would give her drops of gin and stuff; but now she's lost, I don’t know what will happen to her. Maybe it’d be better for her to die and go to that place you mentioned, but I don’t see how she’ll get in. If I had known about it before, I would have tried to get Tom and little Vic taken in, but it’s too late now. They’re buried and gone, I suppose."

He spoke with a lot of regret because he had cared for Tom and little Vic, even though they meant nothing to Gip, who had learned the nice tricks he could teach her. Still, he felt sad thinking that maybe he could have found a good place for these kids, where they wouldn’t have to be hungry or cold ever again, if only he had known about it.

"If Tom and little Vic are dead," John Shafto replied, "they've gone to heaven. Every little child goes there when they die."

"I don't know anything about it!" said Sandy. "Tell me everything you know."

"Mom knows more than I do," he said; "let's hurry to her."

It didn't take long for them to reach the house, which was behind a small chapel in a corner of a little graveyard. The grass grew thick and dark over the mounds, despite the smoke and soot falling from the nearby chimneys. There were no other homes in the yard, just the tall, blank walls of some workshops enclosing it. It didn't look like the turf had been disturbed in years, and the headstones were blackened with smoke. Everything was quiet, dark, and gloomy; even at midday, the sun could barely shine in, and now it was evening. But it was very peaceful and still, removed from the chaos and hustle of the city, even though it was right in the middle of it.

Sandy spoke more quietly as they entered the graveyard and walked along a path lined with flat stones, each bearing the names of people long gone and forgotten.

At the back of this graveyard, in a corner where a keen observer might catch a glimpse of it from the street, stood a small, old-fashioned two-story house, if you could really call the upper floor a story since it was only about seven feet high at the peak of the roof, featuring two dormer windows in the front. On the ground floor, there was a large shop window with a quite dingy sign in the center, and above it, a bunch of funeral plumes that had turned brown with age. On one side of the sign hung a card, framed in black, stating "Funerals performed!" Meanwhile, in the opposite pane, another card displayed the message, "Pinking done here."

One of the three big windows was broken, and a rigid sign was stuck over it to block the wind and rain. The old house looked like it was hiding in the corner of the graveyard to conceal its poverty and decay; trying to stay out of sight as much as possible, yet forced to reveal itself just enough so that its inhabitants could have a chance at earning a meager living.

"This is my mom," said John Shafto.

John Shafto's crutches seemed to make a louder sound on the flat gravestones than on the regular pavement in the streets; and before he and Sandy reached the house, the shop door swung open from inside. A cheerful, motherly-looking woman with blue ribbons in her cap stood in the doorway as they approached. She looked so strange, out of place, and odd next to the broken window and somber memorial that even Sandy felt a surprising jolt of astonishment.

Her voice, when she called out, "Johnny!" was cheerful, and as she affectionately kissed the boy with a limp, Sandy stood nearby, staring at her with wide eyes.

"This is mom!" said John Shafto.

"And who have you brought home with you, Johnny?" she asked, extending her hand to Sandy, as if she didn't notice his tattered clothes and dirty skin.

He didn't know what to think about it; but she took his hand in hers and gave it a warm, firm grip.

"Last Tuesday, he lost his little sister on the streets," said John Shafto; "and I brought him home to ask you what we should do, Mom. You’ll definitely figure something out. Now, Sandy, come in and sit down, and tell Mom everything about it."

He walked into the house first, and Mrs. Shafto gave Sandy a friendly nudge to follow him in.

Inside the shop, on the counter, there was a small coffin, roughly the size that would fit Gip; and Sandy stopped for a moment to glance inside it, as if he might see Gip's sweet face and tiny limbs resting peacefully within. But it was empty. After suppressing a sob that threatened to escape his throat, he moved on into a small kitchen at the back of the undertaker's shop.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

MRS. SHAFTO.

It was a bright and cozy little kitchen, with a clear fire burning in the grate and not a single bit of ash on the hearth. The grate was old-fashioned, with well-polished hobs and two steel balls on each side of the fire that sparkled like silver in the dancing flames. A polished brass warming pan hung against the wall, shining enough to see your reflection in. The floor had deep, rich red tiles; and in a wide alcove near the chimney stood a large cupboard that looked almost half the size of the room, as if it promised to be full of plenty. In the warmest corner was an easy chair with padded arms and back, covered in patchwork, and a pair of slippers rested on the warm hearth in front of it.

There wasn't much natural light because the window faced a narrow alley between two tall buildings that cast shadows over the small graveyard, and only a sliver of sky was visible beyond their high roofs. But the lack of daylight didn't matter while the fire crackled so brightly, and Mrs. Shafto's radiant face greeted everyone who came into view. To John Shafto, her smile was even better than the sun.

"Dad hasn't come home?" he said, glancing at the empty armchair.

"No, Johnny, it's not time yet," she replied, putting a chair right in front of the fire for Sandy and encouraging him to rest his cold bare feet on the shiny fender. He didn't dare look her in the eye just yet; but he couldn't help but watch her when she wasn't paying attention to him.

"First of all," she said, "we need to eat something. My rule is to eat before we talk, Johnny."

Sandy watched her with eager eyes as she went to the cupboard and cut two slices from a loaf, one large, thick, and hearty, the other thin and delicate, but both generously spread with treacle. He was taken aback when she handed him the large slice and gave the small one to John Shafto. This treatment puzzled him, and he couldn’t articulate his thoughts about it. All he could do was sit quietly in blissful silence, feeling the warmth of the cozy fire flowing through him, and realizing just how hungry he had been as he enjoyed his hearty slice of bread.

"Alright then!" said Mrs. Shafto when he finished the last crumb. She was sitting in a low wooden rocking chair across from the comfortable chair in the corner, looking at Sandy with friendly eyes, as if she had known him for a long time and was an old friend.

He felt like he could tell her anything and would never want to hide anything from her. With great enthusiasm, he shared the whole story about little Gip. Meanwhile, John Shafto listened, nodding occasionally as if he had heard most of it before.

Mrs. Shafto also shook her head from time to time and said, "Well, well, poor guy! poor little Gipsy!"

Until Sandy's heart felt warm and nearly happy with her sympathy, he shared everything he needed to say.

"Poor little Gip!" Mrs. Shafto said again, wiping her tears away. "Have you checked everywhere she might be, Sandy?"

"Hey!" said Johnny. "When Jesus was lost, His mom started to think about where He’d probably go, and she found Him in the Temple. Where do you think little Gip would go if she got lost?"

"She only knows the gin shop," Sandy replied. "Her mom never took her anywhere else. There were two gin shops where her mom gets drunk, and I did go there."

Mrs. Shafto's face was clouded for a minute or two, and he heard her mumble to herself, "Poor little baby!"

"Mom gets really lost when she drinks," Sandy continued sadly. "It wouldn't help to ask her if she remembers anything. All she'd know is that she lost little Gip somewhere. I haven't gone near her again because I can't stand to see her like this. I never thought she'd get this bad."

"But she's your own mom," said Mrs. Shafto, gently.

Sandy looked up from the glowing embers that he had been staring at and focused on her. Johnny had scooted his chair next to hers, leaning his head on her shoulder and wrapping his arm around her waist. He couldn't quite understand why he felt this way, but suddenly, deep down, he wished he could love his mother like that; he couldn't help but wonder why she was so different from Mrs. Shafto.

"Maybe," she continued, in the same soft, gentle tone, "little Gip found her way home the very next morning; I think it's very likely she did, and now she's waiting for you, worrying about you, and wondering where you are. What are you going to do, Sandy?"

He had jumped to his feet and rushed to the door; but he paused for a moment as she spoke to turn around and respond in a rush,—

"I'm going to run home," he said; "maybe it's like what you said. Little Gip might be there. Oh! Why didn't I think of that before?"

"Wait a minute, Sandy," yelled Mrs. Shafto, "while I grab my hat, and I'll go with you; and we'll bring Gip here, and all have tea together if Dad isn't home. Johnny would love to see little Gip, right Johnny?"

"I would really love it," he replied; "and I'll prepare the tea while you're gone. Please make sure to come back, Sandy; I feel so sorry for you, I can't even express how sorry I am. But maybe one day your mom will change and be more like my mom."

Across Sandy's mind flashed a happy thought of his mother, with her bright, cheerful face and blue ribbons in her white cap, just like Mrs. Shafto; and of a kitchen like this one, with its clean floor, comfortable chairs, and warm fire. But it all disappeared in an instant; and he imagined he could see her instead, with her red and swollen face, dressed in dirty rags, lying in a drunken sleep on the floor. That was his mother, and little Gip's!

It wasn’t long before he was walking quickly next to Mrs. Shafto, heading toward the alley where little Gip had been born. Mrs. Shafto had a lot to discuss with him as they walked about him and Gip. If they didn’t find her at home, she said she would talk to her husband about it. He was a very knowledgeable man and could offer great advice, possibly even better than anyone else she knew; and maybe, if he was feeling up to it, he would accompany him to the police stations to ask about the missing child.

Sandy had never considered going to the police, whom he viewed as natural enemies to him and Gip, only seeing them as people who would hit him and boss him around when he got too pushy trying to sell his matches. He wasn't sure if they wouldn’t hit him if he went to them about little Gip; but Mrs. Shafto spoke so hopefully that he felt his spirits lift as if he was certain he would find her when they got to the alley.

They finally reached it: Sandy hurried up the stairs and tried to lift the latch of their old room. But the door was securely locked, and no high-pitched voice responded when he called for Gip through the keyhole, hoping her mother had left her there for safety. His spirits fell again. There was no key in the lock, so it must have been locked from the outside. They went back down the dirty, creaky staircase, with Mrs. Shafto keeping her skirts away from the wall; then Sandy knocked on the door of the neighbor who lived in the front room on the ground floor.

The man who opened it greeted him with a quiet, mocking laugh.

"Looking for your mom, huh?" he said. "Well, she’s gone, and good riddance, I say. She was always causing a scene, tearing up and down the alley, so there was never a moment of peace and quiet. All women seem to dislike peace and quiet, but I’ve never seen anyone like Nance Carroll for making noise. People laughed at her for losing her baby, and she couldn’t handle it, so she took off on Friday. The key is here, but there’s nothing left in the room but the bed, and that’s going to the landlord. Have I seen little Gip? No, no. She’s at the bottom of the river by now, I bet. Babies don’t just disappear like that unless something happened to them. It was about time for your mom to leave, too, because the police were starting to show up in this alley and asking some really awkward questions."

"Do you think the poor little creature has been gotten rid of?" asked Mrs. Shafto, her voice trembling.

The man winked and gave a meaningful nod, half smiling at her lack of understanding of human nature as he shut the door in their faces.

Sandy sat down on the lowest step of the staircase, hiding his face in his hands and rocking back and forth.

Mrs. Shafto stood quietly for a minute or so; then she gently placed her hand on his rough head.

"Come home, Sandy," she said. "Come home with me and have tea with my Johnny."

"She's my mom, you know," Sandy whispered hoarsely, "just like you’re Johnny's mom; and I remember her kissing me once when I was a kid. I don't want to believe she could hurt little Gip!"

"No, no," Mrs. Shafto replied. "She could never do that, I’m sure. It’s just not in a mother’s nature; and who understands how a mother feels better than I do, having had four and lost them all except for Johnny? Come home with me, Sandy, and we’ll discuss it with Johnny and Mr. Shafto."

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

A HEARTBREAKING SCENE.

MRS. SHAFTO and Sandy were leaving the alley, feeling disappointed and downcast, when a policeman, who seemed to be waiting for them, crossed the street and firmly placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. Sandy squirmed and tried to break free, but he couldn’t escape the officer’s strong grip. A crowd of people, mostly the residents of the alley, quickly gathered around, and Mrs. Shafto's rosy face turned pale with fear.

"What has the boy been doing?" she dared to ask the policeman, since she was trapped by the crowd and couldn't break free to head home as she had initially wanted to in her moment of fear.

"He's not doing anything that I know of right now," the policeman replied. "But we need him at the station for a few minutes, and I have to make sure he doesn't get away. People like this are as slippery as eels."

"Can I go with him?" she asked again. "I'm really sorry for the boy, and my son Johnny won't stop until he finds out what happened to him."

"Are you related to him?" the man asked, looking curiously at her nice dress and her face, which was so different from the women around them.

"No," she said, "I didn't see him until about an hour ago when Johnny brought him to our house. But I came with him to look for his mom and his little sister, who has been missing all week. Now his mom has left, and she didn't say where he could find her. Poor kid!"

