“Lizzybeth! Lizzybeth! Lizzybeth Ann!” the harsh voice echoed all over the dingy lodging house, and the little servant girl jumped up from scrubbing the stone floor of the basement kitchen, and hurried up to the third floor.
“You lazy brat!” shouted the large, red faced women, who stood with an enormous iron coal bucket in her hands.
“But I did, really I did, Mrs Blowser” said Lizzybeth Ann, in a timid little voice.
“Rubbish!” shouted the angry women. “I won’t have you idling” now just you go and fill that coal bucket and bring it up here! Whatever possessed me to take a charity child into my house, I don’t know!
The poor little girl stumbled downstairs with the bucket.
She did so try to do her best for the women who had taken her from the ugly charity school, and yet all she got was scoldings.
Yes, poor little Lizzybeth Ann was a charity child. She had known no other home but the dark, miserable charity school until she had been brought to this lodging house to help Mrs Blowser.
She had hoped that it would be just a little teeny bit like a really truly home such as you read about in story books, but it only seemed that she had changed one horrid place for one a tiny bit worse.
One of the neighbours, sorry fort the child, had once given her a small piece of yellow silk “to make yerself a blouse, dearie” as she had said. But Mrs Blowser had seen it, and declared that it would just do beautifully for her best arm chair, and had taken it away from Lizzybeth Ann.
Mrs Blowser’s lodgers were a great trouble lately, some had gone off without paying their rent, others had complained about the wishy washy stew which was served up four nights a week and others grumbled about the margarine.
It all came back on the poor little servant girl, and by bedtime she was worn out.
As a rule, she was a cheery little soul, and she even sang sometimes when she knew Mrs Blowser was out.
So tired was the little girl as she crept upstairs at twelve o’clock that she had stumbled and fallen, and lay weeping softly on the landing.
Presently a door opened quietly and soft arms enfolded her.
So amazed was the child that she had set up, believing she was dreaming, and she had found herself gazing into the gentle blue eyes of Mrs Motherwell, a little old lady who had a small bedroom at the top of the house.
“Cheer up dearie” soothed the old lady. “Come, come, that isn’t like little singing bird Lizzybeth to be weeping.
In a few seconds Lizzybeth Ann was pouring out her piteous little story into the old lady’s sympathetic ear.
“And I did want that piece of silk, it was so pretty,” she sobbed, “and there’s not a single pretty thing in this house and I wanted to sing because it cheers me up”.
“Hush, hush, my pat” said the little old lady. So you shall sing if you want to. You shall come to my room tomorrow when you’re free, and you shall sing to your heart’s content.
The next day was Sunday, and after tea Lizzybeth was free until ten o’ clock, so she crept up to Mrs Motherwell’s room.
The sweet old lady played her piano and encouraged the little girl to sing.
“Now before you go I’ll show you my greatest treasure,” she smiled.
And she drew from out of her chest of drawers a most lovely patchwork quilt.
“Oh how wonderful!” said Lizzybeth. Often after that the little girl would go to the dear old lady’s room.
One day she found, Mrs Motherwell very sad.
“Lizzybeth Ann”, said the old lady, the quilt has got to go.
Mrs Blowser says it is full of moth house.I told her it had been in my family for years, but she says it must be taken away.”
Lizzybeth was as miserable as the little old lady herself.
I know she said at last, if we were to take it to pieces and wash it and put new stuffing in it, then it would be alright.
“No” sighed the old lady, I can’t do that. My eyes are too old now, my poor old fingers wouldn’t let me hold the needle, but oh I shall miss it.
Lizzybeth gasped as a daring thought came to her, she would do the quilt herself!
At first, the old lady refused, knowing how little time the girl got, but seeing her eagerness, she at last consented, and that night Lizzybeth carried the treasure up to her attic.
Her first task was to make a drawing showing where all the different pieces were.
Then each night she would sit far into the early hours, unpicking the tiny stitches.
Tomorrow she said at last, “I shall be able to take out the stuffing and burn it”.
And she was eager for the next night to come. She started to take out the stuffing carefully, so as not to make a mass, when she heard a curious, crackling noise, and she pulled the pieces of flock apart to see what it was.
“Oooh! She exclaimed. “There are heaps and heaps of layers of papers inside”.
Gathering up the pieces of paper she took them to the old lady. “Goodness gracious, Lizzybeth” gasped Mrs Motherwell.
Those are hundred pound bank notes! And did you say they were in my quilt?
Mercy on us, they’re worth a small fortune!
They would all have been burned up if you hadn’t taken that quilt for me.
The papers were all old bank notes, worth ever so many hundreds of pounds, and there was an old faded letter amongst them which proved them to have been put for safety in the quilt by one of the old lady’s ancestors.
“So now, Lizzybeth Ann” smiled Mrs Motherwell, “we’ll take a nice little flat, and you shall have lots of pretty things and singing lessons as well”!
But I began Lizzybeth. “Don’t argue, dearie” smiled the old lady.
We’ve both been lonely souls, but now we’re going to make each other happy”
