of their worldly belongings—the discarded clothes of others and a tiny doll not much more than a rag—were inside.
Octavius Joy had given money to Marie to buy Ruby some better clothes. Christopher would wear the clothes that had belonged to Marie’s husband.
“It would make you sad to see me in them,” Christopher protested.
“It would give me pleasure to know that they are well used.”
Marie led Christopher and Ruby to the floor above the bakery and showed them the living quarters. There were two rooms, each with a simple wood bed that consisted of a platform and mattress filled with straw. Like the beds, the other furniture was of little worth but sufficient and neatly kept. Christopher and Ruby would sleep in one room. Marie would sleep in the other.
Ruby had never seen a bed before.
Marie washed Ruby’s face, combed her hair, and made the rest of her as fresh and clean as a child can be. At day’s end, she prepared dinner.
There is a soft place in my heart for Marie. She is like family to me. I had been invited to share this occasion with her and her new family.
The fire burned clear. The kettle boiled. The table was set.
Ruby did not know what it was like to sit down for a meal at an appointed hour. In the past, she had eaten whenever there was food.
“This is where we eat our meals,” Marie explained.
“Every day?”
“Every day.”
If a child of three can be said to contemplate, Ruby contemplated the meaning of those words.
After dinner, Christopher moved his chair closer to the fire and sat with a look of contentment on his face. The room was warm. One of the logs broke in two and blazed up as it fell. Another log was thrown on.
“I am grateful beyond anything that I can express,” Christopher said as he pondered the change that had come upon his life. “If ever I can prove to you the truth of those words, I will.”
Seen with the fire behind her, Ruby looked as though she had a glory shining round her head.
Then it was time for her to sleep. One night earlier, Ruby had shivered in the cold on rags placed on a hard dirt floor. Now she would slumber in the warmth of her bed, as humble as it was.
Marie lay Ruby down on the bed and wrapped a blanket round her. Warmth, shelter, and peace were there.
Then a look that I am unable to describe stole across Ruby’s face.
“Ruby and uncle stay,” she said.
The words were spoken as both a question and a plea.
“Ruby and uncle stay,” she said again with anxiety rising in her voice.
“Ruby and uncle stay,” Marie pledged.
Ruby smiled a smile of relief.
There are moments of unmixed happiness in our lives that cheer our transitory existence on earth. This was one of them. Marie had the child that she had longed for but thought would never come. And Ruby Spriggs had a home.
I made a silent promise to myself that, whatever happened in my life, I would help care for this child.
“Good night, little one,” I said. “Pleasant slumber. Happy dreams. May angels guard your bed.”
Ruby fell asleep with a smile on her face. I fancied that she was dreaming.
Christopher had sought honest labour. Once it was found, he adapted well to the demands of a baker’s life.
He learned first to mix yeast and water with grain—wheat, rye, barley—and to bake the dough for bread in the large brick oven. Before long, he was able to make rolls, muffins, and pastries. He had a way with people and engaged naturally in conversation with customers without lingering too long.
When I was a child, my father taught me to be industrious. I appreciate that quality in others. It is, in my opinion, one of the most charming qualities of the human character. Christopher applied himself to his new job with industriousness and effort. He was always active. When not otherwise engaged, he was cleaning. The tile floor and table in back and chairs and walls and oven were as clean as scrubbing could make them. Twice a day, he took a broom and swept up crumbs until there was not a speck on the floor. He showed intelligence by asking how things worked and fixing them when they were broken.
With his mind at ease and with adequate food, Christopher passed into a new state of being. His body filled out. The colour that had forsaken his face returned. Sometimes a look came into his eyes as though he were remembering the hardships of his past. He wrestled at times with the understanding that he could not give bread to every beggar who came to the door. But he seemed at peace with himself.
“I have never seen a man more hard working than he,” Marie told me. “He does each thing until it is done right.”
Reading came slowly. Christopher went to the learning center in the early evening twice each week. Marie and I did the best we could to help with his lessons. There was a wish on our part to teach and a desire on his part to learn. But at age twenty-seven, he found the road difficult to follow.
Often at night, he would stare at the symbols on a piece of paper that had been given to him:
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z
The alphabet is the building block for the English language. Christopher struggled with it as though each letter were a bramble-bush that scratched until it drew blood. He could not see the forest through the trees. When he tried to read, his bewildered eyes fixed on each letter rather than connecting the letters to syllables and the syllables to words and the words to sentences.
“It is hard to learn at this time of my life,” he said.
“If you learned to talk, you can learn to read,” Octavius Joy assured him. “I know you are struggling, but you must keep at it. If you entertain the notion that any great success was, or ever will be, achieved without effort, leave that wrong idea behind. Perseverance will gain the summit of any hill.”
It is hard for people without hope to learn. They cannot see accomplishments and success in their future. But Christopher’s new life had given him hope, and he soldiered on. When studying a lesson, he would take up a piece of chalk as though it were a large tool and roll up his sleeves as though wielding a crowbar or hammer. Then he would square his elbows, put his face close to his copy slate, and labour.
“Well, Christopher,” I said on one occasion while looking over several copies of the letter “O,” which he had represented as a square, a rectangle, and a triangle. “You are improving. If only you can get it to be round, it will be perfect.”
A