"Don't you know anything about your mom?" asked the cop, tightening his grip on Sandy's arm.

"I haven't seen her since last Tuesday night," Sandy replied sincerely. "She took my little Gip, and I promised I wouldn't go near her again until I figured out where Gip is. I want my little Gip, not her."

"Would you recognize Gip if you saw her again?" asked the man.

"Know Gip!" Sandy said again, but he couldn't get any more words out. Know Gip! Of course, he knew every little black curl on her head, every silly expression on her face, and every tone in her voice, whether she was laughing or crying. Know Gip! There was nothing else in the world he understood so well, not even hunger or cold; his own little Gip, whom he had cared for from the very moment she was born!

"Come with me, then," said the policeman in a gruff but not unkind tone. "It’s not far to the station, and maybe I can show you Gip."

There was no need to hold onto Sandy tightly now; he would have followed the cop anywhere in London. Mrs. Shafto could barely keep up with them, as they walked so quickly. She didn’t have the breath to say a word, and neither of the other two spoke. Sandy was too overwhelmed to talk; and the cop kept his mouth shut tight, as if no one on earth, except his supervisor, could get him to open it.

Mrs. Shafto wasn’t completely sure if she was doing what her husband would want, but she couldn’t stand the thought of Johnny being really disappointed if she lost track of Sandy and they never found out anything else about him and lost Gip. Out of breath and panting, she arrived at the entrance of the police station just as Sandy was disappearing through an inner door.

"You can't go in there, ma'am," a man said, standing just inside the entrance.

"It's a friend of the kid's," the policeman called back; "let her come in."

She saw Sandy already standing in front of a tall desk, where an inspector's head hovered, quickly firing questions at him, as if in a hurry to wrap up the business, about his mom: where she lived, how she made a living, how often she got drunk, how many kids she had, and what they died from.

"Was she nice to you and Gip?" he asked, his sharp eyes focused on the boy.

"Not really," answered Sandy; "she'd beat me up in the streets and search me for coins if she thought I had any. She wasn't exactly kind, you know."

"Did you ever hear her say she wanted to get rid of her baby?"

"She'd curse at me and Gip when she'd been drinking," Sandy said, "and wish we were all dead and buried, but she wasn't a particularly bad mom. I know people who are worse. If she hadn't lost little Gip, I wouldn't have said a word against her, sir. It was all the drink that caused it. Nobody could ever be cruel to little Gip; she was such a sweet little thing and so pretty."

"Tell me what Gip was like," the inspector said.

Sandy hesitated and stammered. He could see Gip right in front of him now; but how could he explain what she was like? He didn’t have any words to describe her, and he had never thought of her that way.

"She was pretty," he answered, pausing between each word, "very pretty and nice; and she had such funny ways. She was like nobody but Gip, sir."

"Not really like you, I guess," said his examiner.

"I don’t know what I’m like,” replied Sandy, looking down at his rough, big hands and feet; “I don’t think Gip is anything like me.”

"How old is she?"

"She was three years old last summer," he said; "mother was selling ripe cherries the day before Gip was born; that I'm sure of, sir."

"Davis," said the inspector, "take the boy to see the body."

But Sandy didn't move when the policeman stepped forward. He grabbed the edge of the desk to keep himself from falling and looked around the room with wild, terrified eyes; eyes that didn't see anything in front of him. Everything had faded from his sight, and all he could see was little Gip's sweet face mocking him from every direction. What did the inspector say? Take him to see the body. He understood what that meant. He wasn't so naive as to believe that all the young children who died in the streets and alleys near his home simply passed away from illness, bad air, or unhealthy food. He had often heard whispers spreading from person to person that this or that child had been harmed. But now those words seemed to burn in his mind as if he had never known such things. He had angrily dismissed those thoughts about his mother and little Gip when the neighbors hinted at it. And now she was lying somewhere nearby, dead! Not just dead, but murdered! No one touched him, no one spoke to him. His terror-stricken face kept everyone around him silent for a minute or two.

"Sandy! Sandy!" Mrs. Shafto exclaimed, being the first to speak, and wrapping her arm around him as she might have done with her own injured son, "my poor dear boy! Maybe it isn't Gip after all. Nobody knows that it's Gip. Come with me to see her. And if it is Gip, I'll tell you where her soul has gone. It will just be her little body here; but Gip will be in heaven, where Jesus is. You don't know anything about it yet, but I can explain. Come and see, and then I'll tell you everything."

"Hey! I'm coming," said Sandy, grabbing her arm and walking unsteadily, feeling sick and dizzy. "Take us to see if it's my little Gip."

They moved on without saying anything, following the policeman down a long, narrow hall to a locked room. Sandy heard the key scraping as it turned in the lock and the door creaking open, but he didn’t dare to raise his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, turning his head away and shrinking back as if he couldn’t step over the threshold. Finally, he peeked inside. The policeman had turned on one gas lamp above a long, narrow table, and underneath the bright light lay a small, still figure, roughly the size of Gip, covered with a sheet. The man gently pulled down the covering and softly called Sandy to come in and look at the lifeless little face.

Mrs. Shafto walked him across the room, whispering that she could tell him where Gip really went and that she was happier than he could imagine. Sandy's vision had grown so dim again that he could barely see anything clearly. There was such a haze in front of them that the little face and quiet form seemed to be shrouded in mist. Mrs. Shafto could see it clearly—the gaunt, worn features of a child's face, carrying a woman's look of suffering; but it was now at rest and at peace, with all the troubles and pain gone. Her tears fell quickly as she leaned over the lifeless child and kissed it gently.

That woke Sandy, who stood beside her as if in some terrible dream. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked closely, though with a shiver, at the little child.

"Why, that's not my Gip at all!" he exclaimed. "She's got black hair, and she looked like a gypsy, not at all like this little girl. No; that isn't Gip!"

He could barely hold back his laughter and wanted to dance around the bare, empty room in this sudden relief from his dread. But a second look at the dead face brought him back to reality. What this child was, his little Gip could be somewhere— a horrifying thought that would haunt him for the rest of his life if he couldn't find her.

They went back to the inspector's office so Sandy could say that the child they found wasn’t his missing sister. After being warned that the police would be watching him, he was allowed to leave with Mrs. Shafto, who had offered her address and promised to keep an eye on the homeless boy as well.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links.

MR. SHAFTO.

SANDY didn’t want to leave the comforting presence of Mrs. Shafto. Her words had given him new hope that the grave wasn't the end for the children he had seen buried there, and he wanted to learn more about this strange and uplifting news. He stayed close to her, even though she didn’t seem as eager to talk to him as she had when they were searching for his mother. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, as her heart was heavy from the sorrowful and horrific scene she had just experienced.

Mrs. Shafto was also a bit worried about Sandy, who followed her so closely, like a stray dog might, and for whom she felt a sense of responsibility. Although they weren't as miserable and downtrodden as the people she had been seeing, they were very poor; she and her husband were so poor that without her constant hard work as a seamstress, they often had to go without enough food.

What was she supposed to do with this big, growing kid from the streets, as wild and clueless as a young savage; probably a thief; with no good in him except his love for his little sister? She knew her husband would resent any help given to Sandy if it took away even the slightest comfort from him or required any sacrifice. But she couldn't stand the thought of pushing him away, alone and unsupported, into the open street, with no place to call home. She wouldn't treat a dog that way; and how much more valuable was this boy than a dog! Plus, it was Johnny who had found him first and brought him home—her disabled son, who seemed to understand so well what Christ wanted him to do and how to joyfully follow in his Lord's footsteps. She couldn't go back to the house and tell him she had turned her back on Sandy and left him in the vast wilderness of London.

On went Mrs. Shafto, still sadly and quietly, across the square graveyard, and through the gloomy shop, with its small coffin open on the counter—a coffin that would have just fit the dead baby she had kissed. Sandy followed her, his bare feet making no noise on the floor; but he stopped at the kitchen door because there was a stranger there—not his new friend, Johnny Shafto.

This guy was a tall, lanky man, around forty-five years old, whose long, thin legs stretched completely across the hearth, as if no one else needed to sit by the fire. He was lounging in the comfortable padded chair in the best spot, his hands hanging loosely from his wrists, and his arms from his shoulders, as if he’d never done and never could do a single decent task of work. His face was narrow and gloomy, with straight hair falling over it; and his head drooped as if it was too much effort to keep it upright. He looked up lazily as Mrs. Shafto walked in, and spoke to her in a whining voice.

"What a time you've had," he said, "running around on a Sunday evening taking care of other people's stuff, while I’ve been waiting for my tea for half an hour. Nobody asked me to stick around the school; I guess they think nothing of me just because I’m an undertaker with no business. If I had a successful operation and a couple of hearses, it would be a different story. They never seem to remember that I'm a Shafto, and my grandfather was their minister back in the day. If my dad had done his part, they would have been more than happy to invite me to tea. Where have you been, Mary?"

She quickly took off her bonnet and shawl before getting the tea ready, and now both her face and voice shook as she responded.

"I've been witnessing something really upsetting," she said. "Johnny must have told you about the poor boy who lost his sister? Well, he and I went to a police station—a place I had never been to before—and we saw a poor little dead child, no bigger than my Mary when she was taken from me; a poor murdered baby, and I can't get the image out of my mind."

"You have such a poor mindset," Mr. Shafto said, "always talking about other people. I bet you never considered mentioning that your husband is an undertaker, that he has a coffin he could sell for a good price, and that he would handle the burial as reasonably as anyone in London; did you?"

"I never thought about it," she replied.

"That's exactly what I mean," he continued, with a sense of victory; "you never remember useful things when we have a child's coffin on hand. Why don't you close that door?"

Mrs. Shafto stepped back to the doorway and whispered to Sandy to sit down in the dark shop for a few minutes until tea was ready. Then she shut him out of the bright little kitchen and went softly up to her husband, speaking in a voice that was quieter and shakier than usual.

"Dear John," she said gently, "it was our Johnny who brought that poor boy to our home. He’s really taken a liking to him, and it would break his heart if we turned him away. Maybe we won’t have Johnny with us for much longer, and I could never forgive myself if I upset him about anything. Plus, don’t you remember, John—you who are so well-read, and your grandfather was the minister at the chapel—how the King says that when the Last Day comes, He counts everything we do for these little ones of His as if we did it for Him? It seems like God brought this boy and Johnny together, and we shouldn’t be against what He is doing."

"Where is the boy?" asked Mr. Shafto.

"He's in the shop, in the dark. I'd light the gas and give him something to eat there if you think he’s not good company for us. But it’s not nice to eat among coffins and feathers. And, oh dear! how will we ever be good company for angels? I know my Johnny will be, but I’m afraid I won’t be."

"I guess you’ll do things your way," Mr. Shafto complained.

"But I want it to be your way too, my dear, fully and freely," she continued, patiently. "I want you to feel that when Sandy's eating our piece of bread, he's here in place of the Lord Jesus. I'm sorry I never mentioned that my husband was an undertaker and would arrange for the baby’s burial reasonably. I know I would have made a pretty shroud for the poor thing! But that's all in the past, and you must forgive me, John. Why, that’s a rhyme I've created, can you hear it? Ah! you're a great scholar, and I don’t mind you laughing at me. I could call Sandy in and put him in a corner where you won’t have to see him, if you’d like, for Johnny’s sake, you know?"

"Sure, he can come in," said Mr. Shafto, lowering his head again and extending his legs even further across the warm hearth.

Mrs. Shafto quietly opened the door and called Sandy in a whisper, setting up a chair for him in a corner, trying to keep him out of sight of her husband, who didn't seem to notice the boy. But he groaned loudly several times, making Sandy jump nervously, as his mind was overwhelmed and his body weak from excitement and exhaustion. Mr. Shafto's groans felt like they were signaling some new and terrible disaster, and Sandy could barely hold back his urge to start crying.

But it wasn’t long before tea was ready, and Mrs. Shafto went to the bottom of a staircase that twisted like a corkscrew up to the two low rooms in the attic. She called, “Johnny!”

And the next moment, the sound of crutches tapping on the floor filled the room as John Shafto slowly and laboriously made his way down the crooked staircase. When he reached the last step, his pale face and bright eyes emerged from the darkness, looking in at them. It was a stunning face, unlike any Sandy had ever encountered, adorned with a joyful smile, as if he had discovered some great secret and could never again be weighed down by sadness.

"Where's Sandy?" he asked, since he couldn't see him in the sudden light. "Did you find little Gip, mom?"

"Not yet, Johnny," she replied happily; "there's Sandy. Go sit with him, sweetheart; and he'll tell you what we've been up to."

John Shafto sat down next to Sandy, his arm around him, eager to hear everything he had to say. He asked him questions and chatted in his soft, friendly voice about little Gip. Sandy started to feel that, even if little Gip were lost, he would have another friend who cared about him and whom he could care about. They whispered together until bedtime, making plans to look for and find poor lost Gip.

That night, after Mr. Shafto had gone to bed, Mrs. Shafto set up a spot for Sandy to sleep on the kitchen hearth, using an old mattress and a dusty brown velvet cover from the shop that hadn’t been used in years. It looked so grand and magnificent that Sandy was almost afraid to lie down on it and could hardly believe it wasn’t all a dream.

Once, when he woke up, before the fire had completely gone out, he saw the shiny warming pan sparkling and the steel balls shining in the dim light. He sat up to wake himself up and wondered where he could be. Then he remembered the lame boy's gentle face and friendly voice, and he fell asleep again with a strange sense of peace at the thought of the new friend he had made.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

SEARCHING FOR THE LOST.

But when morning arrived, and Mrs. Shafto went to wake Sandy and start the kitchen fire, she was shocked and disappointed to discover that he was gone! The mattress had been pushed into a corner, and the blanket was roughly folded and placed on it, but there was no other sign of the guest who had been made so comfortable by her the previous night.

John looked very serious and worried, though he didn't express his concerns. Only Mr. Shafto, when he came down for a late breakfast after the fire had burned brightly and the room was warm, showed some satisfaction; he asserted, with more energy than usual, that the boy was a rogue and a thief, without a doubt, and they would see that he hadn't left without taking something with him. However, nothing was missing from the kitchen, and there was no stolen goods in the shop, except for a few rusty plumes and the hatchment with its faded painting in the window.

Yet it was a sad day for John Shafto and his mother, even though Sandy wasn't proven to be a thief. They had grown so fond of the lonely boy and felt such deep sympathy for him regarding little Gip that his leaving hurt them deeply. John Shafto, as he lay awake during most of the night, thought about every possible way to find the lost child and prayed to God, with intense sincerity, that she would be found. He felt so uplifted by these prayers and thoughts that he hurried to get up the next morning to talk to Sandy; not only to talk, but also to set off in search of her on his crutches, as soon as he could find out any information that might help him recognize little Gip if he saw her. Now all that was gone. Sandy had left without even saying goodbye to his new friend. A heavy emptiness settled over John Shafto, as if all his love had been tossed back at him carelessly and ungratefully.

Very slowly, the hours of that autumn day went by. John Shafto limped through some of the back alleys near his home, watching with new interest the thin, frail children playing around the doors and in the gutters. There had never seemed to be so many of them before, nor so much sadness in their lives. He saw them fighting each other for a piece of moldy bread or the skin of an orange: the strongest always winning over those younger or weaker. He heard little kids, who could barely talk, stumbling over bad words that meant nothing to them but reflected the wrongs of those around them. Now and then, a baby glanced at him from behind the shoulder of a drunk mother, who was coming in or out of a bar.

Because his heart was filled with little Gip, he saw everything in a way he never had before. A couple of times, he had called out to a child who was sitting alone, as if it were a complete stranger to the other kids around, but none had responded to the name Gip. Eventually, he went home, heartbroken and very sad.

Mrs. Shafto had been busy sewing while Johnny was away, worried by her husband's constant fears that Sandy had taken something with him, and by his slow, lazy search through all the shelves and drawers the boy might have gone through. Several times, he thought something was missing and wouldn't let her relax until she set down her work and found what he was complaining about as lost. She felt pretty down herself. It was so strange of the boy, she thought; he had seemed to cling to her so much last night. Could it be that he was afraid of her promise at the police station to keep an eye on him? Did he think she intended to make a sort of prisoner out of him? If Sandy was trying to avoid them, there was very little chance that either she or Johnny would see him again. London was just too big for that.

It was getting pretty dark in the quiet graveyard, and the tall headstones looked even taller and darker than during the day. The gas was lit in the gloomy shop but turned down low, not because Mr. Shafto expected any customers, but for the benefit of those who hired his wife to sew for them. John was hanging around the graveyard, barely wanting to bring his sad face into his mother's presence and feeling that he couldn’t handle his father's complaining right now, when a sharp, quiet whistle right behind him made him jump like he was startled. It was still light enough for him to see Sandy, whose bare feet made no noise on the paved path.

"Oh! Sandy! Sandy!" he yelled. "How could you just leave us? I'm so happy you're back."

"Why, I didn't run away," Sandy replied. "I snuck out early this morning because I don't want anything from you except to visit you sometimes. The master doesn't want me here, he really doesn't. So I quietly slipped away; and one of my friends lent me half a dozen matches, and I got lucky today, sold them quickly, and bought some more; and now I've got four and a half pence, plus a meat pie I bought. Oh! I wish little Gip were here!"

He couldn't stand the thought of little Gip's excitement if she could just see the meat pie and come with him to spend the money, which was securely tied in a corner of his tattered pocket with a piece of string.

"Sandy," John said, "I've been looking for little Gip all day."

"Ah!" sighed Sandy. "But you'd never recognize her if you saw her. I'd know her from miles away. I suppose Jesus would know her, right? Or it's pointless for me to ask Him to watch out for her."

"Trust me, He knows her," John replied earnestly. "He knows all of us by name, and He definitely knows all the little children since He loves them so much; every single one of them, every single one of them. Don't doubt that, Sandy. He will take care of Gip. Don’t you realize that once He lived in heaven with His Father, but when He saw how lost and miserable we were, and how we could never find our way to heaven on our own, He came down to our world, lived like we do, and was always looking for those who were lost?"

"It was really kind of Him," said Sandy; "but I’ve never heard of it before."

"Sandy," John Shafto continued, his voice becoming increasingly serious, "I don’t think I could handle living if I didn’t know all that. Sometimes when I’m in so much pain at night that I can barely keep from crying out—and I don’t want to wake my mom because she works so hard—I feel like I hear Him speak to me. Sometimes He asks, 'John, do you love me?' And I reply, almost out loud, 'Lord, You know everything, You know that I love You.' Then He says, 'Endure this a little while, for my sake.' And I remember the pain He endured for me; suddenly, all my pain feels insignificant. Sandy, if you could hear Him say, 'I’m taking care of little Gip and if you love me, one day you’ll have her back,' that would help you get through it, wouldn’t it?"

"Ay!" replied Sandy, letting out a deep sigh, "but how am I supposed to know?"

"I’ll tell you exactly what Jesus said," John replied; "listen:

"'For the Son of Man,' that's Him, you know; 'the Son of Man has come to save what is lost. What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep and one of them goes missing, doesn't he leave the ninety-nine and go into the mountains to look for the one that got lost? And if he finds it, I tell you the truth, he rejoices more over that sheep than over the ninety-nine that didn't stray. In the same way, it is not the will of your Father in heaven that any of these little ones should be lost.'

"Not one of them, Sandy; not a single one of the hundreds and thousands of little kids in London. He’s taking care of all of them, every single one; and He knows little Gip just as well as you do. I thought about that when I saw so many of them, and I was worried that one might be little Gip, and I wouldn’t even recognize her."

"'Lord,' I said, 'You know her very well. Please take care of her for Sandy, and bring her back one day.'"

"I think he will, maybe before I die."

"I'll tell you exactly what Jesus said,"
John replied. "Listen!"

"Mr. Johnny," Sandy said in a scared voice, "you're not going to die, are you?"

"Eventually, Sandy," he replied softly; "the doctor says there's no hope for me, and my mom and I have talked about it; we're going to be as happy as we can until the end comes, and she’s going to wear her blue ribbons in her hat because I like it that way. It’s tougher for my poor mom than for me, because she’ll have to wait, and now she has nobody but me."

"But you'll be put in a coffin," Sandy said, "and buried deep in the ground."

"That’s not much," replied John Shafto, "that’s just my body; but I’ll go to the other kids. Mom says that the whole world is like one big room to God; and He is with us, just like a mom is with her kids when she sits working in the same room as them, seeing everything they do and hearing everything they say, but maybe not always acting like she’s paying much attention. And dying is just like going into the next room, where we’ll see Him and hear His voice, and we won’t be like little kids playing anymore, but more like His grown-up sons and daughters; and He will talk to us more and teach us harder things than when we’re so little. I’ll be glad to be called into the next room for everything, except leaving mom."

"I don’t know anything about it," Sandy replied, "only that we had two babies who died, and they were put in coffins and buried. Are they in that next room?"

"Yes, they definitely are," said John Shafto.

"And if Mom killed little Gip—" began Sandy, but he couldn't finish the sentence.

"She's there, too," John said, "safe and happy; God's little girl, you know. Where else could little children go, if not to Him, straight to Him? But, Sandy, you don't think she's been killed?"

"Not really," whispered Sandy; "but ever since I saw that dead baby, I've been scared."

There was no time to say anything else, because Mrs. Shafto had opened the shop door and was looking out nervously across the dark graveyard.

"Sandy's back, Mom!" John exclaimed happily. "Tell him to come inside. I have so much to talk to him about that he doesn't know. Make him stay all night again, Mom. I'll go inside and convince Dad to let him."

John disappeared for a bit, but he didn’t stay away long and came back to convince Sandy to go inside. Mr. Shafto glanced at him from the side and muttered some words. However, the other two made up for his unwelcoming attitude, and Sandy wasn’t in a mood to get offended easily. It was too great an opportunity for him to be sitting in the clean, cozy room with John Shafto to talk to him—he wasn’t about to throw that away over something small. He stayed as far back as possible and kept his voice down to a whisper, but he felt happier than he ever had in his life, except for a few rare moments with little Gip.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links.

IS IT TRUE?

SANDY was gone again by daybreak, before Mrs. Shafto could come downstairs. But he had promised John the night before that he would return every evening until Gip was found. He had done his best to describe her to him, though he wasn't very successful—except to convey that she had black eyes and black hair that curled all over her head. However, the vague sense he had picked up about another person who knew Gip just as well as he did, and who was also looking for her, had lifted a huge weight off his shoulders. He had listened eagerly to everything John Shafto and his mother could share about the Lord Jesus Christ, who had lived a sorrowful life and died a painful death for the sake of a lost world; and even though there was a lot he couldn't grasp, he started to feel that he wasn't alone. The true and caring Friend, whom John Shafto knew was always close to him, would surely take some notice of the poor boy that John Shafto was helping!

It was earlier than the night before when Sandy stepped off the street into the quiet graveyard that evening. It was bright enough for him to instantly see the tall, lanky figure of Mr. Shafto, wandering along the smooth path between the gravestones, in shoes that were worn down at the heels. He called to Sandy and pointed out an old, smoke-stained tablet attached to the wall of the chapel.

"Can you read, kid?" he asked.

"No, sir, not a word," replied Sandy, tilting his head to the side and staring at the charred stone, as if he could figure out the inscription just by looking at it.

"That," Mr. Shafto said, "is my grandfather's tombstone, John Shafto, the minister of this chapel. He was a very knowledgeable man, and a lot of people came to hear him preach—wealthy and influential people. He should have been well-off himself, but he left nothing to his children except for that rundown hovel over there. He never imagined that his great-grandson would become friends with a kid from the streets."

"I'm really sorry, sir," Sandy said as Mr. Shafto paused in his speech. "I guess, sir, you started burying people because it was so convenient to be close to the cemetery?"

"There was nothing else to go to," Mr. Shafto said slowly, almost dreamily, as if he forgot he was talking to Sandy. "I had the funeral banner ready, and everyone said I had such a serious demeanor at the funeral. But the city cemeteries closed right after, and now even the family vaults aren’t accessible. Nothing has come of it. But listen, boy," he continued, his tone more alert, "I don’t think you’re a suitable companion for my son, and I can’t allow it. You shouldn’t get into the habit of coming here every night, as if this were your home."

Mr. Shafto had come to this conclusion during the day and decided to put an end to it. A boy picked up from the streets to be Johnny Shafto's close friend? That couldn't happen. Sandy listened in shock, but he had no intention of going against Mr. Shafto's orders. He knew he was completely unfit for that place and those friends; he wasn't surprised at all to hear he shouldn't think of it as his home. He felt disappointment and regret in his heart, but no bitterness, as he listened to Mr. Shafto's words. But here was an opportunity to ask a couple of questions that had been bothering him throughout the day, whenever he thought about what John and his mother had tried to teach him. He moved a little closer to Mr. Shafto and spoke in a quiet, mysterious voice.

"You don't believe the same as those others?" he said, pointing over his shoulder to the house.

"Believe what?" asked Mr. Shafto.

"As He's everywhere, listening to us and watching us," whispered Sandy, "God, you know? I didn't think it was true, but Mr. Johnny was so sure about it."

"Of course it's true," replied Mr. Shafto; "I believe it just as much as my son does."

"I didn't think like you did," Sandy continued. "If I believed it, it would change things for me, it really would. I couldn’t keep living like I usually do. I don't understand how people can believe in it; they carry on just the same as if it weren’t true. Does God know that you don’t want me to have a piece of bread and to sleep on your floor?"

Mr. Shafto couldn’t find the words. He glanced at his grandfather's tablet, then at Sandy's brown, weathered face, full of genuine emotion; but neither of them offered him any answers.

"You don’t really think,” Sandy continued, “that Lord Jesus Christ would do all the things they say He would do for a poor boy in the streets, without shoes on his feet or a cap on his head? Or that He would look out for a ragged little girl like Gip and take care of her for me? Oh, no. You don’t believe that; and maybe it’s not true. You know a lot more than they do; I heard Mr. Johnny's mom say so."

Still Mr. Shafto was speechless.

Sandy spoke sincerely and with a hint of sadness, showing no signs or tones that suggested he meant to offend; he was simply expressing the challenges that had crossed his mind throughout the day.

A strange, new sense of shame hit Mr. Shafto's conscience. Throughout his life, he claimed to believe that God was everywhere, paying attention to everything said and done by every person. He also claimed to believe that Jesus Christ died for everyone, making no distinctions between the rich and the poor, the educated and the uneducated. Yet now, when this poor, uneducated boy stood in front of him, asking if he really believed these things, he couldn’t bring himself to say that he did.

"If it's not true," Sandy continued sadly, "there's no one taking care of little Gip. I could manage for myself, but I don't know what's going to happen to her. I was starting to feel happy again, I really was; but now, if it's not true, Gip's gone, and mom's gone, and nobody cares at all. I wish I had never heard of such a thing!"

No response yet from Mr. Shafto. If it was true that God was with him, what a miserable fool he had been all his life! If God had been listening, day after day, to his complaining and his bragging about his grandfather; if He had been watching all his laziness and selfishness, what a dreadful, sinful person he had been! If Jesus Christ, the Savior, who had given His life for him, knew how he had wasted his own life, squandering it and throwing away all the precious chances to be good and do good, then he was just as lost as poor little Gip or Sandy's alcoholic mother. There was as much need for the Lord to come looking for him, with endless patience, as there had ever been for Him to seek and save the tax collector and sinner.

As for Sandy, his heart felt heavy again. The strange good news that John and Mrs. Shafto told him had turned out to be false. Nobody else believed it. Even Mr. Shafto, who lived in the same house and heard all about it, didn’t believe it; that was clear. Yet turning away from this new hope and this new love that was just beginning to blossom would make the old life he had to return to seem a hundred times darker and sadder than it had before. There was no unseen Friend looking out for him and little Gip; no home for them after death. The grave was the end of everything; and even those who were rich or knowledgeable had nothing left when they died, just gravestones that grew darker with time and the smoke of the bustling city.

Sandy quietly slipped away, not saying another word to Mr. Shafto, whose head had drooped and whose eyes were shut, not out of sheer laziness, but due to something resembling shame and regret.

The boy had plenty of options for shelter tonight; one of his friends had suggested they share an empty sugar barrel he knew about, where they could huddle close together to stay relatively warm. It wasn't the cold that bothered him; it was the thought of little Gip, who had no one else to look after her except him, and the loss of his new friend, John Shafto.

When Mr. Shafto snapped back to reality and realized Sandy was gone, his first feeling was relief. The boy's questions had bothered him so much that he was almost glad to see him go. But as the evening dragged on and Sandy didn’t come back home, John Shafto started to wonder what had stopped him from keeping his promise. Mr. Shafto found himself eagerly listening for a soft knock at the door, ready to welcome the boy back in and invite him to sit by the fire. But no Sandy came; and late into the night, the shop door was locked, and John climbed upstairs to his small room, with a heavy face and an even heavier heart.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

A WOKEN CONSCIENCE.

MR. SHAFTO couldn’t sleep that night. Usually, he slept well and long, often past the time his wife woke up and started her sewing. But tonight, he heard the clock chime over and over; still, his mind wouldn’t relax. His conscience wouldn’t let him be, filling his head with nagging and tormenting thoughts. He saw himself in a way he never had before—worthless, lazy, and selfish—relying on the woman he once claimed to love for the very bread that kept him alive.

The memory of his kids flooded back to him; how unkind he had been to them; how grumpy when they were noisy; how indifferent when they were sick; and how he had almost felt relieved to think they wouldn't need anything from him anymore, except for a coffin and a grave. All of Johnny's life seemed to flash before him, filled with pain and lacking all the joys of childhood; but also filled with love, patience, and quiet trust in God, and free of selfishness and complaining, as if he had been sent into the world to be a total contrast to his father.

Then the thought of Sandy came to haunt him; a kid pulled up from the streets, who didn't know a thing about God and the love of Christ; yet this boy had a love in him deeper than all his ignorance and misery, which showed he was a truer child of the Heavenly Father than he was with all his knowledge. How could he sleep when he didn't know where Sandy was staying; when a small quiet voice was saying to him, "Whatever you didn’t do for him, you didn’t do for Me"?

He could hardly wait for the fire to be lit the next morning, but he was downstairs before John and Mrs. Shafto had started their breakfast. He felt a bit awkward, and his face turned red as John hurried to get out of his comfortable chair in the warmest corner—the chair that had been saved for him as long as John could remember.

"Stay still, Johnny, stay still," he said; "another chair will work for me."

He sat down at the table on a hard, straight-backed chair, like the one his wife was used to sitting on. There was an awkward silence between them that was interrupted by Mrs. Shafto, who spoke in a strained tone.

"Is something wrong with you, Mr. Shafto?" she asked.

He liked it when she called him Mr. Shafto; it sounded more respectful; but he wished she had called him John at that moment.

"No, my dear, no," he replied, "there's nothing you can fix."

"Are you ready for breakfast?" she asked. "Should I cook up some bacon for you?"

"I'll have what you're having," he said.

He realized in the next moment that she was eating dry bread, while Johnny had a bit of butter on his. He took a piece of bread and ate it, every bite almost choking him. He had never bothered to ask what kind of meal his wife and son had a couple of hours before he enjoyed his own comfortable and tasty breakfast, which he often complained about. He couldn't look around much because he was afraid of meeting either of their gazes; all three of them were very quiet, hardly speaking to one another.

"Mary," he said, as soon as breakfast was over, "I think, since there's nothing for me to do, I'll go see if I can find Sandy and look around for little Gip."

Mrs. Shafto couldn't believe she had heard him correctly. It had been so long since he had bothered to go out into the streets, except on Sundays when he wore his black suit to chapel, that she was sure she was misunderstanding him. She stood at the table, holding his empty cup, staring at him in confusion; and when he happened to look up, his face flushed red again.

"I’ve been thinking about Sandy all night," he said. "Since there's nothing for me to do at home, I’ll go see if I can run into the boy at the Mansion House or one of the stations. Don’t worry about my boots, Mary; I’ll clean them myself."

Again, Mrs. Shafto couldn’t believe her own ears. She had cleaned her husband’s boots for him every day since they got married, even when she had a lot of work to do; and he had never offered to clean them himself before. Now she watched him take them into the small scullery behind the kitchen, and soon he came back with them on his feet. He stood a bit straighter than usual, and there was a spark in his eyes, as if he truly saw what was in front of him.

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong with you, Mr. Shafto?" she asked again, more anxious than before.

"Nothing you can fix," he replied; "but, hopefully, it will all work out eventually. Good morning, my dear; don’t expect me for dinner. Goodbye, Johnny."

They followed him to the shop door and watched him cross the graveyard with a steadier and quicker step than John Shafto could ever remember from his father. But Mr. Shafto felt almost dizzy when he turned onto the busy streets. He had spent so long lazily at home, except on Sundays, that it felt completely new to be pushed and jostled as he slowly made his way along the crowded sidewalk. More than once, he thought about giving up his mission and heading back to his quiet spot and comfortable armchair, where he could stretch his tired legs on the hearth and be warm and cozy. The noise and rush drained him; and his head throbbed with the constant clatter of wheels on the streets. What he was doing wouldn’t benefit him or anyone he cared about. A strong urge to turn back washed over him. What did Sandy or little GIP really mean to him, anyway?

"What did you mean to Christ?" asked the quiet voice that lingered in his mind. "What did you mean to Him that He would come looking for you? Did your being found and reconciled to God benefit Him in any way? Did He leave anything behind, sacrifice anything, to save you? Was the world easy and enjoyable for Him while He searched for you? You can go back to your comfort and security if you want, but don't think He will accept you as one of His. Remember what He said, 'Not everyone who says to Me, Lord! Lord! will enter the kingdom of heaven; but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven.'"

Mr. Shafto trudged through the noisy, dirty streets, despite his tired limbs and throbbing head. He moved forward determinedly amid the crowds of people and vehicles, peering through his short-sighted, blurry vision at every boy selling matches, occasionally asking one if he knew anything about Sandy Carroll. None of them had any information on Sandy Carroll, although if he had asked for "Carrots," many could have given him the info he needed. To him, there seemed to be a huge number of match boys and newspaper boys, who quickly noticed him looking their way and immediately approached him as a potential customer. He felt annoyed and anxious, but he refused to give up his search.

He finally turned toward the neighborhood where Sandy used to live, navigating through the back alleys and slums, asking many questions of the rough-looking women hanging around. There was something in his serious face and voice that caught their attention, as if they thought he was an important person in disguise, and they were mostly eager to share whatever they knew or suspected about Nancy Carroll. They mostly believed she had gotten rid of Gipsy, maybe in a drunken rage, barely aware of what she was doing. But she had completely vanished from her usual spots, and Sandy hadn’t been seen since Sunday evening.

The police officer assigned to that area knew no more than the neighbors did; since Sandy had firmly stated that the murdered child wasn’t his sister, the search for his mother had stopped. “There’s no chance,” he said, “of finding the missing child now that more than a week has gone by with no word on her. She’s definitely dead by now, whether she was murdered or not.”

It was pretty late in the afternoon when Mr. Shafto got home again, so worn out from his unusual efforts that he could barely drag one foot in front of the other. He was heartbroken, as well as physically exhausted. He had witnessed some strange things that day—women sprawled drunk on the pavement, unable to make it to their rundown homes, and children shivering with cold, nearly starved to bones. Once, when he had sat down on a doorstep, too tired to go any further without taking a break, a child had called out to him through a broken cellar window, asking for a piece of bread. He had taken a journey through some of the bleakest parts of the big city; and as he headed home, he lost himself in thoughts of the sin and suffering surrounding him.

He was very quiet as he sat in his armchair, watching Mrs. Shafto prepare the tea. Both she and John suspected he didn't have any good news about Sandy; they didn't dare ask him where he had been looking for him, afraid he might respond in a frustrated and angry way. But he didn't stretch out his tired legs to take up the entire hearth, and he smiled faintly, as if it were hard to smile, at his wife's attention to him.

"Johnny," he said, "don’t you hear some noise in the chapel yard?"

John Shafto had heard a faint sound near the shop window, like a dog sniffing around. But he didn't want to move until his dad spoke, worried that it might disturb him. Now, he quickly grabbed his crutches and set off to find out what this strange noise was about.

He came back in a few minutes, his face bright with excitement, but with a hint of hesitation in how he acted. Mr. Shafto had just started his tea; however, he set down his knife and fork, as if he didn't want to hear John's news while he was eating. His wife couldn't figure out what this change could mean.

"It's Sandy, Dad," said John; "he won't come in."

"But he has to come in!" Mr. Shafto exclaimed eagerly. "Mary, my love, go and get him to come in. He might try to escape if I go, and I could never catch him if he started running. We need to get him inside."

Mrs. Shafto didn’t wait to hear everything he said; she was already at the shop door, with her hand on Sandy's arm, urging him to come inside, ignoring any objections from the boy. Not that he wanted to object, because he had been eager to see John Shafto and have a chat with him all day. He followed her with hesitant steps and his head down into the kitchen, where Mr. Shafto was sitting.

"Come over to the fire, my boy," Mr. Shafto said warmly; "there’s plenty of room for everyone. And, Mary, please pour him a cup of hot tea to warm him up. He’s welcome to it. Johnny, take a seat at the table, and let’s all get comfortable together."

Sandy barely knew what to do; but with a subtle nod from Mrs. Shafto, he sat on a stool by the fire and silently took a big cup of tea from her. This was all so different from what he had imagined when he sneaked through the graveyard, scratched against the window, and whined like a dog, hoping John Shafto would come out; ready, if Mr. Shafto showed up, to hide behind one of the tall gravestones. It was also so different from hanging around the baker's shop windows until they closed and then sleeping in a barrel. So different! He wished it could last forever.

"Sandy," Mr. Shafto said after tea, "I've been looking for you all day to tell you that everything my Mary and Johnny believe is true. It’s true that God sees and hears everything, and that He loves you just as much as He loves the Queen on her throne. It’s true that the Lord Jesus Christ is trying to save you, your mother, and little Gip just as if you were as rich and educated as anyone in London. He’s been searching for me for many long years, but I’ve been holding back; I didn’t want Him to see my selfishness and laziness. But today He found me and showed me who I am, and I believe He brought you here to help me understand myself better. We can’t do much for you right now until I find some work, but whatever we have, we’ll share with you; and God willing, Sandy, we’ll help you find both Christ and little Gip."

Mrs. Shafto was quietly wiping away her tears, and John pressed close to his father's side, slipping his thin hand into his. It was one of the happiest evenings they had ever experienced as they talked about how Sandy could be clothed, educated, and set up with a more reliable way to earn a living than selling matches.

"Mary, my love," said Mr. Shafto as bedtime approached, "would it be okay to put Sandy's mattress in Johnny's room next to his bed? We're not letting him sleep on the streets again. I’ll come upstairs with you and see what we can do."

That night, Sandy slept in a corner between John's bed and the wall, where the low roof slanted over him. If John lay awake at night, he would never feel lonely again; and if Sandy woke from his deep sleep, he would know that John was right next to him. Both boys were really happy about this setup; but it was John who, during the sleepless and tough hours of the night, kept thanking God over and over for giving him Sandy as a companion and friend.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

TWO MOMS.

BUT Mr. Shafto found it tough to break free from the habits of laziness and selfishness that he had been stuck in for so many years. Just one effort and one day's work didn't liberate him; the routines of his life were too ingrained for that. Plus, he had no real job to turn to. He had gotten into the undertaker's trade purely out of boredom; and since the graveyard had been closed, with no funerals allowed there, all his chances of work in that area had vanished. He hadn’t minded much, as long as his wife's hard work provided him with his comforts. The little house they lived in had been passed down from his grandfather, the minister, whose smoky plaque still hung on the chapel wall. He often thought to himself that it wasn't much for his wife to be earning just enough for food and clothes.

So now there was absolutely no work he could do. He wandered around looking for Gip a bit, but there was no hope of success to keep him motivated. After visiting a few police stations and shelters with Sandy, it felt like a waste of time to keep wandering the streets asking about a child who had been missing for so long. Even Sandy started to feel this way, although he couldn't bring himself to give up hope of finding her somewhere, somehow. Whenever he spotted a tiny ragged girl or heard the voice of a small child, he couldn't help but look and listen, wondering if it was his little Gip. But he didn’t have much more time for the search; Mr. Shafto found regular work for Sandy, although he couldn’t find any for himself.

This was in a wood yard, where several poor, friendless boys worked chopping wood and tying it into bundles of chips for lighting fires. It was owned by Mr. Mason, the young man whom Sandy had heard preaching that Sunday when he first met John Shafto. Luckily for him, there was an open position that Mr. Mason could put him in right away. So there he was, with regular work and small but steady pay; a night school he was expected to attend; and the chance to soon earn enough to live more comfortably than he ever had before.

"If it weren't for little Gip," Sandy said to John Shafto, "I’d be as happy as a king. Sometimes I can't believe it's really me. But there's Gip; she never leaves my mind. I'm worried she'll move on from my memories if I don't find her soon. Sometimes it hits me that I might not see her again for years, until she's all grown up, and then I won't even recognize her. That thought terrifies me, and I feel like I want to run away from the wood yard and keep wandering the streets until I find her. But she can't move on from His knowledge, can she?"

"Whose?" asked John Shafto.

"Him! Lord Jesus, as he's looking for her just like we are. He’ll definitely know her, right? I just wish I could see Him even once to tell Him everything about her. I really want to see how He reacts when I talk about her. It’s so incredibly hard to close my eyes and speak to nothing when I talk about little Gip. If I could just look into His face and hear Him say, 'Don't worry, Sandy, I’ll find her and keep her safe for you,' just once, I’d be satisfied."

"But He is doing that," answered John Shafto; "wherever little Gip is, He's taking care of her for you and will let you have her back someday. We can never see His face here, but I will see it eventually and maybe tell Him about Gip myself."

"You'll have to die to do that," Sandy said seriously. The idea that John would tell the Lord Jesus Christ about little Gip brought him a lot of comfort; but he couldn't stand the thought of losing him himself.

"Yes," John said, "but if it weren't for mom, I wouldn't care about that. I’ve always thought about it, ever since we used to play around the graves and learn our letters on the tombstones, me and the other kids who have passed away. At night when I sit up in bed, I can see the graves through my window. I'm not scared of any of that, Sandy; and now that you’re here, you have to take my place, grow up, and be a good son to poor mom."

"And when I find little Gip, she'll be her little girl," answered Sandy, eagerly. "I don't think Mom will ever show up again now, do you? I couldn't have two moms."

That was Sandy's secret fear, which haunted him every day as he moved around for work. He was always worried that his mother would grab him by the collar and hold him tight while she searched his pockets for coins; or that she would strip him of his decent work jacket and pawn it at the nearest shop. He was sure she would follow him to his new home and bother his friends there, until they felt they had no choice but to give him back to her, forcing him back into his old miserable life. It was a constant worry, and whenever he had to pass the swinging doors of the bar, which were common on the streets he walked, he would rush by quickly, as if it were the lair of some hungry beast waiting to devour him.

"Lord," he often said in his prayers, "let mom be lost forever, and never found again; but please find little Gip for me soon."

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

JOHNNY'S SUNDAY OUTFIT.

It was strange how the thought of little Gip consumed John Shafto's mind. The winter days, dark and cold, had definitely arrived, and he couldn't limp along the streets with his crutches, watching the ragged children he saw in large numbers. Yet even if the summer warmth had filled the air, he wouldn’t have been able to search for her, because the little strength he had left was slowly fading away; he was clearly heading toward the grave, the dark passage he would take to reach his Father’s house beyond.

But he hardly seemed to notice the painful steps of the journey he was taking, so preoccupied was he with little Gip. Maybe it was because he and Sandy talked about nothing else; or maybe it was because there was always a faint, vague hope in his heart that when Sandy came home from work in the evening, he would bring the happy news that Gip had been found. With this hope stirring inside him, he never missed watching for Sandy's return; and when the usual hour approached, he turned up the gas in the shop window so that Sandy could see his face looking out beside the hatchment as soon as he entered the graveyard.

A whistle would call him to the door just as Sandy got there; and he always checked to see if there was a little worn-out figure standing next to him in the dark. But Gip was never there; and both boys felt hopeless and really sad about her.

Mrs. Shafto thought very little of Gip compared to her son, who was about to be taken from her. She kept her kitchen bright and cozy, wore blue ribbons in her cap, and tried to smile for Johnny's sake; but no one knew how heavy and sad her heart was at times. She told herself she had to keep it together so she wouldn’t make her boy feel miserable and down because of her; but it was really hard. Mr. Shafto couldn’t control himself like she could, having never practiced self-denial for long; often he would sink down in his easy chair, hide his face in his hands, and groan out loud when he thought about how soon John would be gone and he would never hear the sound of his crutches around the house again.

Sandy was their biggest source of comfort, arriving home after work with all kinds of news he’d heard on the street or at the wood yard, along with interesting questions that took their minds off their own sadness. The evenings spent with him by the fire felt much less gloomy than the dark days.

At last, the moment arrived when John Shafto didn’t have the strength to get out of bed and come downstairs to the cheerful little kitchen, which had been kept so bright for him. He could only lie still now in the small room with its sloped ceiling and the dormer window, through which he could see the gravestones. The change worried Sandy, even though he couldn’t convince himself that Johnny was going to die, especially with his face looking so happy and cheerful, and his weak voice sounding so pleasant. He told himself that when the warm weather returned, Johnny would surely feel better and be up and about again. He couldn't stand the thought of losing him just like they lost little Gip.

"Mom," said John Shafto one Sunday morning, after he had been in bed for a few days and knew he would never get up and walk around on his crutches again, "Mom, you’ll look out for Sandy instead of me? I keep telling myself, Sandy will be like a son to you, and you’ll be his mom when I’m not here anymore."

"You're not gone yet, my dear!" she said, brushing the soft hair off his forehead and speaking as calmly as she could.

"No, but I'm going, Mom," he replied; "and I like to think of you having Sandy to fill in for me."

"He'll never take your place, Johnny," his mother cried.

"Not just at first, but eventually he’ll feel like your own son," continued John Shafto; "he's going to be a good boy, I know, because he loves hearing me talk about Jesus Christ, and he's starting to understand it all better now. Mom," and John put his arm affectionately around her neck, "I want you to let Sandy wear my Sunday clothes, and let me see him go to church with Dad. I could watch them walk across the graveyard together if you’d just lift me up in your arms for a minute."

"Oh, Johnny, Johnny! I can't!" she exclaimed, dropping to her knees and burying her face in her boy's pillow.

He gently caressed her cheek with his fragile fingers, whispering, "Poor mom, poor mom!"

It took her a long time to collect herself or finish a sentence once she started saying it, but eventually she managed to hold back her tears and sobs.

"Do you want it really badly, dear?" she asked. "It would be tough to see Sandy in your Sunday suit, but if you truly want it—"

"Oh, Mom, I really do," he said. "It's like Sandy is my own brother, and little Gip is my sister. I think about them a lot when I can't sleep at night. I feel like I understand how much Jesus wants to bring back those who are lost and have them with Him in heaven. I found Sandy, and now it feels like he belongs to me and should share everything I have. If only we could find little Gip before I die!"

It was a very difficult moment for Mrs. Shafto, but she handled it courageously for Johnny's sake. She took out his Sunday suit from the drawer in her room, where she kept it neatly brushed and folded; and she looked for a clean collar and a necktie that John Shafto used to wear. It felt almost as painful as making Johnny's burial clothes—a heartbreaking task that she knew she would have to face before spring ended. She placed them on his bed, then went downstairs to find Sandy and asked him to go and put on her boy's best suit.

This was a really important and challenging situation for Sandy, and John Shafto watched him with quiet but great pleasure. His old rags had disappeared one by one, and he had learned to keep himself clean and tidy; but he had never worn any clothes that could compare to these, even though they were a little worn at the elbows and knees, and all the seams were somewhat frayed. He brushed his hair in front of the small mirror and anxiously tried to part his rough, strong curls as smoothly as John Shafto's fine and thin hair. Very carefully and slowly, he put on the clean white collar and did his best to fasten the blue necktie under his chin as neatly as John would have done. But, despite all his efforts, he was sure he didn’t look like him, and he was almost ready to cry with frustration and disappointment. His brown, healthy face and rough hands were very different from John's delicate appearance.

"Come here, Sandy," said John Shafto, in his soft, weak voice: "come over here and kiss me."

He had never asked him to kiss him before, and Sandy felt scared. But he leaned over the pale, sunken face and touched it gently with his lips, just like he used to kiss little Gip when she was asleep.

"Wow, nobody would recognize you now," John said, looking at him with a critical yet admiring gaze. "I don't think your mom would even know it was you if she ran into you on the street dressed like this."

"But little Gip would never know me!" cried Sandy, feeling down. He was proud of his new clothes, but if they got in the way of finding Gip, he'd rather go back to his old rags. He started to think that maybe he was out of the loop when it came to finding her now that he was pulled away from their old life. What good would it do him to live well, have a comfortable bed to sleep in, and wear nice clothes, if his little Gip was starving, cold, and almost naked? He would give up everything, even Mrs. Shafto and his friend Johnny, and return to the old struggles and misery, if it meant he could save Gip.

"But you'll know little Gip," replied John Shafto. "You can't walk by her without noticing her."

"Ay!" said Sandy: "I’d recognize her even if there were thousands of girls; I’d pick her out of all of them."

"That's how it is," John Shafto whispered; "we may not know Jesus Christ, but He knows us. I see it more clearly now. He is searching for us just like you are searching for Gip. To Him, the whole world is like little Gip—lost, miserable, and starving; and He wouldn’t be happy, even in heaven, until He finds us. I think He must feel troubled, like you do about Gip; but He will find us all one day, even if we don’t want Him to."

"But can He find us whenever He wants?" Sandy asked, raising his sad face to look at John.

"Not when He wants," John replied, "or everyone would be safe and happy right now. It's like if little Gip kept running away from you and hiding anywhere she could out of your sight. That would be really tough for you, wouldn't it?"

"Ay!" said Sandy, with a heavy sigh. "But little Gip would never do that with Sandy."

"But that's what we do with the Lord Jesus Christ," continued John Shafto, solemnly; "we run away from Him and hide anywhere so He won't find us. Oh! Sandy, if only everyone in the world could be found by Him!"

"I'll be found!" cried Sandy. "Look, Lord Jesus! I'm lost from You just like little Gip is lost from me. Find me, wherever You are: find me, and let me never be lost again. And when You've found me, please help me find my little Gip."

"Amen!" whispered John Shafto, his face beaming. "He'll find you, Sandy, don't worry; and little Gip too. Now go on down, and I'll watch you and Dad walk together across the yard to the chapel."

Sandy crept slowly downstairs, feeling a bit embarrassed about his new costume; but when he stepped into the kitchen and saw Mrs. Shafto gasp and fall into a chair, covering her face with her apron, he forgot all about it and rushed to her side.

"Has anything hurt you?" he asked sincerely. "Is there nothing I can do for you? I'm really strong, and I would do anything in the world for you and Johnny. Just say the word. What should I do?"

"Nothing!" she replied, still crying, as she rested her head on his shoulder, on Johnny's jacket.

While Sandy, in complete amazement, dared to gently touch her blue ribbons with his finger.

"Nothing, my boy. I just saw you come down in these clothes, and you looked a bit like Johnny, yet so very different! It's not just trouble that I'm crying over, dear heart! I know where he's headed, and I'm sure you'll be a good boy; but I can't help shedding a few tears. Now, you need to go; Mr. Shafto's all set, and it's time for you to leave; I’ll run upstairs and hold Johnny so he can see you."

So John Shafto, cradled in his mother's arms, watched Sandy and his dad walk side by side across the graveyard. When they got to the tablet on the chapel wall, Mr. Shafto stopped for a moment, and Sandy turned around and waved his cap for John to see him, even though it was impossible for John to catch a glimpse of him in the dark, low room.

"He'll be a good boy, I know," whispered John Shafto; "and now, if he could just find little Gip!"

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

Passing Away.

BUT all this time, while John Shafto was getting closer and closer to death and what came after, Sandy had never realized it. He had often seen people just as sick, lying on uncomfortable beds in cramped rooms, with faces just as worn and pale, but without the friendly smile that always lit up John Shafto's eyes whenever he looked at him. Moreover, even though John sometimes talked about dying, he always approached it as something so familiar and little feared that it never felt like the same dark reality that death represented when it entered the bleak homes Sandy had known, taking one person after another to nothing but a cheap coffin and a forgotten grave.

The truth finally hit Sandy, bringing with it a shock of unexpected surprise and deep sadness. He had said goodbye to Johnny in the morning and had left whistling happily to work, not anticipating any trouble throughout the day.

But when he got home again in the evening, he found Mr. Shafto crying hard, with his face buried in his hands and his head resting on the small table where they used to sit together. The fire had burned low, and the ashes were scattered around the hearth— the whole room looked like something terrible had happened in the house. The only light came from the open door to the shop he had left ajar, where he could see the child's coffin resting on the counter, and the rusty plumes hanging heavily and dark against the wall. Mr. Shafto was letting out deep, heart-wrenching groans that made Sandy shrink and shiver with dread.

"Is there something really wrong?" he dared to ask after standing silent for a moment.

"Is that you, Sandy?" Mr. Shafto asked, his voice shaky.

"Yeah, it's me!" he replied. "Can I do anything?"

"Johnny wants to see you," Mr. Shafto said; "he's been asking all afternoon when you would be back home."

Sandy barely heard the last words, as he was already climbing the winding staircase with a quick but silent step. The small room where he and John slept was brighter than the kitchen below, although still dim with just one candle’s light. But he could see John's face, pale and glowing, with a brightness in his eyes that Sandy had never noticed before, and a look that seemed like it might just break Sandy's heart.

"Oh, Johnny!" he shouted. "Little Gip is missing; and now you're going to die and leave me!"

He dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed and buried his face in the clothes. Was it really too awful to be true? The love he had felt for little Gip had shifted to John Shafto. After losing her, his heart, which had been craving something to love, turned to him and held on just as it had done with her. Little by little, he had found comfort for her loss, even though he never stopped thinking about her; and now he was leaving too! He couldn't see how he could keep living in a world without little Gip or John Shafto.

"Sandy!" called a weak, quiet voice. "Sandy!"

"I can't let you go!" Sandy shouted, "Don't you die, Johnny. Don't leave me. What am I supposed to do if you die and I can never see you again? Oh, Johnny! Please don't die and leave me."

"Sandy," John's weak voice said again, "I have to go; and you'll have my mom, you know. She’s promised to be just like your own mom, and I want you to promise you’ll treat her like I would. You have to take my spot. Oh, Sandy! I’ll be happier if you promise to always love my mom and be like a son to her."

"I can't be like you," Sandy replied. "I'm not good like you are. I hardly know anything about God, Jesus, and heaven. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't know anything about it at all; and I'm afraid I'll forget everything if you die and leave me."

He couldn’t stand the idea of forgetting God; but in this moment of darkness, it felt like if John Shafto died, he would sink back into the old ignorance and wickedness, knowing nothing more than the sin and misery of this world. Who would teach him like John had? Who would explain to him clearly and confidently that the Lord Jesus Christ, who was looking for him, was always ready to take care of him? He couldn’t see Christ or hear Him; and if John were gone, how could he be sure it was all true?

"Sandy," John Shafto said, "do you love me?"

"Hey!" sobbed Sandy.

"You actually believe what I’m telling you?" he said again.

"Yeah!" he replied.

"Eventually," the soft, quiet voice continued, "you'll feel that way towards Jesus Christ. It's exactly the same. You'll love and believe in me after I'm gone, when you can't see or hear me. And you need to love and believe in Him the same way, even though you can't see or hear Him. He loves you more than I do, a hundred times, a thousand times more. I don't think it's a different kind of love, just that it's a thousand times more and better. He's done everything I've asked Him to do for you, except one thing."

"What's that?" Sandy asked, lifting his head to look with dull eyes at John's face.

"I really wanted you to find Gip before I died," he whispered; "poor little Gip! I'd love to see her. And it would have made you so happy; it wouldn't have been that hard for you if I had to die. If she's in heaven, I'll see her there; maybe Jesus Himself will point out which one of the little children she is. I’d tell her all about you, Sandy. But if she's not dead, I really wanted to see her just this once."

"I've almost forgotten what she's like," said Sandy, with a hint of bitterness in his tone; "I should have found her by now if I'm ever going to know her again."

"Maybe she's in heaven!" John whispered, and then his voice faded, and his tired eyes shut.

A shiver of dread ran through Sandy, but John had only dozed off from exhaustion for a few minutes. Mrs. Shafto, whom he hadn’t noticed before, leaned forward and raised her hand to signal him not to make any noise. He didn’t move and barely dared to breathe, kneeling still and watching John with focused, eager eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to look away and risk losing sight of that beloved face, which would soon be hidden from him.

"Sandy!" John said, waking up and speaking again suddenly, as if he hadn't been asleep at all. "Do you see my mom?"

"Ay!" he replied, looking at her for a moment.

"You'll be a good son to her?" he asked.

Sandy couldn't say anything else, but he covered his face again with his rough brown hands.

John Shafto turned to his mom with a warm smile.

"I'll vouch for him," he said; "he'll be a great son to you, and someday you'll wear blue ribbons for him and be really happy again. Look at him, Mom. Isn’t it kind of like what Jesus said on the cross to John? 'Look after your mother!' And to His mother, 'Look after your son!' It’s something like that. 'And from that moment, the disciple took her into his home.' Sandy's definitely going to be a good son to you, Mom."

"I'll take him instead of you," said Mrs. Shafto; "but oh, Johnny, Johnny! if only God had kept you here with me!"

They were quiet again for a minute or two; and John Shafto, with his weak fingers, brought his mother's hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

"I'm not leaving just yet," he said calmly; "we still have a little time together. Mom, I wish I could see Mr. Mason again; but if I do, it has to be soon. It will be too late tomorrow."

"I'll go get him," Sandy said. "He was asking about you just this morning, and he’ll be happy to come. Just don’t leave while I'm gone."

He paused for a moment to kiss John Shafto, feeling a sharp surge of fear that he might never see him alive again. Then he dashed downstairs and sprinted away through the dark street, moving faster than he ever had before, repeating to himself out loud, "Johnny will be dead before I can get back."

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

Finally Found.

It was almost a mile to the street where Mr. Mason lived, but Sandy didn’t stop to catch his breath during his fast run. He raced along the sidewalk and hurried over the crosswalks, as if he were being chased by a cop. When he got to Mr. Mason's house, he knocked on the door with such urgency that he got an immediate response.

"I'm here for Mr. Mason!" he gasped. "John Shafto's dying, and he wants to see him."

"Master's not home," said the servant; "he left at six o'clock."

"Where did he go?" asked Sandy, feeling a sense of blank dismay.

"I'll go ask," replied the servant, leaving him on the doorstep, out of breath, and sitting down to rest for a minute.

It was really hard to find Mr. Mason when he was out; because if he didn't come back soon, John Shafto might be dead, and he'd never, ever hear him speak again. Wouldn't it be better to just go back right away with the news that Mr. Mason wasn't home? But then again, John cared so much for him, having known and loved him long before he took Sandy in off the streets. And Mr. Mason would be heartbroken if he found John had died without saying goodbye. That would be a huge disappointment for both of them. But what if neither he nor Mr. Mason made it in time, and they both missed the chance to see Johnny one last time? Surely, it wouldn’t be wrong to head back right now and make sure for himself!

Sandy hadn’t fully decided yet when the servant opened the door again; he jumped to his feet to hear what she had to say.

"Masters just went to a farewell tea meeting at Miss Murray's," she said. "She's heading to Canada tomorrow with a group of kids, and Master's sending out two boys from his Refuge, so he's gone to see them one last time. It's about twenty minutes from here."

"I know the place," interrupted Sandy; "we took a load of wood there this morning for Miss Murray's boys to chop up."

"That's where the master is right now," said the servant.

She closed the door again, leaving Sandy on the step, still unsure of what to do.

It was a mile further on, a long mile: and every step would add to the distance between him and John Shafto. He turned back toward home and ran quickly to the end of the street, feeling like he couldn’t go the other way. But he paused again there. How devastated would John be! And Mr. Mason, what would he say when he found out John Shafto was dead, without getting to say goodbye? Would he feel anything close to the sorrow that Sandy was experiencing? Suddenly, Sandy took off in the opposite direction and didn’t waste another moment or pause again until he reached the place where he would find Mr. Mason.

It was a big building—a home for underprivileged kids, who came from all over London. Every window was lit up, and there was a lot of activity with people coming and going. Tomorrow, several orphan boys and girls, rescued straight from the streets of the City, were set to leave for a new home in Canada; and many of their friends had gathered to say goodbye and give them small tokens to remember their home country by later in life.

Sandy walked towards the entrance of the large room where everyone was gathered, but he couldn’t get in at first because of the crowd blocking the doorway. He could hear Mr. Mason speaking and listened with frustration. However, he didn’t realize that he could get pushed out if he interrupted the speech, and he might even end up being handed over to the policeman he had seen near the outer door.

Slowly, Sandy moved into the room, eager to catch Mr. Mason’s attention and interrupt his lengthy farewell to the boys and girls, which was eating into the little time left for John Shafto and himself. He could see the emigrants now; boys, like him, who had experienced the harsh realities of city life, who had gone hungry, shivered in rags, slept outside in the cold, and walked the streets barefoot, never knowing from day to day what they would eat or where they would sleep. There were girls too, whose lives had been just as tough; but now they were sitting together in warm red hoods and blue dresses, creating a bright spot in the dingy crowd that caught Sandy’s attention. He glanced at them for a moment, thinking how pretty little Gip would look dressed like that; then he pushed even closer to Mr. Mason.

Now he could see Miss Murray herself, with a very little girl on her lap, the smallest and youngest by far of the emigrants; a child in a red hood and blue dress like the others.

Sandy's eyes were locked on her; he stood as still as if he had turned into stone, every other thing fading completely from his view. This little girl faced him, a small face, but not pinched like Gip's; a rosy face, with bright black eyes and cute black hair curling under the red hood. It couldn’t be Gip! Was it really possible that it could be his little Gip? He couldn’t dare to breathe or move. But suddenly, she lifted her tiny hands to her face and peeked through the open fingers at the people around her; just one of Gip's cute tricks, the exact one he had taught her himself! No. It couldn’t be any child other than Gip!

"Gip!" he suddenly shouted, at the top of his lungs, until the roof echoed; "Gip! My little Gip!"

Mr. Mason paused in his speech, and everyone turned to look at Sandy. But he didn't see a single face around him; the only face was little Gip's, with wide-open, searching, curious eyes, searching everywhere for him. He heard no sound, except Gip's high-pitched little voice, calling, "Here I am, Dandy! Here little Gip is. Where's Dandy?"

In another second, Sandy pushed his way to the front and reached out his arms to Gip, who ran into them with a joyful scream.

In just a moment, Sandy pushed his way to the front,
and opened his arms to Gip, who dashed into them,
letting out a loud scream of joy.

He sat down on the floor with her on his lap and buried his face in the little red hood, hardly aware if they had both died and entered the heaven he had only heard about since losing her.

"Oh! Dandy, Dandy!" cried little Gip, holding on to him with all her strength. "Dandy's back again for Gip!"

Sandy didn’t realize how quiet everyone was around them. There was no sound except for deep sobs, as many of the people gathered nearby were in tears. Mr. Mason stepped down from the small platform where he had been standing and placed his hand on Sandy’s head.

"Is that your lost little Gip?" he asked.

"Ay!" replied Sandy, holding her closely in his arms and looking around nervously to see if he could get out of the room with her; "ay! it's my little Gip. No one is taking her away from me again, you know. She belongs to me, and I'm going to take care of her now. She can't be taken off to Canada away from me."

"No, no," said Mr. Mason, "we're not taking Gip from you, my boy. If she leaves, you leave too. But stand up, Sandy, and tell Miss Murray everything about her."

He slowly and hesitantly got to his feet, not letting go of Gip for a moment. All he could see was a blurry circle of faces surrounding him, making it hard to escape; but he spoke loudly and clearly.

"Mom was always getting drunk," he said, "and one cold night she lost little Gip in the streets; and I've been searching for her everywhere since then. If it hadn't been for Johnny Shafto, I might have died. But I want you to let me take her and look after her; I’ll be really good to her. Gip wouldn’t be happy without me, and Mrs. Shafto and Johnny will take good care of her. Oh! Please, Johnny's dying, and he sent me to ask you to come right away."

"Wait a minute," said Miss Murray, as Mr. Mason was about to rush off. "I need to tell my friends here how this little girl came into my care. She was found crying in the streets one night by a girl whose sister is in this Home, and she brought her straight to me. None of us could find out her name or where she lived, so we kept her with us while I made every effort to find out more. I’ll be sad to leave for Canada tomorrow without my little girl, but Mr. Mason will look after both of them, and maybe they’ll come out with me next time."

Sandy heard very few of those words; his fear that John Shafto might be dead surged back with even more intensity. If he were still alive, he would get to see little Gip after all! He was filled with impatience to leave; within a few minutes, he found himself sitting next to Mr. Mason in a cab, with Gip still in his arms, while the driver had been told to go as fast as possible to Mr. Shafto's house.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

GONE.

THEY had to leave the cab in the street and walk across the chapel yard. A bright light shone through John Shafto's window, spilling onto the gravestones and the nearly flat graves, covered with thick grass. What a peaceful place to live or die in, right in the heart of the City!

Mr. Mason walked quietly, as if his footsteps might already disturb the dying boy; and Sandy gently quieted Gip, who was happily chattering in his arms. The kitchen was dark and empty, since Mr. Shafto was no longer in the armchair in the warmest corner; they passed through and carefully climbed the old staircase. The door to John's room was open, and they could see him before they entered, his head resting against his mother’s shoulder, her arm around him, while tears slowly streamed down her cheeks. John's pale face still held a faint smile around his mouth, even though his eyes were closed. Mr. Shafto stood at the foot of the bed watching him, as if he couldn't bear to miss a single moment of the few that were left to see his boy's living face.

"John!" Mr. Mason said softly as he got closer to him, "John!"

"Sandy found you!" John whispered, opening his heavy eyelids. "I thought it would be too late. Where's Sandy?"

"I'm here, Johnny!" shouted Sandy from the doorway. "Me and little Gip. We finally found little Gip, Johnny!"

"Little Gip!" he said, waking up. "Bring her to me for a moment, Sandy."

"Gip has to be really good," said Sandy, encouragingly, as she pulled back the red hood from her small face. "Gip has to love Johnny, kiss him, and say goodbye."

" I'll be good," Gip promised, looking around confidently; "I'll kiss everyone and say goodbye. I'm going across the big sea tomorrow."

"No, no," cried Sandy, "little Gip's not leaving; it's Johnny who's going; and she has to put her little arms around his neck and kiss him; that's a good little girl!"

He laid her down on the bed next to Johnny, and the dying boy turned his face toward her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gently kissed his cheek, as if she realized how sick he was. He took her small, soft, warm hand in his cold one and held it tightly, while Sandy stood by, hardly knowing whether he felt more joy or sadness at that moment.

"I'm so glad!" whispered John Shafto. "It's all true, every word of it."

"What’s true, my boy?" asked Mr. Mason.

"That thing about Him leaving the others who are safe and going after the one that's lost," he said, needing to pause frequently to catch his breath before continuing; "and when He finds us, He’s so happy! He’s happier than I am! And He calls all the angels to Him and says, 'Celebrate with me.' The whole world is like little Gip; but He’ll be even happier than we are one day when He finds us. It’s all real."

"Totally true!" repeated Mr. Mason.

Sandy dropped to his knees beside John Shafto and reached his arm over him to touch little Gip.

Johnny's eyes were fixed on his face with an expression of deep tenderness.

"He's looked after little Gip for you," he said; "you must never forget that, or stop loving Him, even though you can't see Him. You'll be like a son to your mother; I'm entrusting her to you."

"Oh! Johnny! Johnny!" Mr. Shafto said in a sorrowful voice, "I’ve been a bad father to you and a terrible husband to Mary; but please say something to me, as if I had been everything I should have been. Can Christ save me from my laziness and selfishness? If only you could live to see what kind of father I would be!"

"Have you not been a good father?" asked Johnny, smiling. "I never thought that, not for a second. But maybe I've loved Mom more; she's always been so good to me. She'll be good to Sandy and little Gip now."

There was such a deep silence for a few minutes after that, that all the faint sounds from the busy streets seemed to grow louder and closer. Gip raised her little head to look around; but when Sandy held up his hand, she laid it down gently again on the pillow beside Johnny's white, still face. His fingers slipped from her tiny hand. Which one was Sandy supposed to look at? Gip’s rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, or John Shafto’s pale, cold face, with a film covering his sight and the smile fading from his lips?

"Oh, Johnny!" he cried. "Can’t you stick around for just a little longer? Wouldn’t you want to spend one more day with little Gip? Please don’t die today, Johnny, especially now that I’ve found my little Gip."

"I'm really glad she's been found," he whispered, his lips so close to Sandy that he could hear every word. "But I can't stay. Lost and found! Dead and alive again! Celebrate with me! That's what he's saying."

"Who says that?" Sandy asked, but there was no response.

They were all staring at Johnny's face; even little Gip's dark eyes were fixed on it, because it had an unusual glow. His lips moved slowly, even though Sandy couldn't hear what he was saying. His eyes sparkled with a constant light of happiness. Then his head dropped lower onto his mother's chest; and she let out a single cry of deep sorrow, because she realized he was gone.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links.

A VISION.

LITTLE Gip's curly head was still resting quietly on Johnny's pillow, and Sandy's arm was stretched across his friend to touch Gip's soft hand. But now Mr. Mason lifted the child from the bed and whispered to him to take her away.

He carried her downstairs into the dark, empty kitchen below, where the gray ashes of the dead fire had no spark of light or warmth. Could everything he had gone through that evening really be true? Was this really lost Gip, whom he held so tightly to his heart? Little Gip, for whom he had searched, with a heavy heart and a spirit weighed down by dread, for so many long months, in so many miserable places? If it was true, why wasn’t he jumping and shouting for joy? What was it that made him sit down on the lonely hearth, with no other light than the flicker of the gas, burning among the funeral plumes in the shop beyond the kitchen, and hide his face in Gip’s hair, bursting into deep, sorrowful sobs? Oh, if only John Shafto could have lived just one day longer!

"Gip is going across the big sea tomorrow," mumbled Gip, in a very sleepy voice, as she settled down comfortably on Sandy's lap.

He knew he wasn’t about to lose her again like that, but where had Johnny gone? What vast ocean had he crossed? What strange place had he gone to, where no one could follow him by choice? By now, Sandy understood that the deep grave didn’t take away any part of real life, and that it was just the empty shell of the body that was buried out of sight. John Shafto had already moved into some new, unknown home; and even as he was just stepping over the threshold, lingering a moment longer with his mother and Sandy, he caught a glimpse of a face and heard the first sound of a voice he loved more than theirs.

Then, in the dim light of dusk, Sandy had a kind of vision of what Johnny's friend must be—that Lord he had loved so deeply. The face looked somewhat like John's, with the same tender, patient, almost suffering expression, but with such a divine smile shining on it that the suffering felt like joy. He also thought he heard a very soft and quiet voice saying, though he couldn't tell if it was in his ear or his heart, "Sandy, I've taken care of little Gip for you and brought her back; now I'll take care of him until you see him again. Just love Me."

And Sandy whispered back into the darkness, "God, I will love You! Just make me as good as Johnny."

Maybe he was sleeping then, or he must have dozed off right after on the hearth in front of the cold fireplace, with Gip sound asleep in his arms; because after a while, he suddenly woke up and saw Mrs. Shafto quietly coming down the narrow staircase, holding a light. Her face was very pale and sad, but there were no tears in her eyes. Sandy could hear the loud, heavy groans of Mr. Shafto in the room above; yet Johnny's mother didn't cry: and aside from the paleness of her cheeks and the sorrowful line of her mouth, there was no visible sign of her grief. She approached him and looked down with pity at little Gip. Then she bent down and gently lifted him into her arms.

"Poor little heart!" she said. "Poor sweet little heart!" But then her voice trailed off, and her silent tears vanished. She sat down with Gip hugged tightly to her, rocking herself back and forth, and cried out, with an outpouring of tears, "Oh! Johnny! Johnny! Oh! my last child!"

Sandy didn’t know how to comfort her or what to say. He stood next to her, put his arm around her neck like he’d often seen John do, and pulled her head to rest on his shoulder. When her sobs started to fade after a long time of crying, he finally dared to speak.

"Mom," he said, thinking that John Shafto would want him to call her that, "little Gip and I will probably be just as good for you as Johnny was. I'm going to try to be like him, I swear; and I'll teach little Gip everything he taught me. I promised him I'd work for you and take care of you when you get too old to work anymore. He used to say he was glad I was so strong and not like him in that way. But I'm going to do my best to be like him in every other way."

It was all Sandy could do to get those words out between her trembling lips.

And Mrs. Shafto, after crying again, pulled his face down to hers and kissed it quietly. Then she gently undressed little Gip so as not to wake her from her deep sleep, and Sandy brought a light upstairs for her when she went to carefully lay the child in her own bed.

The door to the other room was half open, and he could see John Shafto's head resting on his pillow, quiet and still, yet with a smile on his lips. And there was little Gip's round and rosy face, her eyelashes fluttering as if she was just about to open her bright eyes, resting peacefully on his mother's pillow!

It was a tough time for Sandy until his friend's body was buried out of his sight. Watching little Gip play around Mrs. Shafto while she stitched John's shroud mixed great joy and deep sorrow for him, making it almost unbearable. Hearing Gip's voice calling him from the somber graveyard and seeing her waiting for him, running to meet him instead of John with his pale face and slow steps on his crutches, turned his return home each evening into a complicated mix of trouble and happiness.

But after the funeral was over, and the silent, lifeless body had vanished from the house, he gradually got used to John's absence and found joy in the cheerful presence of Gip, with her cute tricks and amusing little habits, which often brought a smile to Mrs. Shafto's sad eyes. Mr. Shafto himself began to play with Gip in his own serious and solemn way, and even taught her to call him father. As for little Gip, she had completely forgotten her alcoholic mother and knew nothing of any other parents except for the ones who had adopted her.

But Mr. Shafto found it really discouraging that he couldn’t find any work he was suited for. He had let younger men take his place for so long that, even though he wanted to make an effort now, there just didn’t seem to be any openings for him in the busy city. He had become out of practice from years of selfishness and laziness, and it would be a tough challenge to push his way into the crowded ranks of hardworking men. Sandy could barely make enough to support himself, and it looked like Mrs. Shafto would have to keep working hard from early morning until late at night to provide food for her husband and little Gip.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

Leaving the Old House.

It was a bit earlier than usual one evening when Sandy came back from the woodyard, carrying a bundle of wood that Mr. Mason had sent for Mrs. Shafto. Gip wasn't waiting for him at the street corner yet, ready to hop around excitedly on the narrow sidewalk that went across the graveyard, so Sandy paused for a minute to give her time to spot him.

The place had become a beloved home for him. He knew every weathered gravestone and could recite all the English words on the tablet dedicated to Mr. Shafto's grandfather. What a peaceful spot it was! How little Gip's laughter echoed off the tall walls! And the brief ray of sunshine that peeked around the corner of the tallest chimney, right around the time he got home, always seemed so bright! He had stopped believing he had ever lived anywhere else. The small house also looked cheerier than before; the mourning sign was gone, along with the plumes and the child's coffin, which had upset little Gip so much that it was removed right away. The shop window was completely empty now, except for a single sign that said "Pinking done here."

Sandy was gazing longingly at his home when Gip spotted him and ran over with cheerful shouts and laughter.

But all that evening, Mr. Shafto's expression was even more serious than usual. Sure, he took Gip on his knee and, at her insistence, gave her a short ride on it; but it was clear that his mind was elsewhere. Mrs. Shafto watched him with concern, although it took her a while to say anything because she still wasn't used to her husband's change in demeanor.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Shafto?" she asked after a moment.

"Mary, my love," he replied, hesitantly, "what do you think about the four of us going across the sea to Canada the next time Miss Murray goes?"

"Oh! no, John," she exclaimed. She was thinking of her children's graves and the old house where they had all been born and had died. How could she leave them?

"My love," he went on, "I wouldn't bring it up if it weren’t necessary. But you need to know eventually; maybe it's better to hear it now than later. I've been thinking about this a lot, and I don’t see any other option than to go to Canada and buy a farm, and we can all work on it together—just you, me, and Sandy."

"Buy a farm!" exclaimed Mrs. Shafto, while Sandy's face lit up at the mere mention of such a wonderful idea.

"Wow!" said Mr. Shafto. "I've started telling you all this in the wrong order. Anyway, my dear, be brave now and handle it like a woman! The truth is, a railway is going to come right through our graveyard, the chapel, and our little house; so we have to move out and leave it, you see. I'm going to get £400 for my house and business, and with that, we could go across the sea, buy a small farm, and settle down, all four of us. You were raised on a farm, my love, and you know how to make great cheese and butter and take care of cows and chickens. Sandy can chop wood really well, and he’s always busy, just like little Gip—I can guarantee that. And, God willing, I'll do whatever needs to be done."

It was no surprise that both Mrs. Shafto and Sandy were confused by the sudden change in their situation. They had to leave the house; there was no doubt about it, since they couldn't ignore a railway company if they wanted to. So, if they had to give up their old home, why not go all the way and move away from the noisy streets of London to a peaceful country home in the vast new land across the sea? The farm would belong to them— a place for Sandy and Gip to grow up in, and maybe even live in for years after both Mr. and Mrs. Shafto were gone.

When she thought about it, Mrs. Shafto felt herself getting younger at the idea of taking care of cows and chickens, and making cheese and butter.

In three months, everything was set; their spots were booked on the ship that would take Miss Murray and another group of needy children. All the belongings they were bringing with them were packed up—among them Johnny's crutches, which were to be displayed in a visible spot in their new home. The final day had arrived, and Sandy had been busy since early morning, traveling back and forth between their old home and the Refuge, from where Miss Murray's emigrants were set to leave the next day. It was now evening, and he was heading back to sleep once again under the roof that had offered him comfort during his darkest times.

The east wind was whistling sharply through the narrow streets, hitting him with a biting chill at every corner; it was barely spring yet, and though the darkness of winter had faded, the cold still hung around. Still, it couldn't make Sandy shiver, as he was bundled up warmly in the thick coat Mr. Shafto had bought for him in preparation for the harsh winters of the country they were heading to.

But the poorly dressed people he saw looked cold and miserable, shuffling along close to the buildings, just like he remembered doing back in the day, a time that was almost fading from his memory. The taverns were packed to the brim, as if anyone who could scrounge up a penny or two had squeezed inside for some warmth; and Sandy felt an unsettling anxiety as he hurried past, similar to how he felt when he first started working at the wood yard, before little Gip was found. But surely, his mother wouldn't recognize him again as the ragged, barefoot, and bare-headed match boy he was when she abandoned him!

His vague fears made him pick up the pace, and he was running quickly across the graveyard when he spotted a figure sitting on the ground near the chapel wall. His feet felt heavy, as if they wouldn’t move another step, and his heart seemed to freeze for a moment before it began to beat painfully, making it hard for him to breathe. He sensed that some great disaster was looming over little Gip and himself. He didn’t turn completely to face the figure, but stole a cautious glance at it, and then quietly moved on toward the shelter of the house, just like he used to sneak away around a street corner whenever he saw his mother coming into view.

There was no doubt that the ragged and miserable woman, who was half lying and half sitting on the filthy grass with her head against the wall just below old Mr. Shafto's tablet, was his mother. Sandy felt dizzy and scared. She had discovered him and little Gip at the last moment. Was she here to take them both back to their old suffering and shame? She looked as if she were asleep, her head drooping forward, and her thin, bony arms hanging limply at her sides. If she were drunk right now, she might forget why she was there and wander off to some of her old haunts once she woke up. The best thing he could do was to move quietly, so he wouldn't disturb her, and close the door between him and the repulsive sight he dreaded. Then he needed to figure out how to save little Gip and himself.

Little Gip was playing with a doll on the warm hearth, where a bright fire was blazing for the last night; and Mrs. Shafto was busy packing the bags they were taking on board for the trip. It had been a year since Johnny had left them, and her face had become happy again, with her smile coming almost as easily as it had when he was around the house. Sandy stood in the doorway, looking at her with deep sorrow and yearning. Oh! if only his mother had been like John Shafto's mother!

How he would have loved her and worked for her!

But he couldn't shake the image of her from his mind, even though he had carefully shut and bolted the door between her and them. He could still see her, looking ragged and malnourished, with her gaunt face partially hidden by the familiar old black bonnet. The east wind wailed through every crack, even bringing a chill to their cozy fireside. His mother! He tried to push thoughts of her away while playing with little Gip, but he remained alert the entire time, keeping an eye on the door and straining to catch every sound. What should he do? What would John Shafto do? What would the Lord Jesus Christ expect him to do?

He went out to the shop after a while and peeked through the window, half hoping she might have left. Night had fallen by then, and it was pretty dark; but a lamp at the corner of the chapel was on, and he could see she was still in the same spot and in the same position. Well, whatever had to be done, little Gip had to be saved, even if it meant he would have to go back and hang out in the old places. Gip couldn’t be taken from Mrs. Shafto, though he might have to stay in London to work for their drunk and miserable mother.

But after a while, as Sandy stood with his eyes fixed on the motionless figure, thinking dark thoughts, a different kind of fear washed over him, making him shake so much that he could barely walk across the shop and open the kitchen door.

"Mrs. Shafto," he called, in a husky voice. He had always referred to her as mother since Johnny died, but he couldn't bring himself to say that now.

Mrs. Shafto approached him immediately, her pleasant face showing a look of great surprise.

"Hush!" he said. "Close the door. Don’t let little Gip know. Mom's out in the yard, and I’m almost scared to death. What should I do? She hasn’t moved since I came in over an hour ago, and I’m more scared now than when I first saw her sitting against the wall there."

"Are you sure that's your mom?" asked Mrs. Shafto, looking through the window at the miserable figure.

"Ay, I’m sure of it," he replied, bitterly. "She's found us just at the last moment, and she's here to stop little Gip and me from going to Canada. If she'd just leave Gip alone, I'd stay behind; but I could never go without little Gip."

"No, no," said Mrs. Shafto, "she'll never stop you from joining us. I understand how a mother feels; and even the worst mothers wouldn’t do something like that. We'll go and talk to her; we'll tell her Mr. Mason will help her and take care of her. And if she can give up drinking, we'll send her money to come after us later; maybe, one day, you'll be proud of your own mother, Sandy."

She had opened the outer door and was guiding him across the graveyard to the corner where his mother rested. Sandy almost pulled away from the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm, but as they got close to the figure and it stayed still, even though the wind stirred the frayed shawl a bit, the vague fear that had gripped him intensified and started to make sense. Even a heavy sleep was rarely as lifeless as this.

"Mom!" he shouted, his voice shaking, "Mom!"

There was no response. His mother didn’t raise her head from where it had fallen.

Mrs. Shafto bent down and placed her hand on the thin, shriveled fingers that were hanging by the woman's side.

"Sandy! Oh my gosh, Sandy!" she said urgently, "your mom's passed away!"

Sandy's heart leaped with relief. All his fear and anxiety disappeared in an instant. Little Gip was safe now forever. From now on, both he and she would belong to Mrs. Shafto only and could call her mom, with no one else having any claim on them.

Yet the next minute he felt a kind of sadness, very faint and brief, as if, despite all her wrongdoings, there was a bit of genuine love for his mother still lingering in his heart. He knelt down beside her and wrapped the old shawl more closely around her, as if she could still feel the cold east wind blowing around her.

"Don't let little Gip see her," he said sadly; "don’t let little Gip ever find out. I'll go get Mr. Mason, and he'll know what to do. But I wish I could have told her so she might come after us to Canada, if she'd just stop drinking."

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. ———◆———

THE END.

NEXT day the Shaftos, with Sandy and little Gip, left London for Liverpool, where their ship was set to sail. There were a hundred other children from the streets of our big cities heading out to start new lives in Canada. Mrs. Shafto found so much to do with these little ones that she didn't have time to worry about the thought of Johnny's grave, which she was leaving further and further behind her.

Mr. Shafto also had a good test to see if he was truly overcoming his old struggles with selfishness and laziness, and he came through it successfully, to his own secret joy and the immense happiness of his wife.

Gip was the life of the party, getting prettier and happier every day, and Sandy couldn't be more content. A friend of Miss Murray's helped find and buy a farm for Mr. Shafto, and before autumn arrived, they were settled into their own log cabin, close enough to hear the waves of Lake Huron.

The last time anyone saw Sandy, he was driving a pair of oxen in a sturdy wagon, with Mrs. Shafto and little Gip seated comfortably in the back. He and Mr. Shafto were taking turns walking in front of the oxen to encourage them along the rough road. It was Mr. Shafto's turn to walk, and he was striding along cheerfully, as if he had been used to hard work his whole life; his face was tanned and sunburned, and the palms of his hands were calloused.

It was noticed that Mrs. Shafto had blue ribbons in her cap, and that her cheeks were almost as rosy as little Gip's. Sandy had grown into a strong, active boy with a bright and happy look on his face.

"Do you have a message for Mr. Mason?" asked the friend from England.

"Hey! tell him," said Sandy, "that I'm trying to be as good as John Shafto. And let him know I'll never forget hearing him preach about the Lord Jesus being lost, like little Gip. Dad got me the verse when he went to Montreal, and it's printed in red, blue, and gold, and it hangs over our fireplace at home: 'The Son of man has come to seek and to save what is lost.'"

Watson and Hazel, Printers, London and Aylesbury.